Anna Reid's "Leningrad: City under Siege" - a review

The Siege of Leningrad began 71 years ago this month - the bloodiest and most murderous siege in history.  To mark this grim anniversary, here is my review of Anna Reid's excellent book on the subject, which was published last year. (This review first appeared in the Financial Times, on 27 August, 2011)



Anna Reid “Leningrad: Tragedy of a City under Siege, 1941-44”,

Bloomsbury, £25.00, 492pp, bibliography, index, plates.

Everything in the old Soviet Union had a political aspect.  Individuals could be lauded one moment, then swiftly denounced when the political tide turned.  Historical events could be subject to similar ideological vicissitudes; held up as salient examples of ‘world-historical forces’, then derided as irrelevant.

So it was with the wartime history of Leningrad (now St. Petersburg).  The longest siege of World War Two and the most murderous siege in history, the Nazi blockade of the city should have been a straightforward case of astonishing human suffering and heroism in the face of a barbaric invader.  Yet, post-war Soviet historiography at first proclaimed the fiction that nothing extraordinary had happened in the city that bore Lenin’s name, before switching to a mawkish and rather disingenuous commemoration of the martyrdom of a model metropolis – a latter-day communist passion-play. 

The truth, as ever, was rather more complex.  Anna Reid’s book Leningrad is one of comparatively few that have approached the subject in English since Harrison Salisbury’s seminal 900 Days of 1969.  She has a number of advantages, not least as a Russian-speaker, but also in benefiting both from post-Soviet archival revelations and from the work of Russian historians in recent decades uncovering the unglossed truth of the siege.  The narrative that she presents is certainly not for the faint of heart, but it is all the more important for that.  It portrays a populace caught between the rock of a merciless Nazi enemy, and the hard place of a brutal, often incompetent, Communist regime.   

Reid uses first-hand accounts to tremendous effect, drawing on memoir and archival sources to weave a vivid, sometimes disturbing tapestry.  Many of those that she quotes will be comparatively well-known; the poet Anna Akhmatova for instance, or Trotsky’s cousin Vera Inber.  But it is the ordinary, unremarkable diarists that make the greatest impact; the 12-year-old schoolgirl starving to death or the young apprentice pressed into the city’s militia.  Through such commentators, all the horrors of the siege are represented; from the mendacity of the Soviet authorities to the fear and paranoia of a populace forced to the very limits of their endurance. 

Though the winter cold and indiscriminate German shelling took many lives, starvation was the greatest peril.  Hitler had no intention of his forces actually ‘taking’ the city, preferring them instead to inherit it after the ravages of hunger had killed off its population.  He nearly got his wish.  When the Nazi ring around the city closed, it was estimated that Leningrad had only a month’s worth of food stores.  As the rationing system then collapsed, Leningraders first ate household pets, before resorting in desperation to the consumption of anything suspected to hold a modicum of nutritional value: from leather belts to cellulose, linseed oil to wallpaper. 

In addition, in the first winter of the siege in particular, the corrosive, dehumanising effects of starvation soon made themselves felt, with theft and looting becoming commonplace, and pushing Leningrad society close to a complete breakdown.  Even cannibalism – vehemently denied by the post-war authorities – was documented, with women from the suburbs, strangely, being most prepared to break the ultimate taboo and consume the flesh of those already deceased.  

For those less squeamish, death from starvation was a real fear.  Entire families succumbed.  Corpses would be dragged through the frozen streets on children’s sledges to be stacked for burial in mass graves when the thaw allowed.  Countless others were left where they fell.  The total numbers killed in the city during the siege are still disputed, but are thought to amount to at least three-quarters of a million.

Despite such tribulations, Leningrad’s people were not spared the additional horrors inflicted by their own authorities.  The Soviet secret police – the NKVD – scarcely drew breath with the Nazi assault before continuing its campaign of persecution against its real or imagined opponents within the city: ‘kulaks’, ‘defeatists’ and ‘spies’.  Many thousands would fall victim to their state-sponsored terror and institutionalised paranoia.

Reid tells the story of Leningrad under siege with considerable flair, providing a compassionate and sympathetic account of a city enduring unimaginable suffering.  Impeccably researched, well-paced and beautifully written, Leningrad marks a new benchmark in the study of the subject, and a more nuanced, objective interpretation for a new century. 

© Roger Moorhouse 2011 

On the anniversary of the tragic events of 9/11, its worth perhaps remembering one of the festering wounds that brought the world to that unhappy and horrific day - the sorry saga of Afghanistan.  This is my review of Rodric Braithwaite's excellent book "Afgantsy", which first appeared in the UK's "Independent on Sunday" in the summer of 2011. 


Rodric Braithwaite, “Afgantsy: The Russians in Afghanistan 1979-1989”

Profile Books, £25.00, 417pp, notes, maps illustrations.

 At a time when British politicians and commentators are questioning the continued involvement of their forces in Afghanistan, it seems appropriate to examine the story of the last foreign power to come to grief in that unhappy country.

Soviet forces invaded Afghanistan in December 1979, ostensibly in support of a communist, client government, which was spiraling into mayhem and facing revolt in the provinces.  Initially fulfilling a limited role of assisting an ally and training Afghan personnel, the Soviets would be drawn inexorably into a full-scale conflict with the American and Pakistani-backed Mujahedin rebels.  They would only leave some nine years later, after 15,000 Soviet soldiers and an unknown number of Afghans had been killed and a generation on both sides had been traumatised.

Rodric Braithwaite is well-placed to tell the story of the Soviet Union’s Afghan adventure.  A former British ambassador in Moscow and a fluent Russian speaker, he brings a cool, critical eye to this complex tale, dispelling a few old Cold War myths and misconceptions along the way.

His approach is a rather novel one.  Though the book’s structure is broadly chronological, the central section dealing with the war itself is organised thematically, covering areas such as ‘soldiering’, ‘fighting’ and ‘devastation and disillusion’.  Whilst this approach rather robs the book of some of its narrative head of steam, it does nonetheless facilitate the showcasing of Braithwaite’s excellent and original use of the first-hand testimony of Soviet Afghan-war veterans – the ‘Afgantsy’ of the title.  Their accounts – of the boredom and squalour of military life; of the atrocities that they committed and suffered, and of the psychological consequences that they incurred – provide a fascinating leaven to Braithwaite’s otherwise somewhat solid narrative.

Though he eschews making the comparison explicitly, the shadow that inevitably hangs over almost every line of Braithwaite’s book is the current western involvement in Afghanistan.  The similarities – and ironies – are obvious: both the Soviets and ourselves went in to that country parroting the same watchwords about ‘stabilisation’ and ‘pacification’; both spent many of the subsequent years seeking a way out, all the while fearful of what horrors would follow their withdrawal

Afgantsy is well-written and engaging and should serve to popularise a subject that deserves much wider attention and scrutiny.  More immediately, one is struck by the thought that this book should be required reading for all of those, military and civilian alike, who are involved in the current Afghan adventure.

© Roger Moorhouse 2011 

The faded - and fading - glory of Versailles

A visit to Versailles whilst on holiday this month gave me food for thought.  The grand palace of the French kings, to the south-west of Paris, has long fascinated the world.  Back in the day, every European monarch wanted his own "mini-Versailles" in imitation of the French monarchs - like King Ludwig of Bavaria at Herrenchiemsee.  Nowadays, it seems (quite rightly) to occupy a position in the European "Grand Tour" and is frequented by countless hordes of Chinese, Americans, Russians and seemingly everyone in between.


It is certainly huge and hugely impressive.  Yet, for the visitor, it can be rather underwhelming.  For one thing, the interminable queuing grates.  Even in high-season, surely the authorities that be could dream up a more imaginative solution to the large numbers of visitors than just snaking them all across the courtyard?

And, once you get to the front of the queue, you invariably find that you will then have to go and queue somewhere else, and even buy an additional ticket for entry elsewhere.  All protestations to the contrary, of course, are met with a stereotypical Gallic shrug, and the novelty that French officials can now be rude to their visitors in English as well as French.  Chaos was the only word that sprung to mind, along with a sense of their contempt for the visiting public.  If those that run Versailles carry on treating us plebs in this way - heads might have to roll (again).

Once inside the impression scarcely improves.  For all its apparent size, the usable space within Versailles seems to be remarkably small.  And no effort is made to use the entire wing that we had queued through serve as a introduction or a whetter of the visitor's appetite.  As a result, you get whisked through the royal apartments (on a tide of humanity) surprisingly quickly - spending less time inside the palace than you had already spent outside queuing in the courtyard.  The lack of space is exacerbated by the ludicrous decision to install items of so-called "modern art" in many of the rooms - including a pair of giant shoes made of pots and pans at one end of the famed Hall of Mirrors, and a life-size, pink furry helicopter in another room.  Isn't there a law against such mindless desecration?

Treaty of Versailles, 1919

The audio tour was good - as far as it went - giving details of the decor, the architects and the royals themselves that once inhabited the building.  But, there was no wider context.  No mention was made, for instance, of the proclamation of the Germany Empire, which was made in the Hall of Mirrors in 1871.  Most egregiously, no mention was made either of the Treaty of Versailles of 1919 - also signed in the Hall of Mirrors.  Surely both these events are of as much - if not more - significance to the average visitor that the arrangement of King Louis' bedchamber?  If the palace's curators are this shockingly myopic about Europe's modern history, they are truly in the wrong job.

Add to these failings a rather lacklustre state of general repair, bored staff staring into space, audio-guide numbers that are illegible because they are at ground level... the list goes on.  Tea and cake at €15 a head was probably par for the course, but, unsurprisingly, the toilets were absolutely awful.  Though they proclaimed to be all up-to-date with "baby-changing facilities",  I would scarcely let my dog in there such was the state of them.

In all, it was rather like a trip back in time.  But not in a good way... Rather than a visit back to the glamour and excess of the 1770s, it was like going back to the 1970s, when the concepts of museum curatorship were unenlightened, and the idea of actively engaging with your audience was considered dangerously avant garde.  I, for one, was left wondering what a modern London museum curator could do with the raw material presented by Versailles.  A damn site more, to be sure, than is being made of it at the moment.  Versailles' glories, it seems, are fading still.

Leipzig and Wroclaw - a curious symmetry

Been a while - apologies.

 I spent this last week on two trips to Central Europe - on Friday flying to Wroclaw in Poland (the former German 'Breslau') for a conference, and then to Leipzig to do some filming for a documentary. In the short time that I had for sightseeing in both places, the symmetry between the two hit me - Napoleon.

 Firstly, in Wroclaw, I returned to the city's stunning Hala Stulecia (or 'Centennial Hall'), which has just been completely renovated. 

I have written about the Hala Stulecia before - http://www.historytoday.com/roger-moorhouse/wroclaw%E2%80%99s-concrete-controversy - It was originally built in 1913 to commemorate Germany's Wars of Liberation against Napoleon; events in which Breslau played a central role, being at the very forefront of events.

The Hala - which was an impressive early example of the use of stressed concrete - survived the war, was renamed as the "Hala Ludowa" ('People's Hall') by the incoming

Polish communists, and then became something of a cultural battleground after 1989, with some arguing that scarce finances should not be wasted on 'German monuments' to a conflict in which the Poles, famously, fought on the other side. Fortunately, cooler heads prevailed, and the Hala was treated to a thorough-going renovation, which - commendably - has brought it closer to the original vision of its architect, Max Berg, than it has ever been. The result is quite spectacular.

Then to Leipzig - and, after filming was done, I had a couple of hours to spare so I set off for the Volkerschlacht Memorial - Leipzig's most famous historical monument. It is indeed impressive. 300 feet high, with granite facing to concrete innards, it was also completed in 1913, this time as a memorial to the "Battle of the Nations", of October 1813, just outside Leipzig, in which Napoleon's forces were defeated by an alliance of Germans, Russians, Prussians and others.

 Unlike the Hala Stulecia in Wroclaw - the Leipzig Monument is intended exclusively as a memorial, and so contains some quite remarkable statuary, including a crypt

surrounded by an honour guard of 24 granite soldiers with heads bowed standing before stylised 'death masks', and above that, four 10 metre high statues, depicting the historic 'qualities' of the German people: bravery, faith, self-sacrifice and fertility. Its all very unusual and rather remarkable.

In my mind, I had never linked the two buildings. But, for all their differences in style and concept - the utilitarian Centennial Hall and the maudlin Volkerschlacht Memorial, they are nonetheless inextricably linked. Both were pioneers in the use of concrete, of course, and both were imbued with the nationalist, jingoistic spirit of the age in which they were built.  But - though they are now in different countries - they both stand as memorials to the moment when Napoleon faltered, when his reign as overlord of Europe crumbled - a moment whose 200th anniversary is looming.

Hitler in Lederhosen

Alot of newspaper editors had fun this week with pictures of Adolf Hitler in a variety of outfits - lederhosen, for instance, or a very fetching SA cap. The Telegraph covered it here, as did the Times and the Daily Mail here It was all very amusing - and a chance to dust off a few old puns; "Camp Commandant" said the Daily Mirror, "Mein Camp" quipped The Sun.

Yet, behind the dictator-themed mirth there is an important historical point to be made about these pictures. The photographs were taken by Hitler's photographer, Heinrich Hoffmann, in the 1920s and - along with a number of other shots showing Hitler in dramatic poses (as here) - they show Hitler 'working' on his public image.
The concept of a politician honing their public persona does not come as a surprise to our modern minds - its what they do - they preen themselves, construct an acceptable, appealing public persona and then get on with the business of baby-kissing and getting elected.

Yet, the important point to make here is that Hitler was operating at a time when few politicians had any idea at all about public image. Most of his fellow German politicians were top-hatted, frock-coated throwbacks to the 19th century - and the idea that they might experiment with different 'looks' or introduce dramatic gestures into their public speaking routines would have appeared faintly ludicrous to them.

But, Hitler (like Mussolini, in this regard) was of a very different stamp. He worked incessantly on his public persona, practised his public speaking, managed his image - even employing Heinrich Hoffmann, a talented and successful photographer, to help him. Hoffmann served as a visual sounding board for Hitler, photographing him in various outfits and various poses, and then helping him to decide what 'worked' and what didn't (The Lederhosen and the SA cap, by the way, did not 'work' and were duly consigned to Hoffmann's archive). This, then - far from being just an opportunity to have a giggle at Hitler looking silly - is a glimpse into Hitler's political modus operandae. This was how he marked himself out as a 'new' breed of politician. This was how he made himself appealing to the German people, with disastrous consequences.

If we can understand that - and have a laugh at his expense - then fine. But, in our rush to find humour in Hitler, let's not miss the important historical point that these pictures convey.


The book from which the pictures come, by the way, is Heinrich Hoffmann's memoir "Hitler was my Friend", published this week by Pen & Sword Books.  Oh, and it has an introduction on Hoffmann by yours truly...

"Building the Revolution" - if you must

I went down to the Royal Academy this afternoon to visit the "Building the Revolution exhibition, on modernist architecture in the Soviet Union, 1915-1935.

I was not sure what to expect to be honest, but I thought it showed up a few contradictions and hypocrisies that i found interesting.

The exhibition itself was a bit of a curate's egg - some of the headline acts were impressive, other aspects much less so. Though I am not particularly a fan of his work, Le Corbusier's buildings in Russia - the Tsentrosoyuz in Moscow and the Gosprom building in Kharkhov (above) - were of interest, not least because of their soaring ambition.

Certainly, as the architecture geeks and pseuds will tell you - this period in the early years of the USSR was pretty much the only one when the artistic avant garde became (briefly) state policy. The result was a flowering of modernist, functionalist architecture - all swirling concrete, geometric shapes, flat rooves and banded windows - which produced a few buildings of genuine interest.

The problem with this is that the material on display in the exhibition is rather thin. Aside from the headline acts, many of the items shown are fundamentally ugly, lumpen, concrete monstrosities, mostly by architects you have never heard of and whose work you will have little desire to encounter again.

Even the accompanying contemporary photographs by Richard Pare do little to add to the appeal. They are photographically interesting, of course, and beautifully composed images, but they are essentially of the sort of grim, rain-stained, post-industrial townscapes that are sadly so common across the former Soviet Union. It is a world that has few redeeming features.

Beyond that, the third strand of the display is the collection of constructivist art and sketches spirited out of the USSR in the 1920s. Whilst the story of the collection's provenance is certainly interesting, the sketches themselves are not. The catalog claims that they "probe the boundaries between painting and architecture". Sadly, they do little but show up their authors' artistic shortcomings.

So, a rather meagre diet, really, even for the enthusiast. Indeed, one suspects that were it not for the rose-tinted, unthinking Soviet-nostalgia amongst the western liberal elite, such architecture would have been largely and rightly forgotten.

What I found most interesting, however, was that the commentary on the exhibition insisted on viewing the architecture completely in isolation from the brutal political climate in which it was spawned.

The catalog and captions spoke breezily about the Izvestia building in Moscow, for instance, without mentioning Izvestia's dark role as one of the primary propaganda mouthpieces of the Soviet state. It also features a housing project in Ekaterinburg, which was intended for the families of serving Cheka secret policemen - Stalin's equivalent of the Gestapo. Even the architect who designed Lenin's mausoleum - Alexei Shchusev - was the same man who finished off the Lubyanka, the KGB's infamous headquarters in central Moscow.

Such dark, nefarious connections cannot simply be ignored or wished away. For all its modernistic flourishes, the Soviet Union was a brutal, murderous place, in many ways analagous to the Third Reich. We would all do well to remember that. Just as Albert Speer's buildings, or those of Werner March, or Ernst Sagebeil, are considered to be 'tainted' by the connection to the Third Reich, so too should these constructions be tainted by their connection to Lenin and Stalin.

Indeed, by way of an exercise, it is interesting to substitute Nazi-era buildings and architects for those on display in the Royal Academy and then gauge our own response. The idea of an Albert Speer retrospective gracing those venerable halls, for instance, is vaguely horrifying - yet somehow one showcasing Soviet architects is considered acceptable. Well, not to me.

History Books of the Year for 2011

For those of your struggling to find the last few Christmas gifts - here is a short list of my favourite History Books of 2011...

Anna Reid - Leningrad: Tragedy of a City under Siege, 1941-44.

Max Hastings - All Hell Let Loose: The World at War 1939-1945

Ian Kershaw - The End: Hitler's Germany, 1944-1945

Rodric Braithwaite - Afgantsy: The Russians in Afghanistan, 1979-89

Robert Gerwarth - Hitler's Hangman: The Life of Heydrich

Norman Davies - Vanished Kingdoms

All good - all very much worth reading, and giving..

Happy Christmas