Moscow, Tokyo, London

Herbert von Dirksen

• Publisher: Arcole Publishing
• Year: 2018
• ISBN:
  9781789122718
• Topic: Historia
• Subtopic: Historia militar y marítima

First published in English in 1951, these are the fascinating memoirs of a high level German diplomat, detailing his many years of work within German Embassies at Moscow, Tokyo, London, and elsewhere. The book provides extensive information on the formulation of foreign policy, international negotiations and treaties during the Nazi era, as well as the interwar period."The aim of this book is to give an account of a political career spent almost exclusively in Eastern European and Far Eastern countries. The task assigned to me by Hitler in London was that of a letter-carrier. My efforts to break the shackles imposed on me and to oppose a policy which was bound to lead to the catastrophe of the Second World War proved futile."—Herbert von Dirksen

III — Ambassador to Moscow 1928–1933

1. RUSSIA IN 1929

When we reached the frontier station at Niegoreloye we changed over to the broad gauge of the Russian railways and boarded a train which had been placed at our disposal by the Soviet Government. It turned out to be the special coach which had belonged to the Commander-in-Chief of the Russian armies in the First World War, the Grand Duke Nikolai Nikolaevitch. In the drawing-room of the car a huge map on which the front lines of both armies had been marked could be pulled down from the ceiling.

After our arrival in Moscow things moved quickly in accordance with a carefully prearranged plan. I first called on Litvinov and then drove to the Kremlin to hand over my credentials to Kalinin, a friendly old man with spectacles and a pointed beard, looking rather like a village schoolteacher. The proceedings were rather informal in spite of the cameramen who swarmed around us, their flashlight cables crossing our path, so that old Kalinin stumbled and asked me apologetically, “Are the newsmen just as impudent in Germany?” When our conversation turned to the Baltic States and to Reval, he remarked thoughtfully, “Oh yes, I know Reval. I was in prison there for some months.” Kalinin was very kind and sympathetic, but a mere figurehead without any influence whatever. The ceremony was devoid of military display. G.P.U. General Peterson, the commander of the Kremlin and later a victim of the 1936 purge, was the only military man present.

Having returned to the Embassy in the almost prehistoric motor-car of the Narkomindiel, accompanied by M. Florinski, the Chef de Protocole, I settled down for the evening performance. The Soviet Government had organized a “German Engineering Week,” to which a considerable number of leading German engineers and professors from the technical colleges had been invited. As always when they wanted to start something important, the Narkomindiel and the Soviet Embassy in Berlin executed a carefully arranged plan with great alacrity and without informing the Foreign Office beforehand. They invited their prospective German guests individually and had gathered quite a representative lot. It was not until after my arrival in Moscow that I realized that this was to be more than a mere congress. The opening session united the scientific élite and a considerable number of prominent party men. My speech, skillfully drafted by Herr Hilger, evoked an enthusiasm which surpassed all our expectations. The reception at the Embassy was even attended by Mikoyan and an atmosphere of friendship, appreciation, and eagerness pleased the German guests.

By and by the important motives behind this “German Engineering Week” began to emerge: we had assisted at the inauguration of the first Five-Year Plan and had acceded to the Russian request for German co-operation in the industralization of the Soviet Union. Thus, by a strange chance, my mission to Moscow coincided with a new start in Russo-German relations, while I had also participated in the opening of a new epoch in the history of the Bolshevik revolution and of Russia.

As I cautiously felt my way through the atmosphere which prevailed during those months in the Russian capital I observed a certain uneasiness, a state of transition, something indefinite and unsettled in the functioning of the State and party machine. Stalin had ousted Trotzky. The NEP period had finished for good. The State-planned industralization of Russia was being set in motion. The voluntary collectivization of farms had failed and was to be replaced by a compulsory system. The Russian element within the party was about to initiate an opposition against the ruthless treatment of the peasants. But a definite victory for Stalin did not seem to be secured, and the new strategic aims and methods had not yet been hammered into the brains of the rank-and-file party official.

After a bitter underground struggle which developed into open conflict, Stalin succeeded in dislodging his far more brilliant and versatile rival, Leo Trotzky, from the secure position which he held among the intelligentsia of the party, the students, and the army. The slow, systematic work of organization on the part of the relentlessly stubborn and wily Caucasian had triumphed over the brilliance, the wit, the oratorical genius, and valor of the somewhat unbalanced and fickle leader of the army. The slow-working party machine, manned by carefully selected and reliable henchmen of Stalin, proved superior to the flaming appeals of Trotzky and the enthusiastic cheering of his admirers.

Trotzky was forced into exile: first to Alma-Ata, in Central Asia, then to the Prinkipo Islands after Turkey had agreed to shelter the emigrant upon whom the final ignominy of expatriation was being inflicted. But in those first few months of 1929 there was unrest in the ranks of the Party still. Leaflets in support of Trotzky were distributed and were even smuggled into the Embassy, while the members of the “Trotzky gang”—Kamenev with his wife, Trotzky’s sister, Zinoviev and the versatile Radek—were still holding influential positions, to say nothing of the lesser people, the host of admirers and followers who were later to be branded with increasing furore with the deadly epithet of “Trotzkyite.” Hardly one of them was spared: Radek was a notable exception, for, in the long run, the Soviet Press could ill dispense with his brilliant pen.

Gradually the hard political core began to emerge from this turmoil in the form of Stalin’s doctrine of “Socialism in one country” as opposed to Trotzky’s slogan of permanent world revolution. The conclusions which were being drawn in the outer world from Stalin’s doctrine, namely that the Soviet Union had settled down to the consciousness and resolve that a Bolshevik Russia was prepared to collaborate peacefully with the capitalist States, was perhaps somewhat premature. It was probably only a change of method, the frontal attack being replaced by a subterranean approach, so that the bomb, as it were, could be exploded under the very headquarters of the enemy whenever the moment seemed propitious.

But scarcely had this policy been decided upon when new enemies had to be defeated, the adherents of an outmoded doctrine which had been prevalent only a short while previously. The economic boom in conjunction with the NEP had brought about the resurrection of a prosperous peasantry. The more industrious among them, the Kulaks, had acquired wealth and were consequently less inclined to collectivization in particular and to the blessings of Soviet rule in general. The party felt that it would have to act. This potential open opposition, which might be added to the latent opposition already in existence, had to be destroyed before it became too powerful.

Stalin himself was no passionate adherent of collectivization merely for the sake of the doctrine. He had been attacked for his slackness by the more ardent theoreticians. He now swung round in favor of compulsory collectivization and of the elimination of the Kulaks. Forcible methods, such as deportations, were being applied in spite of the catastrophic consequences to agricultural production and to the minds of 80 per cent of Russia’s population; but the cataclysm of the 1932–33 period was nowhere attained in those initial years.

The anti-Kulak campaign was slowed down in 1930 by Stalin’s famous article in Izvestia in which he condemned the excessive zeal which arose from great triumphs. This excess of zeal had had a very unfortunate effect on the Red Army, which consisted for the greater part of peasant boys. Moreover, the Russian peasant element within the higher ranks of the party was still too firmly entrenched to be recklessly ousted by Stalin. Its chief representative, Rykov, who was popular among the peasantry in spite of—or on account of—his heavy drinking, was still Prime Minister. He had to be sidetracked cautiously into the unpolitical office of Minister of Posts and Telegraphs before he could be annihilated, first politically and then physically (a few years later the sinister chief of the G.P.U., Yagoda, received his first memento mori by his appointment to the same post). Bukharin, the intellectual and scientific protagonist of the Russian element, still wielded unchallenged influence over the minds of the vast majority of the population. The young and sympathetic Syrzov, the newly appointed Prime Minister of the R.S.F.S.R., the Russian Federal State within the Soviet Union, was the only one who revolted too conspicuously against the persecution of the Kulaks. He was deposed, never to be heard of again. These were important reasons prompting Stalin to go slow in his campaign against the peasantry.

The end of the NEP made a new economic policy essential. The encouragement of private enterprise had not only failed by bringing about increased wealth and consequently increased independence and hostility on the part of the peasants, the NEP had also disappointed those who had hoped that it would develop industry by granting concessions to foreign capitalists (as already mentioned, the response was rather poor). The swing back to orthodox Marxism produced its effects in the economic field. State planning came to the fore again, and the Five-Year Plan was drafted and published. Its fundamental principle was, of course, autarchy.

The Soviet Union wanted to be independent of foreign countries for heavy machinery and for goods of every other kind. The main reason behind this scheme was the resolve to build up an armament industry. After the first and somewhat turbulent phase of the interventionist wars and Trotzky’s leadership, the systematic organization of a regular army commenced. The deep mistrust felt by the Soviets for the aggressiveness of the capitalist countries prompted them to make the Union completely independent of foreign armament industries.

This trend became perceptible among foreign writers, who classified collectivization with industrialization and described this phenomenon as the second phase of the Russian revolution, as the “revolution from above.” In my opinion, however, this classification was artificial and in the nature of an afterthought. It was not confirmed by events. Stalin’s rule is characterized by expediencies, by the tendency to counter surging difficulties and problems with appropriate measures without adhering too closely to principles. When the NEP had outlived itself, another way of attaining the goal of industrialization had to be found. This was the gradual and planned building up of an industry under the leadership of the State. Similarly, as the danger of a wealthy anti-Bolshevik peasantry arose as a consequence of the free enterprise under the NEP, this deadly peril to the party had to be eliminated somehow. Enforced collectivization best served these ends and fitted well into the orthodox doctrine.

But however that may be, the task set by the Five-Year Plan was indeed staggering. Practically every essential condition for the execution of this grandiose scheme was lacking. There was no capital available. Skilled workers formed only a negligible percentage of the working population. The engineers and technicians had been decimated by the revolution. The existing industries were inconsiderable and had declined in many years of war, civil strife, and neglect. Foreign help from France and Great Britain was dangerous, whilst the United States preferred other markets which were easier to handle than enigmatic, revolutionary, and distant Russia. Thus the eyes of the men at the Kremlin turned to Germany.

The able and energetic Ordzonikidse, a close friend and fellow countryman of Stalin, was a particular protagonist of this trend towards Germany. She had maintained friendly relations with the Soviet Union. The consequences of her defeat ruled out any military danger, and she had a highly developed industry and a first-class staff of engineers and skilled workers. The “German Engineering Week” served to encourage the German technical and scientific staff in this new venture. Technical aid was most urgently required, whilst the question of financing it would have to be taken up later on.

A state of transition was also discernible in the realm of foreign policy. Tchitcherin had been undergoing a cure at a German sanatorium for several months, and, in addition to his delicate state of health, he was suffering from a kind of nervous breakdown or a deep inner conflict. Well-founded rumors which leaked through to our Embassy maintained that he wanted to stay in Germany for good, whereas the Kremlin insisted with increasing vigor that he should return. At that time the era of the nievozvrazhenti—of the “non-returner” who escaped abroad and started trouble for Moscow by divulging the secrets of the inner circle of the Soviet potentates—was just beginning. At last two friends of Tchitcherin—one of them Dr. Levin, the Kremlin physician who was executed in the purge of 1937—were dispatched to Wiesbaden to coax the Foreign Commissar into submission. They were successful. Tchitcherin obeyed and spent his remaining years in a small flat, musing over the vicissitudes of life.

Thus Litvinov became my partner during my five years of office in Moscow. He had at last achieved his ambition of emerging from the shadow of his much-hated rival Tchitcherin. He exchanged the post of the external emissary for that of the independent statesman, at least as far as this was possible in Moscow. But he was still far from happy. Being no more a member of the Politburo than Tchitcherin, he remained of much lower standing in the party hierarchy than his predecessor.

Foreign politics was not a priority subject with the Politburo at that time, and it was not until ten years later that the appointment of Molotov to this post recorded a change of heart on the part of the Kremlin in this respect. Maxim Maximovitch Litvinov was therefore suffering from a certain inferiority complex. But his capacity for work was unlimited and he was not subject to that somewhat erratic way of life which characterized Tchitcherin; the night-working team Rantzau-Tchitcherin was replaced by the daytime team Dirksen-Litvinov. Whilst he lacked the finesse and brilliance of Tchitcherin in his writings, his notes were composed with a terse lucidity of style coupled with a blend of impudence. He was indeed a redoubtable antagonist, being quick-witted and well versed in affairs. Our personal relations almost reached the level of friendship during the years spent handling difficult matters in a conciliatory spirit. The farewell letter which he wrote me some months after my departure from Moscow—he was in Turkey when I left my post—bore testimony to these friendly relations.

My official association was rendered somewhat more difficult with him than with his predecessor by reason of the fact that he was no dyed-in-the-wool Rapallo man but only rendered lip-service to that policy. Although he passionately denied any wavering of his faith in this respect, his sympathies belonged to Great Britain, where he had spent the years of his exile and had married an English woman. He had to be sternly admonished whenever he showed signs of deviating in any particular direction. On the whole, however, he remained loyal to the true faith until the coming of National Socialism provided him with the welcome pretext to be one of the first to leave the foundering Rapallo-policy. The further course of his career was symptomatic, for, from that time onward, his appearance on the political scene showed the desire of the Kremlin to display a conciliatory attitude towards the Anglo-Saxon Powers.

In these circumstances the appointment of Nikolai Nikolaevitch Krestinski, for nine years Ambassador to Berlin, as deputy chief to the Foreign Commissar constituted a welcome consolidation of the ranks of those holding genuine German sympathies. As to his position within the party, it ranked considerably higher than that of Litvinov. He belonged to the Old Guard, and, what is more, he had fought in the revolutionary war in Russia and had not escaped to the comparative comfort provided by exile in Zurich, Berlin, or Paris. Those Bolsheviks who had stayed in Russia and had suffered imprisonment and exile to Siberia—such as Stalin, Molotov, Voroshilov, Krestinski—were admired as frontline soldiers, whereas the intellectuals who, after a short term of imprisonment in Russia, escaped into exile, as Trotzky, Kamenev, Radek, and Litvinov did, could never quite get rid of the stigma of having had an easy time in the rear while their comrades risked their lives at the front. Lenin was the only exception to this rule.

In spite of his pro-German leanings and his honesty of character, Krestinski was not an easy man to deal with. He had the mind of a lawyer rather than of a politician and, with his goatee, his convex spectacles, and his sharp, high pitched voice, he was more like a small-town advocate than a statesman. He never succeeded in dissociating himself from this legalistic, theorizing side of his nature which had served him well during the revolutionary part of his career, as it had enabled him to tread the road of barren theory to the bitter end. As Finance Minister in the first years of the revolution he was the author of a pamphlet advocating the ruination of currency as a means of clearing the way for orthodox Marxist barter. He did not care to be reminded of this youthful extravagance. His heroic stand during the trial following the purge of 1937 is well known. After having dutifully confessed to all the crimes assigned to him by the prosecutor Vyshinsky, he revoked his confession as false and extorted. But the next day he reiterated his confession, his resistance having been broken down by the third-degree methods applied to him, which probably included threats of torturing his wife and his beloved daughter Natasha.

In addition to Litvinov and Krestinski there were two other men forming the collegium of the Narkomindiel (everything in the Soviet Union was organized not on a one-man basis but on the basis of a number of men acting jointly). These two were Stomonyakov and Karakhan. Stomonyakov, a Bulgarian and former trade representative in Berlin, was a clever, loyal, and agreeable man whose mind worked more accurately and on more Western lines than the complicated and sometimes distorted mind of the Russian. Karakhan, an astute and wily Armenian, reigned supreme over the Far Eastern department. He had derived a deep knowledge of the intricacies of East Asiatic politics from his turbulent ambassadorship to China. He could play tennis, drive his own smart cabriolet, and court the ballerinas of the Bolshoi Theater without prejudice to his party st...

Table of contents

• Title page
• TABLE OF CONTENTS
• PREFACE
• LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
• INTRODUCTION
• I - In the Foreign Office 1918-1925
• II - The Eastern Department 1925-1928
• III - Ambassador to Moscow 1928-1933
• IV - Ambassador to Tokyo 1933-1938
• V - Ambassador in London 1938-1939
• VI - War and Catastrophe
• VII - Refugees
• REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER