Cold War

Soviet design to soften up capitalist states for eventual confrontation.

As defined, admittedly in oversimplified fashion, by George Kennan in his

famous 1947 article on containment, Russian diplomacy "moves along the

prescribed path, like a persistent toy automobile, wound up and headed in

a given direction, stopping only when it meets some unanswerable force."

Soviet subservience to a universal, religious creed ruled out even the

possibility of mutual concessions, since even temporary accommodation

would be used by the Russians as part of their grand scheme to secure

world domination.

A second version of the same hypothesis—argued by some American

revisionist historians—contends that the endless demands of capitalism for

new markets propelled the United States into a course of intervention and

imperialism. According to this argument, a capitalist society can survive

only by opening new areas for exploitation. Without the development of

multinational corporations, strong ties with German capitalists, and free

trade across national boundaries, America would revert to the depression

of the prewar years. Hence, an aggressive internationalism became the only

means through which the ruling class of the United States could retain

hegemony. In support of this argument, historians point to the number of

American policymakers who explicitly articulated an economic motivation

for U.S. foreign policy. "We cannot expect domestic prosperity under our

system," Assistant Secretary of State Dean Acheson said, "without a

constantly expanding trade with other nations." Echoing the same theme,

the State Department's William Clayton declared: "We need markets—big

markets—around the world in which to buy and sell. . . . We've got to

export three times as much as we exported just before the war if we want

to keep our industry running somewhere near capacity." According to this

argument, economic necessity motivated the Truman Doctrine, the Marshall

Plan, and the vigorous efforts of U.S. policymakers to open up Eastern

Europe for trade and investment. Within such a frame of reference, it was

the capitalist economic system—not Soviet commitment to world

revolution—that made the Cold War unavoidable.

Still a third version of the inevitability hypothesis—partly based on

the first two—would insist that historical differences between the two

superpowers and their systems of government made any efforts toward postwar

cooperation almost impossible. Russia had always been deeply suspicious of

the West, and under Stalin that suspicion had escalated into paranoia, with

Soviet leaders fearing that any opening of channels would ultimately

destroy their own ability to retain total mastery over the Russian people.

The West's failure to implement early promises of a second front and the

subsequent divisions of opinion over how to treat occupied territory had

profoundly strained any possible basis of trust. From an American

perspective, in turn, it stretched credibility to expect a nation committed

to human rights to place confidence in a ruthless dictator, who in one

Yugoslav's words, had single-handedly been responsible for more Soviet

deaths than all the armies of Nazi Germany. Through the purges,

collectivization, and mass imprisonment of Russian citizens, Stalin had

presided over the killing of 20 million of his own people. How then could

he be trusted to respect the rights of others? According to this argument,

only the presence of a common enemy had made possible even short-term

solidarity between Russia and the United States; in the absence of a German

foe, natural antagonisms were bound to surface. America had one system of

politics, Russia another, and as Truman declared in 1948, "a totalitarian

state is no different whether you call it Nazi, fascist, communist, or

Franco Spain."

Yet, in retrospect, these arguments for inevitability tell only part of

the story. Notwithstanding the Soviet Union's rhetorical commitment to an

ideology of world revolution, there is abundant evidence of Russia's

willingness to forego ideological purity in the cause of national interest.

Stalin, after all, had turned away from world revolution in committing

himself to building "socialism in one country." Repeatedly, he indicated

his readiness to betray the communist movement in China and to accept the

leadership of Chiang Kai-shek. George Kennan recalled the Soviet leader

"snorting rather contemptuously . . . because one of our people asked them

what they were going to give to China when [the war] was over." "We have a

hundred cities of our own to build in the Soviet Far East," Stalin had

responded. "If anybody is going to give anything to the Far East, I think

it's you." Similarly, Stalin refused to give any support to communists in

Greece during their rebellion against British domination there. As late as

1948 he told the vice-premier of Yugoslavia, "What do you think, . . . that

Great Britain and the United States . . . will permit you to break their

lines of communication in the Mediterranean? Nonsense . . . the uprising in

Greece must be stopped, and as quickly as possible."

Nor are the other arguments for inevitability totally persuasive.

Without question, America's desire for commercial markets played a role in

the strategy of the Cold War. As Truman said in 1949, devotion to freedom

of enterprise "is part and parcel of what we call America." Yet was the

need for markets sufficient to force a confrontation that ultimately would

divert precious resources from other, more productive use? Throughout most

of its history, Wall Street has opposed a bellicose position in foreign

policy. Similarly, although historical differences are important, it makes

no sense to regard them as determinative. After all, the war led to

extraordinary examples of cooperation that bridged these differences; if

they could be overcome once, then why not again? Thus, while each of the

arguments for inevitability reflects truths that contributed to the Cold

War, none offers an explanation sufficient of itself, for contending that

the Cold War was unavoidable.

A stronger case, it seems, can be made for the position that the Cold

War was unnecessary, or at least that conflicts could have been handled in

a manner that avoided bipolarization and the rhetoric of an ideological

crusade. At no time did Russia constitute a military threat to the United

States. "Economically," U.S. Naval Intelligence reported in 1946, "the

Soviet Union is exhausted.... The USSR is not expected to take any action

in the next five years which might develop into hostility with Anglo

Americans." Notwithstanding the Truman administration's public statements

about a Soviet threat, Russia had cut its army from 11.5 to 3 million men

after the war. In 1948, its military budget amounted to only half of that

of the United States. Even militant anticommunists like John Foster Dulles

acknowledged that "the Soviet leadership does not want and would not

consciously risk" a military confrontation with the West. Indeed, so

exaggerated was American rhetoric about Russia's threat that Hanson

Baldwin, military expert of the New York Times, compared the claims of our

armed forces to the "shepherd who cried wolf, wolf, wolf, when there was no

wolf." Thus, on purely factual grounds, there existed no military basis for

the fear that the Soviet Union was about to seize world domination, despite

the often belligerent pose Russia took on political issues.

A second, somewhat more problematic, argument for the thesis of

avoidability consists of the extent to which Russian leaders appeared ready

to abide by at least some agreements made during the war. Key, here, is the

understanding reached by Stalin and Churchill during the fall of 1944 on

the division of Europe into spheres of influence. According to that

understanding, Russia was to dominate Romania, have a powerful voice over

Bulgaria, and share influence in other Eastern European countries, while

Britain and America were to control Greece. By most accounts, that

understanding was implemented. Russia refused to intervene on behalf of

communist insurgency in Greece. While retaining rigid control over Romania,

she provided at least a "fig-leaf of democratic procedure"—sufficient to

satisfy the British. For two years the USSR permitted the election of

noncommunist or coalition regimes in both Hungary and Czechoslovakia. The

Finns, meanwhile, were permitted to choose a noncommunist government and to

practice Western-style democracy as long as their country maintained a

friendly foreign policy toward their neighbor on the east. Indeed, to this

day, Finland remains an example of what might have evolved had earlier

wartime understandings on both sides been allowed to continue.

What then went wrong? First, it seems clear that both sides perceived

the other as breaking agreements that they thought had been made. By

signing a separate peace settlement with the Lublin Poles, imprisoning the

sixteen members of the Polish underground, and imposing—without regard for

democratic appearances—total hegemony on Poland, the Soviets had broken the

spirit, if not the letter, of the Yalta accords. Similarly, they blatantly

violated the agreement made by both powers to withdraw from Iran once the

war was over, thus precipitating the first direct threat of military

confrontation during the Cold War. In their attitude toward Eastern Europe,

reparations, and peaceful cooperation with the West, the Soviets exhibited

increasing rigidity and suspicion after April 1945. On the other hand,

Stalin had good reason to accuse the United States of reneging on compacts

made during the war. After at least tacitly accepting Russia's right to a

sphere of influence in Eastern Europe, the West seemed suddenly to change

positions and insist on Western-style democracies and economies. As the

historian Robert Daliek has shown, Roosevelt and Churchill gave every

indication at Tehran and Yalta that they acknowledged the Soviet's need to

have friendly governments in Eastern Europe. Roosevelt seemed to care

primarily about securing token or cosmetic concessions toward democratic

processes while accepting the substance of Russian domination. Instead,

misunderstanding developed over the meaning of the Yalta accords, Truman

confronted Molotov with demands that the Soviets saw as inconsistent with

prior understandings, and mutual suspicion rather than cooperation assumed

dominance in relations between the two superpowers.

It is this area of misperception and misunderstanding that historians

have focused on recently as most critical to the emergence of the Cold War.

Presumably, neither side had a master plan of how to proceed once the war

ended. Stalin's ambitions, according to recent scholarship, were ill-

defined, or at least amenable to modification depending on America's

posture. The United States, in turn, gave mixed signals, with Roosevelt

implying to every group his agreement with their point of view, yet

ultimately keeping his personal intentions secret. If, in fact, both sides

could have agreed to a sphere-of-influence policy—albeit with some

modifications to satisfy American political opinion—there could perhaps

have been a foundation for continued accommodation. Clearly, the United

States intended to retain control over its sphere of influence,

particularly in Greece, Italy, and Turkey. Moreover, the United States

insisted on retaining total domination over the Western hemisphere,

consistent with the philosophy of the Monroe Doctrine. If the Soviets had

been allowed similar control over their sphere of influence in Eastern

Europe, there might have existed a basis for compromise. As John McCloy

asked at the time, "[why was it necessary] to have our cake and eat it too?

. . . To be free to operate under this regional arrangement in South

America and at the same time intervene promptly in Europe." If the United

States and Russia had both acknowledged the spheres of influence implicit

in their wartime agreements, perhaps a different pattern of relationships

might have emerged in the postwar world.

The fact that such a pattern did not emerge raises two issues, at least

from an American perspective. The first is whether different leaders or

advisors might have achieved different foreign policy results. Some

historians believe that Roosevelt, with his subtlety and skill, would have

found a way to promote collaboration with the Russians, whereas Truman,

with his short temper, inexperience, and insecurity, blundered into

unnecessary and harmful confrontations. Clearly, Roosevelt himself—just

before his death—was becoming more and more concerned about Soviet

intransigence and aggression. Nevertheless, he had always believed that

through personal pressure and influence, he could find a way to persaude

"uncle Joe." On the basis of what evidence we have, there seems good reason

to believe that the Russians did place enormous trust in FDR. Perhaps—just

perhaps—Roosevelt could have found a way to talk "practical arithmetic"

with Stalin rather than algebra and discover a common ground. Certainly, if

recent historians are correct in seeing the Cold War as caused by both

Stalin's undefined ambitions and America's failure to communicate

effectively and consistently its view on where it would draw the line with

the Russians, then Roosevelt's long history of interaction with the Soviets

would presumably have placed him in a better position to negotiate than the

inexperienced Truman.

The second issue is more complicated, speaking to a political problem

which beset both Roosevelt and Truman—namely, the ability of an American

president to formulate and win support for a foreign policy on the basis of

national self-interest rather than moral purity. At some point in the past,

an American diplomat wrote in 1967:

[T]here crept into the ideas of Americans about foreign policy ... a

histrionic note, ... a desire to appear as something greater perhaps than

one actually was. ... It was inconceivable that any war in which we were

involved could be less than momentous and decisive for the future of

humanity. ... As each war ended, ... we took appeal to universalistic,

Utopian ideals, related not to the specifics of national interest but to

legalistic and moralistic concepts that seemed better to accord with the

pretentious significance we had attached to our war effort.

As a consequence, the diplomat went on, it became difficult to pursue a

policy not defined by the language of "angels or devils," "heroes" or

"blackguards."

Clearly, Roosevelt faced such a dilemma in proceeding to mobilize

American support for intervention in the war against Nazism. And Truman

encountered the same difficulty in seeking to define a policy with which to

meet Soviet postwar objectives. Both presidents, of course, participated in

and reflected the political culture that constrained their options.

Potentially at least, Roosevelt seemed intent on fudging the difference

between self-interest and moralism. He perceived one set of objectives as

consistent with reaching an accommodation with the Soviets, and another set

of goals as consistent with retaining popular support for his diplomacy at

home. It is difficult to avoid the conclusion that he planned—in a very

Machiavellian way—to use rhetoric and appearances as a means of disguising

his true intention: to pursue a strategy of self-interest. It seems less

clear that Truman had either the subtlety or the wish to follow a similarly

Machiavellian course. But if he had, the way might have been opened to

quite a different—albeit politically risky— series of policies.

None of this, of course, would have guaranteed the absence of conflict

in Eastern Europe, Iran, or Turkey. Nor could any action of an American

president—however much rooted in self-interest—have obviated the personal

and political threat posed by Stalinist tyranny and ruthlessness,

particularly if Stalin himself had chosen, for whatever reason, to act out

his most aggressive and paranoid instincts. But if a sphere-of-influence

agreement had been possible, there is some reason to think—in light of

initial Soviet acceptance of Western-style governments in Hungary,

Czechoslovakia, and Finland—that the iron curtain might not have descended

in the way that it did. In all historical sequences, one action builds on

another. Thus, steps toward cooperation rather than confrontation might

have created a momentum, a frame of reference and a basis of mutual trust,

that could have made unnecessary the total ideological bipolarization that

evolved by 1948. In short, if the primary goals of each superpower had been

acknowledged and implemented—security for the Russians, some measure of

pluralism in Eastern European countries for the United States, and economic

interchange between the two blocs—it seems conceivable that the world might

have avoided the stupidity, the fear, and the hysteria of the Cold War.

As it was, of course, very little of the above scenario did take place.

After the confrontation in Iran, the Soviet declaration of a five-year

plan, Churchill's Fulton, Missouri, speech, and the breakdown of

negotiations on an American loan, confrontation between the two superpowers

seemed irrevocable. It is difficult to imagine that the momentum building

toward the Cold War could have been reversed after the winter and spring of

1946. Thereafter, events assumed an almost inexorable momentum, with both

sides using moralistic rhetoric and ideological denunciation to pillory the

other. In the United States it became incumbent on the president—in order

to secure domestic political support—to defend the Truman Doctrine and the

Marshall Plan in universalistic, moral terms. Thus, we became engaged, not

in an effort to assure jobs and security, but in a holy war against evil.

Stalin, in turn, gave full vent to his crusade to eliminate any vestige of

free thought or national independence in Eastern Europe. Reinhold Niebuhr

might have been speaking for both sides when he said in 1948, "we cannot

afford any more compromises. We will have to stand at every point in our

far flung lines."

The tragedy, of course, was that such a policy offered no room for

intelligence or flexibility. If the battle in the world was between good

and evil, believers and nonbelievers, anyone who questioned the wisdom of

established policy risked dismissal as a traitor or worse. In the Soviet

Union the Gulag Archipelago of concentration camps and executions was the

price of failing to conform to the party line. But the United States paid a

price as well. An ideological frame of reference had emerged through which

all other information was filtered. The mentality of the Cold War shaped

everything, defining issues according to moralistic assumptions, regardless

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