Alison Lewis, Valentina Glajar, and Corina L. Petrescu
If the Great War belonged to the soldier in the trenches, the Cold War surely belonged to the spy: the shadowy soldier on the invisible front fighting behind the scenes in the service of Communism or the free world. During the Cold War, spy stories became popular on both sides of the Iron Curtain, capturing the imaginations of readers and filmgoers alike, as secret police outfits quietly went about their business of espionage and surveillance, under the shroud of utmost secrecy. Curiously, in the post–Cold War period there are no signs of this enthusiasm diminishing. Indeed, the advent of what is often called a postpolitical world order (cf. Taşkale 2016) and a “politics without frontiers” (Laclau and Mouffe 2001, xiv) has opened up exciting opportunities to tell these spy stories anew. We can now recompose these tales of collusion and complicity, betrayal and treason, right and wrong, good and evil in light of new ways of thinking as well as new evidence from declassified archival sources. We can read Cold War modes of storytelling differently—remaining attentive to the fictional subtexts in factual spy narratives and the factual underpinnings of fictional works about espionage.
With the opening of the secret police archives in many countries in Eastern Europe, moreover, comes the unique chance to excavate forgotten accounts of espionage and tell them for the first time. Spy stories told through the prism of the secret police conveyed as “file stories” (Glajar 2016, 57)—about the top-secret lives of intelligence officers, their agents or informers as well as their targets—represent one distinct mode of Cold War spy story, a mode based on “factual or forensic truth” (Lewis 2016, 215) but undergirded by ideological fantasies and paranoid fictions. The opening of the files has also led to the rediscovery of curious or enigmatic espionage events, which are being told in interconnected multimodal webs of narration—whether as memoirs of notorious spymasters or as recent fictions and feature films about complex and hitherto unexplained Cold War incidents. Finally, the opening of the Iron Curtain has challenged old Cold War antagonisms such as the friend/foe binary, which is in turn recasting espionage scripts and the very character of the spy and double agent, as witnessed in new styles of spy films such as Bridge of Spies (2015) and television dramas such as Weißensee (2010–), The Americans (2013–18), Deutschland 83 (2015–), and Berlin Station (2016–) made for a global, postpolitical audience.
This book is concerned with the stories we tell about lives lived during the Cold War. Stories are, according to Paul Ricoeur, what mediates between the past and the present and a fundamental means of how we make sense of experience. The act of narrating is how we assimilate “a life to a history” (Valdés 1991, 425). Put simply, without stories, lives would remain untold and hidden in dusty archives. While Ricoeur speaks here about the world of fiction, as that which “helps to make life—in the biological sense of the world—human” (Valdés 1991, 425), his analysis of the relation between stories and lives can be extended to all forms of storytelling from the stories of history and personal memory to the stories in secret police files. Individuals seem “entangled in stories that happen” to them, according to Ricoeur (Valdés 1991, 435), even historical individuals, and through their telling of stories we can understand them. Narration, narratives, and plots are fundamental ways of making sense of the world: “By means of the plot, goals, causes, and chance are brought together within the temporal unity of a whole and complete action” (Ricoeur 1990, ix).
The Cold War stories in this book are complex amalgams of fact and fiction, history and imagination, past and present. They refer to the secret lives of spies, referring backward to the time of the Cold War, but like all texts in Ricoeur’s hermeneutics, they also have a life beyond the historical time of writing. They come to life through the reader or spectator who refigures the author’s configurations (Ricoeur 1990, 9) against the backdrop of his or her own needs and understandings. Thus these narratives narrated during the Cold War can be read against the grain from a post–Cold War perspective. Above all, they can be read with the hindsight that enables us to reassess many aspects of the Cold War and its facts and fictions about espionage.
The joyous celebrations of victory over National Socialist Germany lay less than a year behind him when Sir Winston Churchill delivered his speech at Westminster College, Missouri, on March 5, 1946, and deplored the Iron Curtain that had descended on Europe and closed its eastern territories behind it. While his hope that the world would not see another world war came true, instead a passive-aggressive confrontation between the former allies emerged and materialized into what has been called poetically the Cold War. When trying to explain this rapid deterioration of the Grand Alliance, historian John Lewis Gaddis points out that the Second World War “had been won by a coalition whose principle members were already at war—ideologically and geopolitically if not militarily—with one another,” and this alliance’s triumph had been possible because of “the pursuit of compatible objectives by incompatible systems” (2007, 6). Once the coalition reached its main common objective—National Socialist Germany’s defeat—the victors had “either to cease to be who they were, or to give up much of what they had hoped . . . to attain” (6). As neither the Western allies nor the Soviet Union were ready to renounce their principles, the coalition’s division along ideological lines and Europe’s ensuing division into two camps was imminent. Equally true was the fact that neither party wanted a new, direct war, so the other available option was an “indirect warfare” (Krieger 2014, 251), in which propaganda and operations carried out by or with the blessing of the two superpower’s secret services played a major role. According to Wolfgang Krieger, secret services were never as important for the national and international history of states as they were during the Cold War: “They were no longer an extension to other instruments of power politics but became a substitute for the war of the superpowers, which no one wanted to fight, and which simply could not be fought given the [superpowers’] growing nuclear arsenals” (251–52).
Carrying the laurels for the success of the war on the European western front, the United States approached the postwar era cautiously, not completely sure of the part it would play in Europe. That security in the homeland was a priority was undebatable, but how the United States would go about transplanting it to Europe was less certain. In breaking with its traditional isolationism during times of peace, the United States embraced its victor role and put forth a strategy that allowed it not only to restore peace to its European sphere of influence but also to secure its postwar development. George F. Kennan formulated this strategy better than anyone else when he proclaimed that all that was needed from the United States when dealing with the Soviet Union was a “long-term, patient but firm and vigilant containment of Russian expansive tendencies” (1947, 575). The best way to achieve this was through closely monitoring and surveilling the enemy; the best place to do so was certainly Germany where the United States and the Soviet Union faced each other not only along the country’s inner border but more intimately and directly along the inner-city frontier of Berlin.
Having carried the largest burden for the war in terms of human and material losses, the Soviet Union expected nothing less than goodwill from its former allies and compliance from its satellites to ensure peace in the world and its own prosperity. Relying on Marxism-Leninism, which taught him that sooner or later greed would make it impossible for capitalists to cooperate, Joseph Stalin counted on “the inevitability of wars between capitalist countries” (quoted in Gaddis 2007, 14) to give him the upper hand internationally. Within his own sphere of influence, the Eastern Bloc, he made sure to install political leaders loyal to him, who thought to replicate his regime in their countries. Whether Walter Ulbricht in East Germany, Gheorghe Gheorgiu-Dej in Romania, or Bolesław Bierut in Poland—the leaders of the three satellite states at the core of this project—they all embraced Stalinism and promoted it in their respective countries at great cost. To ensure their peoples’ submission, the authorities in each of the three countries established powerful state police forces replicating the Soviet chekist model.
The secret services of both camps had to figure out a modus operandi for the times of peace since they could not carry on with their previous practices. While in the United States and the Soviet Union the transition was more fluid as the state leadership did not change as dramatically as it did in defeated Germany or satellite Romania and Poland, it nonetheless involved changes even if they were primarily structural—departments were renamed, integrated or subordinated to other offices without really changing their duties (see Krieger 2014, 252–57). Collectively speaking, secret services are charged with identifying, containing, and disciplining or dealing with state enemies. The extent to which each secret service carries out these tasks and the way it does depend on the nature of the state they serve. During the Cold War both the U.S. and the Soviet secret services also had to train the secret forces of their respective allies/satellites. The U.S. military helped establish the BND (Bundesnachrichtendienst [Federal Intelligence Service]) (Krieger 2014, 264–74), and the KGB (Komitet gosudarstvennoĭ bezopasnosti [Committee for State Security]) helped with the birth of the Stasi (Ministerium für Staatssicherheit [Ministry for State Security]), the Securitate (Departamentul Securităţii Statului [Department of State Security]), and the UB (Urząd Bezpieczeństwa [Department of Security], 1945–54). While according to Krieger the exact extent of American influence on the BND cannot be fully analyzed yet (2014, 273–74), insights into the Soviet method of forming the secret police forces of its allies are accessible in the archives of the respective forces (see Gieseke 2000 for the Stasi; Oprea 2008 for the Securitate, and Szwagrzyk 2005 for the UB).
Ultimately, each secret police agency was charged with detecting activities of hostile powers and unmasking enemies of the state at home and threats abroad. Whatever the reason, once an individual attracted the secret police’s attention, she or he entered a surveillance network of an interpersonal, political, and bureaucratic nature that reduced one to a target: a person of interest to the secret police and categorized according to enemy types. While these types varied from country to country, they were deemed equally dangerous in all the countries represented in this book.
The Soviet Union was wary of the Zionist Jew, the old Russian elite, the wealthy peasant (kulak), the religious leader, and the dissident intellectual. In East Germany the enemy bore the face of the West German spy and saboteur, the land-owning aristocrat (Junker), the cosmopolitan youngster with a preference for American culture, the “deserter from the republic” (Republikflüchtling), and the critical or reform-socialist writer or intellectual. Poland was equally at odds with the wealthy peasant and the Western spy and saboteur but also with the meat black-marketer (Fleischspekulant), the American instigator, the neo-Nazi, and the Jew as Zionist and revisionist (Satjukow and Gries 2004). The Romanian state combated the intellectual and political opponent of the prewar era, the religious leader, the land-owning peasant, and among its national minorities particularly the ethnic German as nationalist, the Hungarian as irredentist, and the Jew as Zionist (Tismaneanu 2016, 9–19). Unmasking these troublemakers was essential to the secret police, whose agents and informants pursued their targets relentlessly.
In the struggle between the two superpowers, propaganda was the main weapon of choice, deployed mercilessly by both sides. Propaganda was produced and reproduced across each of the two spheres of influence from the dominant power down to its smallest ally or satellite state. For many years in the West, the Cold War was seen as a war of words. As Martin J. Medhurst writes: “A Cold War is, by definition, a rhetorical war, a war fought with words, speeches, pamphlets, public information (or disinformation) campaigns, slogans, gestures, symbolic actions, and the like” (1997, xiv). All these media could and did morph into propaganda. Propaganda was not something the West readily admitted to using, nor did it like to regard itself as participating in mutual struggles over ideology—ideology was after all what the Soviets used, not the United States or its NATO partners (W. S. Lucas 1999, 12). Yet propaganda was, as W. Scott Lucas has forcefully argued, rife on both sides, not just as “an adjunct to policies but [as] an integral part of a strategy to win hearts and minds as well as acquire territory and attain economic supremacy” (1999, 17). As research has shown, U.S. information officials had already launched the first peacetime propaganda offensive in 1945 (Belmonte 2008, 4), and the United States’ first two Cold War presidents used propaganda (Parry-Giles 2000, 95). As post–Cold War studies have increasingly concluded, propaganda was most definitely not the exclusive provenance of the Soviet Union and its satellites; rather both parties relied on it, openly and covertly. It infused political rhetoric and foreign policy, but more importantly for our context, it underpinned mass culture, such as films, and to a lesser extent literature.
Critics of U.S. foreign policy during the Cold War have since drawn attention to its moralistic, ideological underpinnings and reminded us that it hid behind the pragmatic-sounding notion that it was merely serving the interests of national security (W. S. Lucas 1999, 14). In the United States, the focus of Cold War information programs and their public diplomacy efforts was, as Laura Belmonte has argued, “selling America to foreign audiences” (2008, 2). Radio was central to these efforts, for example, and the United States’ foreign intelligence agency, the CIA, sought to spread democratic values behind the Iron Curtain through funding European radio services such as Radio Free Europe and Voice of America (Risso 2013). The key to selling the West abroad was to “explain . . . its values and notions of freedom to the world” (Belmonte 2008, 2). This was not only the task of espionage agencies such as the CIA but also of NATO. Although NATO was primarily a military and political alliance, its cultural programs—such as the NATO Information Service NATIS (Risso 2014, 5)—provided crucial support for its operations through fostering mutual understanding and a sense of community. As a “security community,” NATO sought to “extend beyond its geographical area and seek to influence neighboring countries to ensure political stability and good governance” (Risso 2014, 1). While the Warsaw Pact did not have a similar tool of propaganda, it had in effect no need for one since it fell to the Cominform (Risso 2014, 5) to provide consistent uniform propaganda across the Warsaw Pact. The Cominform—the Communist Information Bureau—was established in 1947 by the Soviet Union for the purpose of coordinating activities across Communist Parties around the world. Its first objective was to launch a propaganda “peace” offensive against the West (Wettig 2008, 197–98).
From 1960 on NATO responded to attacks from the Soviet Union by openly declaring it would engage in psychological warfare, even in peacetime (Risso 2014, 93–94). Communist propaganda depicted the West as imperialistic and a plausible, real threat to national security, particularly in those satellite states close to the Cold War fault lines. According to NATO this propaganda portrayed West Germany as a “warmonger, a hotbed of Nazism, revanchism and anti-Semitism” (95). To the Soviet Union, NATO was a “colonial and economic imperial organization” that happily exploited West Germany’s weakness as a divided country (95). In the United States and the West, anti-Communist propaganda worked in a similar fashion and portrayed the West and its values as under threat from the “red peril.” These threats varied in type and scale from Communists at home in the labor movement to the specter of a Communist nuclear attack during the Cuban missile crisis and later from Reagan’s so-called evil empire in the eighties. The West’s response to the “red scare” ranged accordingly over the course of the Cold War from McCarthyist inquisitions and religious crusades against Communists (Jenkins 1999, 166–67) to the purging of the teaching profession (118). On the other side of the Iron Curtain, the Soviet Union and its satellite regimes railed unrelentingly against the evils of Western imperialism and capitalism, invoking all the while the menace of a rebirth of Nazism and fascism. These putative evils posed a similarly wide range of threats to security from the various specters of invasion and war—which during the Berlin blockade and the building of the Berlin Wall was a genuine possibility—to the threat of a NATO nuclear strike in 1983.
Although there was a remarkable degree of symmetry in these perceived threats, one area of propaganda warfare was asymmetrical: the one-way population movements from East to West. The West scored painful political victories over the Soviet Union in the continuous exodus of its populations from Eastern Europe, including ethnic Germans from Romania, Jews from Romania and the Soviet Union, and refugee dissidents and intellectuals from the counter-revolutionary flashpoints of Hungary in 1956, Czechoslovakia in 1968, and Poland in 1956, 1968, and 1981 (Ardittis 1994, xvii). Despite prevailing restrictions on migration provided by the Iron Curtain, the persistence of sizable numbers of political and economic migrants from East to West came at a considerable economic cost to the Eastern Bloc, which lost valuable labor power and human resources. In the case of dissident intellectuals and political refugees there were damaging symbolic losses as well. East Germany suffered in particular from successive waves of emigration to the West, mostly before the closing of the borders and the erection of the Berlin Wall, when 3.5 million, or one in six, East Germans left or “absconded” from the German Democratic Republic (GDR) (Major 2010, 56). After the closing of the borders in 1961, the flow of refugees to the West continued, albeit radically reduced. Some fled in spectacular and often doomed escapes via hot-air balloons, tunnels, hidden compartments in cars, and even airplane hijackings (cf. Major 2010, 144). There were in total 136 deaths at the Berlin Wall; 98 of the victims were shot dead (Hertle and Nooke 2011, 21). Other Eastern Bloc citizens left involuntarily and were forcibly sent into exile by their respective regimes, stripped of their citizenship, like Wolf Biermann in the GDR in 1976 and prominent Soviet dissident Petr Grigorenko in late 1977, or banished, as Andrei Sakharov, who was sent to Gorki in 1980 while under KGB surveillance. Dissidents and victims of the gulag system who were allowed to travel to the West, such as Alexander Solzhenitsyn, Lew Kopelew, and Efim Etkin, subsequently found themselves forced into exile, falling victim to standoffs between the superpowers that no diplomatic negotiations could ameliorate at the start of the second Cold War in the early eighties.
Cold War propaganda relied on the aforementioned national enemy types, which were upheld in strict binaries of enemy and friend that allowed for few shades of gray. Propaganda was an important way of “making sense” of the Cold War (Rawnsley 1999, 2), and it suffused everyday life and culture, implicating everyone from those close to the center of power to those at the periphery. For the intelligence agencies at the epicenter of the Cold War, propaganda was of course part and parcel of a wide-ranging arsenal of instruments at the disposal of both democratic and totalitarian regimes. Intelligence agencies had recourse to far greater types of propaganda, including “gray” propaganda of questionable origin and accuracy and even “black” propaganda, which is false information from a hostile source parading as though it were from a friendly source (Del Pero 2003, 68). In addition to this gambit, intelligence availed itself of clandestine actions, or “covert operations,” which were an “indispensable instrument” in foreign policy and foreign intelligence agencies during the Cold War (Del Pero 2003, 68). In the early years, covert operations became important instruments on both sides of “containment,” justified by the rapidly deteriorating relations between the West and the Soviet bloc and the ideological “cold” nature of the Cold War (Del Pero 2003, 69–70). In fact, the fifties in particular were for the CIA a “golden age” for covert operations (Callanan 2010, 5).
In domestic intelligence, covert operations were also widespread during the Cold War particularly in the Eastern Bloc. While secret operations on foreign soil generally enjoy a greater degree of acceptance, when used against a country’s own citizens, there is far less tolerance for the secret tracking or surveillance of internal enemies. Yet both sides engaged in covert action against their own citizens and justified doing so by invoking counterintelligence or security arguments, namely, that the domestic population was in danger from internal enemies or threats. On both sides of the Cold War, nation-states conducted covert operations against suspected Communists in the West and anti-Communists in the East. Secrecy was regarded as necessary for the success of a covert operation, even though there were risks, for example, that dysfunctional operations might not be detected in time “whether in democratic or authoritarian systems” (Reisman and Baker 1992, 14–15). There are by the same token obvious political advantages to secrecy: “it enhances the power of the party using it, and where power sharing is called for, secrecy circumvents it” (141).
The performative structure of statements in the media shape the world, according to John Frow’s analysis of discourses, in particular news (2006, 17). In few instances has that worked more efficiently than during the Cold War, on both sides of the Iron Curtain. The text of news, for example, can be analyzed according to the three dimensions Frow distinguishes: the attitude toward it, the evaluative tone, and the rhetorical channel or deictic signs, such as the bold print or color (17–18). These dimensions evoke, according to Frow, background knowledge (18), which during the Cold War was shaped by significant propaganda, as each side was in constant search for evidence to support its ideology and thus “its version of the truth” (Feinberg 2017, x). Melissa Feinberg coins the term “curtain of lies”—the title of her recent book—and indicates that both sides were entangled in a struggle to prove their own rightness and thus used the concepts of “truth” and “lies” as signifiers of their particular ideology (xi).
Evidence to support their “truth” came from various sources. Evidence meant intelligence about life behind this curtain of lies that could support the opposing views and that shaped what Feinberg calls the Cold War political culture (2017, xiv). In the early Cold War years, émigrés and refugees who brought their stories and firsthand knowledge about Communist societies to the West, were some of the first sources of information. However, the layers of background knowledge that Frow presupposes in his analysis of news (2006, 18) were activated in the minds of the journalists who interviewed these refugees and émigrés. As Feinberg indicates, Western analysts read these stories against the background of constant polarizing propaganda “in ways that upheld their existing beliefs” (2017, xxi). As Cheryl Dueck shows in her chapter in this book, the film Westen (West, 2013) sheds some light on life in transitional refugee camps and draws a comparison between the interviews and the surveillance these refugees were subjected to by the Americans and West Germans agents with that of the Stasi in East Berlin.
Mistrust and fear were two other important components of this Cold War political culture in the race for “truth.” In the East there was the fear of imperialists who infiltrated the Communist societies and were attempting to usurp the accomplishments of these new peoples’ democracies. As a result Communists closely monitored their own populations in order to find and neutralize any sources of imperialist propaganda, and it comes as no surprise that most foreigners were viewed as potential infiltrators and spies. Especially in the Stalinist years, individuals were expected to denounce any traitors—a category that was wide-ranging during this time and also included citizens who expressed any opinions opposing the regimes in power. As we will see in Valentina Glajar’s chapter, the case against the Romanian Securitate officer Samuel Feld was built on various evidence that included offending a Soviet officer, failure to denounce his own uncle, and having relatives in Western enemy countries.
In the West the fear resulted both from the lack of information and the misleading, often false media reports (the equivalent of today’s “fake news”) that in Feinberg’s words “exemplified the dual moral economy of Cold War politics” (2017, x). To counter this lack of “real” news, the West projected and broadcasted in part its own fears and propaganda through its radio stations Radio Free Europe, Voice of America, and the BBC. The information these broadcasters transmitted was often meant to counter the Eastern propaganda with their own (106) and to rectify and counter the “lies” spread through the censored regime-controlled radio stations in the East. Westerners received in part their information from the aforementioned Eastern émigrés and refugees, who brought their individual stories to the West that painted everyday life in the grayish colors Western analysts were expecting. These Easterners described, as prompted, their fear of spies and informers, of war, and of scarcity (xvii). The Western-broadcasted “real” news was so efficient, and in many cases the only more reliable source of information, that a very large number of Easterners relied on it. As the refugees’ interviews discussed in Feinberg’s Curtain of Lies reveal, many Easterners listened at night to the various broadcasters and discussed the news with friends and coworkers the following day despite fears of being under surveillance, while others took precautions to avoid being reported to the secret service. Yet some interviewees claimed they avoided listening to these Western broadcasters and instead developed a system of reading the officially transmitted fake news against the grain to excavate the pieces of embellished or tarnished nuggets of real news (106–8).
As Eva Horn claims, the most important weapon is knowledge about the enemy, and thus in her opinion the Cold War was not an “arms race” but rather “a knowledge race” (2013, 231). While the refugees’ and émigrés’ stories helped create a Cold War culture shaped by fear and truth (or lack of it) (Feinberg 2017, xxi), scientists came to the West as bearers of secrets about arsenals, nuclear and otherwise (Horn 2013, 231). In Horn’s opinion the real “Cold Warriors” were civilians—secret agents, physicists, mathematicians, computer scientists, economists, and other experts who allowed university research, espionage, and military war games to speculate jointly about the enemy (232). These “warriors” presented a security risk on both sides of the Iron Curtain, as each side was in the pursuit of knowledge and intelligence. There are lists of mathematicians, physicists, and secret agents or officers who crossed the Iron Curtain: some over Western Europe to the United States, and others from the United States to the Soviet Union, the People’s Republic of China, and East Germany, among other countries. As farfetched as the U.S. TV show The Americans may seem, the KGB spies portrayed in this highly successful series are based on true stories that are stranger than fiction. An almost carbon-copy story is that of the KGB spies Andrei Bezrukov (“Donald Heathfield”) and Elena Vavilova (“Tracey Foley”), who like the protagonists of The Americans led normal American lives but were part of a Soviet program that dispatched deep-cover agents called “illegals.” However, after the fall of Communism, they continued to spy for the SVR (Sluzhba vneshney razvedki [Foreign Intelligence Service of the Russian Federation]), the successor of the KGB in modern Russia. As occurred so many times with exposed agents, Bezrukov and Vavilova were swapped for Russians who were spying for the United States (Walker 2016).
Two of the most important defectors to the West who inflicted serious blows to their respective Cold War intelligence agencies were the East German Werner Stiller and the Romanian Ion Mihai Pacepa. The East German double agent Stiller left with a briefcase full of top-secret files and documents that were meant to assure his survival but also to allow him to prove his worth to the West. Most notably, the information that Stiller gave to the West German secret service helped visually identify Markus Wolf, the long-time director of the Stasi’s Main Directorate for Reconnaissance, until then known as “the man without a face” (see Mary Beth Stein’s chapter in this book). Stiller eventually also collaborated with the CIA and made it to the United States, where he lived the American dream for a while under a new identity as an investment broker. Before he died at the age of sixty-nine in Budapest, he was eager to talk about his life as a spy and his fear for his life (Stiller and Adams 1992; Heim 2017). Pacepa was a Securitate general, head of Romanian industrial espionage, and personal adviser to Nicolae Ceauşescu. After his defection in 1978, he worked with the CIA on various operations against the Eastern Bloc, and the agency described his contribution as “important and unique” (Borchgrave 2004). His first book, Red Horizons: Chronicles of a Communist Spy Chief (1987), in which according to other former Securitate officers he laid bare truths, half-truths, and outright fiction about the Communist regime in Romania, the Ceauşescu couple, and covert Eastern Bloc operations, was serialized on Radio Free Europe in 1988. Pacepa was sentenced to death twice in absentia and continues to live in hiding in the United States (Hossu-Longin 2009).
While many of these defection and spy stories are still veiled in secrecy due to security concerns, the end of the Cold War presented a unique opportunity in the East: the opening of the secret police files, which helped researchers unearth stories of victims and collaborators but also of secret operations. Yet the lustration process in the various former Eastern Bloc countries did not evolve without glitches and in some cases serious hurdles (see Stan and Nedelsky 2013). The former Communist secret services did not surrender power without a last attempt to cover their traces. For instance, both the East German Stasi and the SRI (Serviciul Roman de Informaţii [Romanian Service of Information]), the successor of the Romanian Securitate, proceeded to destroy files in 1989 and 1991, respectively. The shredded Stasi files are currently undergoing a meticulous process of recovery that began with the ePuzzler, a reconstruction software that uses complex image processing and pattern-recognition algorithms to reconstruct scanned shreds of paper into complete pages, and has now switched to manual mending (Oltermann 2018). The partially burned and buried Romanian Securitate files, uncovered by Romanian journalists, could only be recovered to some extent, and the irremediable loss of information remains to be assessed (Botez 2011).
Yet the remaining almost intact files allow us rare insight into the life and activity of various intelligence officers and informers, as discussed in part 1. Chapter 1 focuses on the former Securitate officer Samuel Feld, who on February 29, 1960, was discharged from MAI (Ministerul Afacerilor Interne [Ministry of Internal Affairs]). Feld’s file story, as composed by Valentina Glajar, reveals a fragmented, often embellished, other times conflicting account that retraces his eleven-year career as a Securitate officer and the two investigations into his life and activity that eventually led to his dismissal. Based on Feld’s cadre file (D102) and his surveillance files (I 259048 and I 259049), opened under the code name “Dayan” after his dismissal from MAI, Glajar’s analysis exposes, in part, the inner workings of the Securitate at its core but also offers a slice of Jewish Romanian personal history that speaks of antisemitism, persecution, and ultimately false hopes. The case against Major Feld was based on informers’ reports, characterizations by his colleagues, anonymous denouncements, and interrogations that are only alluded to but most likely removed from or never included in this file. Yet like an apt chess player, he anticipated his investigators’ moves, always ready to provide them with elaborate explanations for his activities and often successfully outmaneuvering them. As Glajar shows, Feld knew how to skillfully influence the unfolding of his own story, at least up to the point when it inescapably slipped out of his hands and followed his investigators’ desired trajectory. Several years after his dismissal, Feld managed to emigrate with his family to the United States—after several failed attempts to emigrate to Israel. While he expressed regrets about having been entangled with the Securitate, he also requested that his real name be obscured in this chapter.
In chapter 2, Mary Beth Stein tackles the story of East Germany’s greatest spymaster, Markus Wolf, whom Western intelligence agencies simply dubbed “the man without a face” for twenty-five years. Unlike in Feld’s case, though, Wolf’s three personnel files comprise roughly one hundred pages, and the information they entail hardly allows one to evaluate truth claims about him or espionage operations in his autobiographies. As Stein claims, the man without a face might have remained the man without a trace had it not been for his many autobiographical publications. In this chapter Stein focuses specifically on Wolf’s 1997 English language autobiography coauthored with Anne McElvoy The Man without a Face, and a revised and expanded German edition published in 1997 under the title Spionchef im geheimen Krieg: Erinnerungen. Like other Stasi officers who penned their autobiographical stories (Kopp 2016), Wolf’s German and English-language editions are critical in his own campaign for personal redemption and a more positive assessment of the East German state. Drawing on Phillipe Lejeune’s “autobiographical pact,” Stein explores truth claims about Wolf himself and the controversial espionage practice of using “Romeo spies” and his reflections on the legacy of East German socialism at a time when he and the system he served were on trial.
In chapter 3 Alison Lewis turns to the role of Stasi informers in the Stasi’s secret war on books, namely, informers who wrote reader’s reports on a clandestine basis for the Stasi, as the “fifth censor” (Walther 1996) of literature. In the absence of autobiographical testimony, the Cold War spy story of Stasi informer and minor poet Uwe Berger, namely, IM (inoffizieller Mitarbeiter) “Uwe,” is composed mainly from the extensive and telling traces left behind in his file in the Stasi archives. Enlisted in 1972, Berger reviewed and mostly tried to sabotage the publication of works by a string of notable East German writers: Sarah Kirsch, Paul Wiens, Monika Maron, Günter Kunert, Klaus Poche, Erich Loest, Lutz Rathenow, Wolfgang Hilbig, Eva Strittmatter, Jurek Becker, and Bettina Wegner. Lewis discusses the various facets of this informer’s self-ascribed role as an aesthetic gatekeeper and an ideological “policeman” in the field of literature, as well as “Uwe’s” role as a secret agent. As she argues in this chapter, working undercover as a freelance reader for the Stasi provided Berger with a chance to work off personal grievances and resentments as well as to bank greater symbolic, albeit secret, capital for himself, as a member of what he and others saw as an elite secret surveillance society.
Part 2 explores the making of targets by two secret police forces: Romania’s Securitate and the Soviet Union’s KGB. Instrumental in the process through which an individual metamorphosed into a target was information gathered from informers. Collected in classified files, it provided the secret police with intelligence on the persons under observation and aided in building a case against these targets. In chapter 4, for example, Corina L. Petrescu focuses on the French Romanian writer Ana Novac and analyzes how she became a Securitate target in the early 1960s. Petrescu proposes the term “target identity” to describe the specific features and particular behaviors that the Securitate pieced together in individuals’ files, and which allowed the Securitate to treat these individuals as suspicious and surveil them. By analyzing in detail the reports that two informers, called “sources” in the Romanian context, produced about Novac, she showcases the role these sources played in the criminalization of targeted regime critics. Irrespective of Novac’s true nature, sources “Magda” and “Karl Fischer” first painted and then cemented “target Novac” into an enemy of the state both ideologically (through her openly articulated criticism) and personally (in terms of lifestyle and expectations). While Novac was able to escape Romania due to her intuition that she would be able to do so only if she thwarted the Securitate, Petrescu’s engagement with her files also illustrates how persistent secret police forces could be in their pursuit of targets. As a French citizen in the 1980s, Novac captured the Securitate’s attention again due to her collaborations with Radio Free Europe, and the reports of sources “Magda” and “Karl Fischer” gained relevance anew.
In chapter 5 Julie Fedor shows how in 1980 the KGB stage-managed the case of Orthodox priest Father Dmitrii Dudko so as to recast the heroic image of the dissident into that of a marionette of Western secret services. By examining the worldview of the chekist and the manner in which he conceived of and categorized Soviet citizens, Fedor retraces the distinctive moral universe of the KGB. She focuses on Dudko as a KGB target and approaches the topic from his perspective as a victim by examining a series of autobiographical writings in which Dudko attempted to come to terms with his past decades after his direct confrontation with the Soviet system. Dudko’s ultimate conversion into a regime loyalist allows Fedor to scrutinize his works for insights into the categories that fueled the chekist discourse of the Cold War and how they permeated Dudko’s own thinking. The trope of “repentance” becomes a key element not only of this discourse but also of Dudko’s autobiographical output and of the accounts put forth by his contemporaries. In an attempt to further explain Dudko’s actions, Fedor also explores the post-Soviet life of Dudko’s story and its appropriation by contemporary Russian nationalists. With the set goal of recasting Cold War history in the service of a grand Russian narrative dominated by the confrontation between Russia and the West, these nationalists refashion the KGB—and implicitly also the Cheka—as a valiant protector of Russian spirituality.
Part 3 is devoted to Cold War stories with a transnational East–West European focus. Most Cold War studies proceed from the assumption that the Iron Curtain was impassable and that there was a strict bipolarity between East and West superpowers (Autio-Sarasmo and Miklóssy 2011, 1). However, as recent research in Finland shows, there was a far greater degree of “multilevel interaction . . . between the different types of actors, between people, institutions and states” (2) that belies this view. Satellite states did not always act in monolithic ways, and parts of Europe, such as the two Germanies, served as an “arena of collaboration” (6) rather than confrontation, as we shall see in the next two chapters, by Jennifer Miller and Axel Hildebrandt. The motif of the Iron Curtain implies a rigid impassable physical border as well as a “metal-like mental border” (Autio-Sarasmo and Miklóssy 2011, 6), yet for many, the Iron Curtain “leaked” (6) and was passable both physically and ideologically. This applied particularly to those residents of both East and West Berlin living geographically in close proximity to the wall as a physical edifice or to those living along the internal border in Germany, a country that shared the same language and cultural traditions.
In chapter 6 Jennifer Miller unearths a little known “area of collaboration” during the Cold War involving espionage and Turkish nationals. This East-West spy story—or rather this interlocking web of intriguing smaller spy narratives—allowed for a more intimate kind of “collaboration” at a grassroots level among residents of divided Berlin. As Miller reveals, “West Berlin–residing Turkish nationals built social lives, business deals, intimate relationships, and transnational families across divided Berlin,” offering new perspectives on the lived experience of divided Berlin and the Cold War from a German perspective. For Germans and their respective governments, Turkish guest workers presented, as Miller argues, a “paradox” since they were seen as suspicious on both sides: foreign in the West and a security risk in the East. For the East German Stasi, moreover, they posed a new kind of capitalist threat, especially the many regular border crossers among Turks who formed relationships with East German women, often as a prelude to helping the women escape. For the Turks the East seemed to offer a “space to explore and enjoy greater social autonomy and acceptance among Germans.” As Miller explores through close analysis of various sources, including personal and departmental Stasi files, Turkish border crossers were kept under strict surveillance on their sojourns in the East, often as targets under suspicion of some illicit activity, but sometimes as enlisted collaborators spying on fellow countrymen or East German women.
In chapter 7 Axel Hildebrandt excavates another unknown Cold War spy story and another “area of collaboration” between East and West Germans, this time one that extended to the United States and Poland. This chapter tells the backstory behind a major Cold War international incident in August 1978 involving terrorism and an illegal escape across the Iron Curtain. The story of a spectacular hijacking of a Polish airplane headed to East Berlin by two East Germans desperate to escape to the West, and helped by a West German accomplice, was well publicized in the West German media at the time. Hildebrandt composes a multimedial account from the memories of eyewitnesses, including the U.S. judge at the trial and the extensive Stasi records on each of the participants, who were under constant surveillance. Hildebrandt compares factual and fictional versions of the event and analyzes the unique perspectives offered by each of the different types of narratives—the secret police files, the accounts of eyewitnesses, and some of the newer fictional treatments of the historical material such as the novel Tupolew (2004) by Antje Rávic Strubel. Rather than regarding one source as more truthful or accurate than the other, Hildebrandt explores instead how each source and narrative—the factual and the fictional—has contributed to our understanding of the Cold War along the frontier between East and West and has shaped our memory of this remarkable event.
Part 4, “Spies on Screen,” focuses on fictional representations in film and television at the height of the Cold War and beyond. For the West films were pivotal to exporting democracy and the values of freedom to the rest of the world, not just for the United States but for NATO-member countries as well. Nothing did this better than the spy film. The gentleman-like screen character of British secret agent James Bond has come to epitomize the figure of the Cold War spy, and the British-American film franchise has come to typify the genre of the spy thriller. Yet Eastern Bloc audiences were largely unfamiliar with Bond, and “Bondmania” remained a Western phenomenon. In the Eastern Bloc a rather different kind of spy movie gained popularity. In chapter 8 Carol Anne Costabile-Heming focuses on two lesser known spy films made in the GDR: For Eyes Only—streng geheim (1963) and Chiffriert an Chef—Ausfall Nr. 5 (Coded message for the boss, 1979), produced by the state-owned film studio, the Deutsche Film-Aktiengesellschaft (DEFA). Set in divided Berlin just prior to the building of the Berlin Wall, at a time of heightened tensions, both films modified the genre of the spy film and “domesticated” the figure of the double agent. They did so not as a form of escapism but to lend support to dominant East German belief systems and the specific fear that East Germany was under threat of invasion from NATO forces. Moreover, as Costabile-Heming notes, GDR espionage films were tasked with “clearly marking the rival, while working to exclude and contain the enemy.” As she shows, although set some sixteen years apart, both films served to reactualize the threat from the U.S. enemy around the time of the Cuban missile crisis and the Berlin crisis (1958–61) to shore up support for GDR domestic politics, particularly the regime’s intransigent stance on its closed borders.
In chapter 9 Lisa Haegele explores West German film perspectives on the spy genre and turns to a critically acclaimed but little-known example of New German Cinema and spy film Der Willi-Busch-Report (The Willi Busch report, 1979) by Swiss-born Niklaus Schilling. Schilling chooses a decidedly atypical setting for his espionage film in an uneventful fictional town along the inner-German frontier. The film relocates the conflict from the international to the (West German) national. At the same time, it serves to refocus the problems of the Cold War from a novel perspective, which is not “them” but rather “us,” the Germans. As a “spy story about spy stories,” Der Willi-Busch-Report provides a humorous, close-up, German view of the Cold War and of the spy genre. It takes an ironic approach both to Cold War politics and to espionage, offering a “counter-aesthetic” not only to the Bond films of the time but also to post–Cold War Hollywood-style productions such as Florian Henckel von Donnersmarck’s Oscar-winning Das Leben der Anderen (The Lives of Others, 2006). By creating narrative ambiguities and subverting spy film tropes, the film draws attention to the issues of surveillance, hysteria, and paranoia in West Germany shortly after the German Autumn in 1977, when West Germany was shaken by the terrorist attacks of the Red Army Faction.
Chapter 10 by Cheryl Dueck moves from the Cold War to the post–Cold War era, in which films and television series about Cold War espionage—many of which are transnational productions—are enjoying a renaissance. As she shows, rather than expressing a nostalgia for Cold War certainties and old binaries between friend and foe, many filmic variations of the spy thriller such as Westen, Bridge of Spies (2015), and Deutschland 83 (2015–) muddy the waters of the old dichotomies between East and West, enemy and friend. They speak to the changed geopolitical situation after 1990, and to the new concerns of a postpolitical era. In her readings of spy films since 2010, she reveals how the aesthetics of surveillance provide a conduit for national stories to travel internationally, which in turn allows these works to make meaningful contributions to current post–Cold War debates about surveillance. The principal means by which they do so is the use of political and moral ambiguity, conveyed through filmic devices such as blurring, framing, reflections, and representation of affect, as well as narrative. They thus have a double referent in the Cold War past and the post–Cold War present, addressing memories of the all-pervasive climate of fear and mistrust during the Cold War and our current concern with all mechanisms of surveillance. However, as Dueck argues, the politics of surveillance has indeed changed since the end of the Cold War as have its means and forms. Anxieties about spying and surveillance too have shifted, and as she argues, if the spy comes from within, spy thrillers about internal surveillance “speak compellingly to contemporary anxieties about the kind of ‘liquid surveillance’ that is conducted worldwide through digital monitoring.”
If the Cold War from a U.S. perspective was about “defense of the West,” in the post–Cold War era U.S. foreign policy was about “the political and ideological extension of the West” (Mandelbaum 2016, 5). Despite U.S. hopes that the dissolution of the Soviet Union would lead to a lasting transformation of Russian society that would also see Russia become a friendly power, after 2000 relations between the United States and Russia soured, as “Russia went backward politically, becoming a less open, less tolerant, less democratic, more repressive place” (Mandelbaum 2016, 354). With NATO’s expansion eastward in particular, Vladimir Putin began to see the United States and NATO as rivals again, and Russia moved to aggressively protect what it saw as its interests in its region, which culminated in its 2014 invasion of neighbor and former Soviet republic Ukraine (354). As Michael Mandelbaum writes: “Russian resentment, in concert with Russian autocracy, put an end to the peaceful post–Cold War era on the European continent” (357).
While the post–Cold War era challenged many of the certainties of the Cold War and its binaries, sometimes inverting fixed reference points of friend and foe, it has also revealed some uncomfortable continuities with the past. As we shall show, there are many constants such as the “shared belief in the universality of American freedom, democracy, and free enterprise” that link both the Truman and the George W. Bush eras of foreign policy (Belmonte 2008, 3). In post-Soviet Russia as well, the Soviet past, in particular, is being rehabilitated as Putin, who was a colonel in the KGB, has surrounded himself with “secret police veterans” who “form the core of Putin’s new, authoritarian, Russian political system” (Mandelbaum 2016, 357). Moreover, as Russian interference in the 2016 U.S. elections has revealed, we are in many ways witnessing a revival of the information wars of the Cold War, which are now being fought through the new social media. These ideological front lines continue to run between NATO and Warsaw Pact member states, albeit along a frontier that has now moved eastward, and continues to shape political and cultural life in the United States, Europe, and Russia. This is nowhere more evident than in the phenomenon of so-called fake news, which is nothing more than what during the Cold War went under the epithet of disinformation. Similarly, in Russia today in what is now being dubbed a “new Cold War” (E. Lucas 2008), there are attempts to resume past cultural wars, especially the wars against church-led dissidents, which the Soviet Union lost to the West, and to try to win back the hearts and minds of former dissenters.
Yet, despite the Sonderweg taken by Russia under Putin with regard to the KGB, the remainder of the former Soviet bloc states have embraced lustration in dealing with former elites and its secret police forces, making their archives available to researchers and victims. This open and democratic approach to the past has allowed the forensic search for the truth to proceed unimpeded, fostering the work of historians and other researchers. By the same token, the declassification of archival sources has also allowed other kinds of mediation of the Cold War past to flourish. Especially in recent years we have seen a wide array of new types of stories—films, television series, and works of fiction—that have continued the search for truth into other media and fora and experimented with new interpretations and perspectives on the past. Espionage was undoubtedly a rich field to mine during the Cold War, although much of this field was obscured from view. The exposure of this explosive seam of facts and fiction, truth and lies has revealed a fascinating and productive source of knowledge about espionage. For both the historian and the creator of fictional works in the post–Cold War period, this presents both a formidable challenge and a unique opportunity.
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