Pure, Purifying, and Evil

pfaff_1-062013.jpg
Martin Roemers
An aging mural of Lenin at a former Soviet Air Force base in East Germany; photograph by Martin Roemers from his 2009 book Relics of the Cold War, published by Hatje Cantz

The twentieth century undoubtedly will mainly be remembered for producing totalitarian politics. Italian Fascism was the first to give this name to the phenomenon, even though Mussolini’s movement was the least “total” of the regimes upon which the name has since been bestowed. While Mussolini wanted concentration of all power in his dictatorship, his movement was mainly concerned with Italian national causes and imperial ambitions, and Italy’s international prestige. It did not put forward a doctrine of millenarian international expectations or promise the transformation of Italians—or of human society itself. That was what Nazism and Leninism did, which set them off from their contemporaries and from the political phenomena of the past.

The essential identity of the two is the subject of The Devil in History, the fine and undoubtedly enduring study by Vladimir Tismaneanu, a Romanian, born in 1951 to a father who had lost his arm at the Battle of the Ebro in the Spanish civil war while serving in the International Brigades, and a mother who, as a medical school student, was serving in Spain as a nurse. Returning to Romania, the senior Tismaneanu resumed a role in the underground Romanian Communist Party, was arrested, and in prison met the Party leader Gheorghe Gheorghiu-Dej, who became his mentor. When Romania acquired a Communist government, following the arrival of Soviet troops in 1944, Tismaneanu became an influential figure in the ruling party.

As the child of a privileged family in the nomenklatura, his son, Vladimir, attended elite Bucharest schools, where he was a classmate of Nicu Ceauşescu, the son of the successor to Gheorghiu-Dej (who died in 1965). In this book Tismaneanu tells of being drawn at the University of Bucharest to the dissident and Western neo-Marxist literature to which he had access because of the family’s political position—the writings, for example, of Antonio Gramsci, Georg Lukács, Leszek Kołakowski, and the Frankfurt School. He became aware of the increasing absorption into the discourse of the ruling party of themes and motifs from the pre-war Romanian far right.

The “legionnaires” of Romanian Fascism (the League of the Archangel Michael, founded in 1927, eventually known as the Iron Guard) “embraced death” in the cause of national renewal and renounced all that was “mundane.” The movement’s founder, Corneliu Zelea Codreanu, was a religious mystic, and the Legionnaires, who maintained to the end an intense commitment to Romanian Orthodox Christianity as a vital expression of the nation, and were ferociously anti-Semitic, found a wide popular following among the peasantry. In its religious commitment the League did not in the least resemble Nazism—which was pagan and anti-Christian as well as anti-Semitic—nor even Italian Fascism, whose relations with the Catholic Church were politicized, temporizing, and expedient (it concluded a concordat with the …

This article is available to subscribers only.
Please choose from one of the options below to access this article:

Print Subscription — $74.95

Purchase a print subscription (20 issues per year) and also receive online access to all articles published within the last five years.

Online Subscription — $69.00

Purchase an Online Edition subscription and receive full access to all articles published by the Review since 1963.

One-Week Access — $4.99

Purchase a trial Online Edition subscription and receive unlimited access for one week to all the content on nybooks.com.

If you already have one of these subscriptions, please be sure you are logged in to your nybooks.com account. If you subscribe to the print edition, you may also need to link your web site account to your print subscription. Click here to link your account services.