There are writers who take the reader into a strange world as Alice was taken into Wonderland when she stepped through the Looking-Glass. Aron Tamasi,the Transylvanian, is such a writer. He knows the wants of simple folk, he is concerned with their dreams, he is a friend of those who have suffered injustice, and he also knows them when they are in search of happiness. His art is a half-oriental tapestry of pure faith, magic and sorcery; a hint of urbane things, of characteristics which are in line with folklore. In all his stories, novels and plays, he upholds the rights of man. He maintains that “we are born to this globe entitled to find shelter on it.”

History sometimes has its simple moments, and it is tempting to draw the early struggle between the Bolsheviks and the Poles in terms of a clash between Red Russia and White Poland. Most Soviet and some Western historians see it only as a fragment of the general conflict between revolution and reaction. Closer scrutiny, however, belies the seeming simplicity of dialectics. The story is tortuous and involved; moves behind the scenes accompanied the fighting at the front. The gulf which separated the Bolsheviks from the Entente and from Poland did not preclude clandestine contacts, and Poland's leader Józef Piłsudski played his own game with the Soviet regime.

In May 1927 Sir Austen Chamberlain precipitated the first great international crisis of the post-Locarno period by denouncing the Anglo-Soviet trade agreement and severing Britain's diplomatic relations with the Soviet Union. Although Germany was not directly involved, the dispute nevertheless was to have a profoundly disturbing effect on German-Soviet relations. By raising the possibility of a wide-ranging diplomatic, economic, and perhaps even military confrontation between London and Moscow, it strained Germany's diplomatic system, which rested on the Locarno Pact (1925) and the Treaty of Berlin (1926). Thus it posed some fundamental questions for the German Foreign Ministry: Were the policies associated with those agreements compatible with each other only in fair weather? Did Germany have the freedom to remain neutral if the dispute should deepen? In short, was it still realistic to believe that Germany could maintain equally intimate ties with London and Moscow? Because Foreign Minister Gustav Stresemann had previously denned a balancing role as the sine qua non of Germany's international revival, the imbroglio soon led to a great debate in the Wilhelmstrasse. The issue on which it turned was, as a leading participant observed, “whether Germany's ties with Russia are worth enough to our present and future political interests so that it pays to assume the political expenses and risks involved in maintaining them.”

On October 4, 1946, Klement Gottwald, leader of the Czechoslovak Communist Party, and at that time Prime Minister of the Czechoslovak Republic, declared that the experience of Czechoslovakia had shown “what had been foreseen theoretically by Marxist classics, namely, that there exists another path to socialism than by way of a dictatorship of the proletariat and the soviet state system. Going by this path are Yugoslavia, Bulgaria, Poland, and also Czechoslovakia.” So ran the report of his speech in the collection of his articles and speeches, Ten Years, published in 1947. Only two years later, the same speech was included in a new collection of Gottwald's works, with, however, the phrase “a dictatorship of the proletariat” deleted, and the country, Yugoslavia, omitted. This editorial modification of an authoritative statement puts into sharp relief the change of view which had occurred in the interval in the interpretation placed on the people's democracy by Czechoslovak Communists.

An overview of the life and work of the Soviet politician Anastas Mikoian (1895-1978) based on his recently published memoirs, this essay draws attention to the additional knowledge about Soviet politics that can be found in these memoirs. This includes the name of Vladimir Lenin's candidate to succeed Iosif Stalin as general secretary (Ian Rudzutak), the workings of the Politburo from 1937 to 1953, and details concerning the planned evacuation of Moscow in October 1941. In addition, there is information about the circumstances surrounding the creation of the Pospelov committee in 1955, the failure of the CPSU in 1956 to rehabilitate the victims of the open trials of Old Bolsheviks in 1936-1938, and the attempt by Aleksandr Shelepin to replace Leonid Brezhnev in 1967. Memoirs are an imperfect source, and their assertions must be checked against other sources. Overall Ellman concludes that the verdict on Mikoian's life “can only be a shade of grey.“

A nation's shared culture reflects its status as an "imagined community."1 Different sections of the imagined community, however, have their own ideas about what the shared culture should include and what ought to be excluded from it, and this incessant debate over the cultural canon affects the nation's sense of identity. The rise of the civil rights movement and feminism in the United States in the 1960s, for example, challenged the dominance of "dead white males" in the American literary canon. Political as much as aesthetic considerations, then, dictate what the canon of works that constitute any shared culture should include. Similarly, political circumstances often determine the "correct" interpretation of these works.

Following its political break with Stalin's Russia, Yugoslavia has, since the early 1950s, increasingly turned away from the centralized socialist planning that characterizes the Soviet economic system. The main impulse for the gradual elaboration of a distinctive national system came from two directions. First, the Yugoslav conception of federalism was based on the association of six regions (Serbia, Croatia, Slovenia, Bosnia and Hercegovina, Macedonia, Montenegro) with very distinct national, historical, and social traditions and in different stages of economic development. This meant balancing central economic direction with concern for regional needs and interests. Second, the break with Stalinist Russia in 1948 no doubt stimulated a desire to develop, together with political and ideological independence, a distinctive national economic philosophy of communism in contrast to the overcentralized planning bureaucracy of the Soviet Union.

Alexander Solzhenitsyn's novella One Day in the Life of Ivan Dentsovtch contains only one reference to Iosif Stalin: “In the room someone was yelling: ‘So the old man with the moustache will have mercy on you! He wouldn't believe his own brother, let alone slobs like you!’ ” Despite these disrespectful words, the novella's condemnation of Stalin and the society controlled by him is basically an indirect one. As Georg Lukács observes: “Solzhenitsyn's achievement consists in the literary transformation of an uneventful day in a typical camp into a symbol of a past which has not yet been overcome… . Although the camps epitomize one extreme of the Stalin era, the author has made his skilful grey monochrome of camp life into a symbol of everyday life under Stalin.“ Understated, allusive, and deceptively simple, the novella, published with Khrushchev's personal approval in December 1962, marked the crest of the party's anti-Stalin campaign. Within months Khrushchev called for a brake on prison-camp literature, and Solzhenitsyn began to encounter increasingly severe and decisive critical opposition.

Not long ago Randolph Starn observed that the word “crisis” is a particularly ambiguous term which historians have not always used with the requisite care. “One historian's crisis lasts moments, another's decades, even eras; political, social, economic, mental, or moral crises are blurred by one historian's insistence on treating them discretely, while another lumps them together under the confusing rubric ‘general crisis.’ “ Starn's strictures about the abuse of common terminology and about the confusion resulting from such abuse deserve our attention, especially now that Professor James Y. Simms has asserted that Russian historians have been wrong in thinking that there was an agrarian crisis in the late nineteenth century.

In this article, Maxim D. Shrayer offers a new perspective on Fedor Dostoevskii’s writings about the Jews. Following a trajectory initiated by Vladimir Solov'ev and Leonid Grossman, Shrayer argues that for Dostoevskii the Jewish question is primarily religious, rather than social or ethnic. Through close textual analysis, but also by placing the controversial blood libel episode from The Brothers Karamazov in the larger context of Dostoevskii’s fictional and discursive works, Shrayer links the anti-Semitic charges of ritual murder and host profanation with the story of Captain Snegirev and his son Iliusha. In the story of the Snegirevs, Shrayer identifies Dostoevskii’s keen understanding of (religious) intolerance and scapegoating. Shrayer demonstrates that the conclusion of The Brothers Karamazov (Iliusha Snegirev’s funeral) recalls “The Funeral of ‘The Universal Man’” from the March 1877 issue of The Diary of a Writer and thus points to Dostoevskii’s view of the Christian-Judaic reconciliation.