Much importance has been assigned to the fact that Borisov did not follow Kirov when he turned toward his office, thus allowing Nikolaev to carry out his assassination, but Borisov’s behavior is not as sinister as the conspiracy theorists have made it out to be. If we put ourselves in the shoes of this fifty-three-year-old bodyguard who had been protecting Kirov since he had arrived in Leningrad in 1926, his behavior seems entirely normal. All those years, day in and day out, he had to stick close to a man who, by many accounts, was not easy to guard. Kirov was reportedly annoyed when his bodyguards remained too close, and at times he even escaped from them. With his long experience working for Kirov, Borisov was surely sensitive to his boss’s moods and tried not to irritate him. On 1 December in Smolny he kept his usual distance. Furthermore, as he walked down the corridor, Kirov stopped several times to have short conversations. Discretion demanded that Borisov step aside at such times. There was nothing unusual about this behavior.
On 2 December, the Moscow commission decided to question Borisov. He was escorted to Smolny by two other NKVD agents. Because no cars were available (not surprising given how many officials had suddenly descended on Leningrad from Moscow), Borisov was brought in a truck that turned out to be in disrepair. The driver lost control of the vehicle and crashed into a building. Borisov’s head hit a wall of the building, and he died in the hospital without ever regaining consciousness. This is the sequence of events established by investigations and expert assessments conducted at various times, and there is no evidence to the contrary.
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Proponents of a plot reject the idea that the vehicle crashed by accident and claim that Borisov was murdered.
The idea that Stalin was behind Kirov’s murder has all the hallmarks of a conspiracy theory. Such theories tend to rest on the idea that if an event benefits some sinister person, he must have brought it about. They tend to deny the possibility of random occurrences and ignore the fact that chance events happen all the time. The idea that Stalin conspired to kill Kirov has received far too much attention. Even if he did have a hand in Kirov’s death, this possibility hardly changes our understanding of him or his era. In the annals of the dictator’s crimes, Kirov’s murder would have been one of the least heinous.
REHEARSAL FOR THE GREAT TERROR
According to Stalin’s relative Maria Svanidze, he was extremely upset by Kirov’s murder. “He became pale and haggard, and there was a hidden suffering in his eyes.” “I feel so alone,” he reportedly confided to his brother-in-law, Pavel Alliluev.
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There is no reason to doubt these accounts. Tyrants often combine exceptional cruelty and complete indifference to the deaths of millions with extreme sentimentality toward those near to them. In Stalin, Kirov’s murder brought out both extremes. The way he used his friend’s death as a pretext for a new campaign of terror is beyond cynical. Oppositionists falsely accused of plotting Nikolaev’s crime were not the only ones swept up in the Kirov tributary of what would become the raging river of the Great Terror. Many thousands of Leningraders (so-called “formers”—former members of the nobility and clergy and former tsarist officials and military officers, among others) were sent into exile and to camps. The party was purged and articles of the penal code providing for the arrest of anyone suspected of “counterrevolutionary activities” were put to energetic use.
For a long time it was believed that this campaign marked the beginning of the wave of repression that came crashing down on the country during the second half of the 1930s. But a closer look at the sequence of events suggests a slightly different picture. In 1935 and 1936, terror coexisted with remnants of “moderate” policies. On 31 January 1935, at the very height of the “Kirov repression,” the Politburo, on Stalin’s instigation, adopted a decision to pass a new Soviet constitution.
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A central feature of this document was the granting of voting rights to numerous groups previously unenfranchised as “alien elements.” Now elections were to be direct and ballots secret rather than open, as they had been. These changes suggested the adoption of a more democratic constitutional model to replace the “revolutionary” one that excluded people with suspect class credentials. In a memorandum accompanying the draft Politburo resolution on the new constitution, Stalin wrote:
In my opinion, this matter of a constitution for the Union of SSRs is a lot more complicated that it might seem at first glance. First of all, the electoral system has to be changed not only in the sense of making voting more direct. It also has to be changed in the sense of replacing open voting with closed (secret) voting. We can and must see this matter through to the end and not stop halfway. The situation and alignment of forces in our country is such that we can only benefit politically from this. I am not even talking about the fact that the need for such a reform is dictated by the interests of the international revolutionary movement since such a reform will definitely serve as a mighty weapon in the fight against international fascism.
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This memorandum suggests that even after Kirov’s murder, Stalin counted on exploiting the advantages of the “moderate” course in both domestic and international affairs. International considerations were probably the main force driving his interest in liberalization. The growing threat from Germany and Japan was bringing the USSR closer to the Western democracies. In May 1935 the Soviet Union signed a treaty of mutual assistance with France and Czechoslovakia. The Seventh World Congress of the Comintern, held that summer, allowed for cooperation with socialist governments and endorsed the idea of an inclusive popular front against fascism. Hoping for leftward movement by the West European countries and a growth in pro-Soviet sentiments, Stalin saw a need to enhance the image of the “motherland of socialism” as a prosperous and democratic country.
The promise to restore the voting rights of those labeled socially alien was the centerpiece of a policy of reconciliation. In Stalin’s mind, in addition to the vast numbers he considered true enemies in the country, there were also many more or less innocent victims of the bitter class struggle. Young people in particular had to be brought over to the regime’s side. Continuing to discriminate based on family background threatened to expand the ranks of the government’s potential opponents. An important signal in the reconciliation campaign was a piece of political theater Stalin performed at a meeting of combine operators in early December 1935. When a Bashkir kolkhoznik by the name of A. Tilba proclaimed from the podium, “I may be the son of a kulak, but I will fight honorably for the cause of workers and peasants and for the building of socialism,” Stalin interjected a phrase that became famous: “The son does not answer for the father.”
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In fact, sons and daughters did answer for their fathers, and fathers for their children, but “alien elements” now had a better prospect of making their way in Soviet society. The promise of equal voting rights was accompanied by other liberalizing campaigns. For example, hundreds of thousands of people convicted of nonpolitical crimes were released from prison or rehabilitated.
A degree of social stability was needed to secure and promote the positive economic trends that began to appear in late 1933 and continued into 1934. The miserable experience of previous crises had taught Stalin the economic price to be paid for each new campaign of repression. In 1935 he made the most significant concession to the peasantry since the beginning of collectivization: the right to farm private plots was enshrined in law and somewhat expanded. This step enabled an improvement in the country’s food situation. Similar improvements could be seen in industrial sectors in 1935–1936. In November 1935 Stalin invented a new slogan: “Life has become better, life has become more cheerful!” That year, the ration system began to be phased out, and certain limitations on salary increases were abolished. Financial incentives boosted productivity. These were good years for the Soviet economy.
One might think that the fruits of moderation would have inspired Stalin to try more of it. They did not, and a new wave of terror became increasingly evident. Historians are still trying to understand his motives for expanding repression at a time of social stability and an improving economy. Did Stalin truly believe that the country was threatened by terrorist conspiracies? Did he actually fear for his life? There is a fair amount of evidence to the contrary. Stalin commanded the NKVD to find proof that former oppositionists had gone underground and formed terrorist organizations, but try as it might, the NKVD was unable to do so. The cases that were brought did not have the ring of truth, and Stalin must have understood that they were fabricated. In any event, he did not make any changes in his daily life that would indicate a concern for his own safety. He adhered to his daily work schedule, traveled south for vacations, and occasionally went out among the people to demonstrate his solidarity.
On the evening of 22 April 1935, some of Stalin’s relatives and fellow Politburo members gathered at his Kremlin apartment. Stalin was with his children. His daughter Svetlana asked permission to take a ride on the metro, which had recently opened. Stalin, in a good mood, decided to organize an excursion. Since no preparations had been made for this outing, he and his companions were surrounded by crowds of passengers at each station. Maria Svanidze wrote in her diary: “There was an unimaginable commotion and people rushed to greet the
vozhds,
cried ‘Hurray,’ and ran after us. We were all separated, and I came close to being crushed against a column.… It was a good thing that by then the police and bodyguards had arrived.” Stalin’s fourteen-year-old son Vasily “was the most agitated of all.” But Stalin “was cheerful and asked the construction supervisor, who appeared out of nowhere, endless questions.” At the next station Stalin again went onto the platform, but his relatives, including his daughter Svetlana, stayed in the metro car, “frightened by the unrestrained delight of the crowd, which in its excitement toppled a cast-iron lamppost not far from the
vozhds
at one station.” After visiting the metro, Stalin went to his dacha. Vasily, traumatized by the crowds, “threw himself onto his bed and cried hysterically” as soon as he returned home. The adult relatives took sedatives.
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Would a man living in serious fear of attack venture—let alone relish—such an excursion? The intensification of repression that came in late 1934 was prompted by more complex calculations. Kirov’s murder provided an ideal pretext for action of the sort any dictatorship relies on to promote its central task: solidifying the power of the dictator. Admittedly, by late 1934, Stalin was already a dictator, but dictatorships, like any unstable system of government, depend on the constant crushing of threats. During this period, Stalin faced two such threats, which at first glance appear unrelated. The first was the remnant of the system of “collective leadership” within the Politburo, and the second was the survival of a significant number of former oppositionists. These threats belonged to what might be called Bolshevik tradition. They hung over Stalin like a sword of Damocles, reminders that there were alternatives to sole dictatorship. His fellow Politburo members enjoyed significant administrative, if not political, independence. They ran the various branches of government and had a host of clients from within the party and state apparats. The bonds of institutional and clan loyalties, along with the vestiges of collective leadership and intraparty democracy, were the last impediments to sole and unquestioned power.
In a speech given in early 1937, Stalin divided senior officials into several categories. He labeled one “the generals of the party” (the three or four thousand most senior officials) and another “the party’s officers” (thirty to forty thousand mid-level officials).
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Until the mid-1930s, the party’s old guard had held a place of honor within these two groups, but Stalin had reason to distrust these respected figures. Whatever they might say from the podium, however earnestly they swore allegiance to him, he knew: these party elders well remembered that Lenin’s testament at one point almost brought Stalin’s political career to an end, and he had held onto power only through the support of Zinoviev and Kamenev; that in the late 1920s Stalin had managed to defeat the Rykov-Bukharin group only with the support of the Central Committee; and that party policy in the 1930s had brought about catastrophic failures. By 1937, party functionaries had every reason to regard Stalin as “first among equals,” but not so long ago he had been one among many jockeying for position. Stalin knew that the old guard had the clearest memory of that time.
Over long years of collaboration, the Old Bolsheviks had established close relationships with each other. Stalin periodically shuffled the deck, but it was hard to disrupt the networks of personal loyalty that had formed around officials at various levels. Leaders took “their people” with them from job to job. The people in these networks had divided loyalties: they served the dictator, but they also had their own patrons within the Politburo or other high-level bodies. Of course all of these groups lacked formal cohesion and political power. No one has yet found evidence of a serious effort by them to oppose Stalin. At most, they expressed their dissatisfaction privately. But like any dictator, Stalin assumed the worst. He anticipated being stabbed in the back the moment the domestic or international situation worsened. Replacing the old guard with absolutely devoted younger stalwarts was a critical aspect of his program to solidify his position. The growing threat of war provoked the
vozhd
’s anxiety and desire to secure his power in case the unexpected happened. “The conqueror’s peace of mind requires the death of the conquered.” This phrase, attributed to Genghis Khan, was underlined in one of the books in Stalin’s library.
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