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Soviet Modernity Post-Stalin: The State, Emotions,

and Subjectivities

Article  in  Kritika Explorations in Russian and Eurasian History · March 2015

DOI: 10.1353/kri.2015.0036

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Review Essay

Soviet Modernity Post-Stalin

The State, Emotions, and Subjectivities

Anatoly Pinsky

Denis Kozlov and Eleonory Gilburd, eds., The Thaw: Soviet Society and
Culture during the 1950s and 1960s. 512 pp. Toronto: University of Toronto
Press, 2013. ISBN-13 978-1442644601. $80.00.

Brian LaPierre, Hooligans in Khrushchev’s Russia: Defining, Policing, and

Producing Deviance during the Thaw. 281 pp. Madison: University of
Wisconsin Press, 2012. ISBN-13 978-0299287443. $29.95 (paper).

Lukas Mücke, Die allgemeine Altersrentenversorgung in der UdSSR, 1956–

1972 (The Pension System in the USSR, 1956–72). 565 pp. Stuttgart: Franz
Steiner Verlag, 2013. ISBN-13 978-3515106078. €78.00 (paper).

History, we are often told, is the study of continuity and change. This truism,
it seems to me, is an underestimation of the discipline, but one might argue
that the specific questions that are asked of continuity and change do much
to define the dynamism of a particular historical subfield. As Denis Kozlov
and Eleonory Gilburd write in the introduction to their edited volume, The
Thaw: Soviet Society and Culture during the 1950s and 1960s, study of the early
post-Stalin era has long been “rooted in … the paradigm of ‘continuity and
change’ between the Stalin years and their aftermath” (25). Questions in this
paradigm began to be asked immediately after Stalin died in 1953 and would
continue to be posed in the following decades. Indeed, as Kozlov and Gilburd
note, “writing about [what came to be known as] the Thaw has a rich history”

I would like to thank Igal Halfin, Samuel Hirst, Anna Krylova, Alexander McConnell, and
Susanne Schattenberg and the other editors at Kritika for their critical readings of this review.

Kritika: Explorations in Russian and Eurasian History 16, 2 (Spring 2015): 395–411.
396 ANATOLY PINSKY

(24). Early analyses of the Thaw—which tended to focus on high politics and
reforms, socioeconomic trends, and literature and the arts—did not reach a
consensus on the extent to which the period marked a break in the history
of the Soviet Union.1 Study of the Thaw has grown even richer over the last
15 years, as some scholars have explored earlier objects of analysis on the
basis of new sources and approaches, while others have taken the cultural and
subsidiary turns. Questions of continuity and change continue to be posed,
only now they often concentrate on mentalities, identities, subjectivities,
emotions, and various other cultural topics.2 The subfield of early post-Stalin
 1
 For works that emphasize change, see, e.g., George Gibian, Interval of Freedom: Soviet
Literature during the Thaw, 1954–1957 (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1960);
Merle Fainsod, How Russia Is Ruled, rev. ed. (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1963);
Roy A. Medvedev and Zhores A. Medvedev, N. S. Khrushchev: Gody u vlasti (Ann Arbor: Xerox
University Microfilms, 1975); Stephen Cohen, “The Friends and Foes of Change: Reformism
and Conservatism in the Soviet Union,” Slavic Review 38, 2 (1979): 187–202; Jerry F. Hough
and Merle Fainsod, How the Soviet Union Is Governed (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University
Press, 1979), 192–236; Seweryn Bialer, Stalin’s Successors: Leadership, Stability, and Change
in the Soviet Union (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1980), 47–61; Robert F.
Miller and Ferenc Fehér, eds., Khrushchev and the Communist World (London: Croom Helm,
1984), esp. the preface and introduction; Peter Hauslohner, “Politics before Gorbachev: De-
Stalinization and the Roots of Reform,” in The Soviet System in Crisis: A Reader of Western
and Soviet Views, ed. Alexander Dallin and Gail Lapidus (Boulder, CO: Westview, 1991),
37–63; David Nordlander, “Khrushchev’s Image in the Light of Glasnost and Perestroika,”
Russian Review 52, 2 (1993): 248–64; G. B. Fedorov, “Kak nam otsenivat´ Khrushcheva?”
Moskovskie novosti 31 (1988), in Nikita Sergeevich Khrushchev: Materialy k biografii, ed. Iu. V.
Aksiutin (Moscow: Politizdat, 1989), 186–88; and other Russian-language works discussed in
Nordlander, “Khrushchev’s Image.” For studies that highlight continuity, see Cyril E. Black,
“The Modernization of Russian Society,” in The Transformation of Russian Society: Aspects of
Social Change since 1861, ed. Black (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1960), 678;
Abraham Brumberg, ed., Russia under Khrushchev: An Anthology from “Problems of Communism”
(New York: Praeger, 1962); Geoffrey Hosking, Beyond Socialist Realism: Soviet Fiction since
Ivan Denisovich (New York: Holmes and Meier, 1980), 19–21; Edith Rogovin Frankel, Novy
mir: A Case Study in the Politics of Literature, 1952–1958 (Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 1981), 4, 18; Katerina Clark, The Soviet Novel: History as Ritual (Chicago: University of
Chicago Press, 1981), 189–233; and Donald Filtzer, Soviet Workers and De-Stalinization: The
Consolidation of the Modern System of Soviet Production Relations, 1953–1964 (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1992).
 2
  Some of the earlier works include speculation on such subjects. See, for example, Cohen,
“The Friends and Foes of Change,” 195, 197–99. On works that emphasize continuity—
without ignoring change—see Oleg Kharkhordin, The Collective and the Individual in Russia: A
Study of Practices (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1999); A. V. Pyzhikov, “Sovetskoe
poslevoennoe obshchestvo i predposylki khrushchevskikh reform,” Voprosy istorii, no. 2
(2002): 33–43; Iurii Aksiutin, Khrushchevskaia “ottepel´” i obshchestvennye nastroeniia v SSSR
v 1953–1964 gg., 2nd enl., rev. ed. (Moscow: Rosspen, 2010); Polly Jones, “Introduction:
The Dilemmas of De-Stalinization,” in The Dilemmas of Destalinization: Negotiating Cultural
and Social Change in the Khrushchev Era, ed. Jones (London: Routledge, 2006), 1–2, 4–6, 14;
Stephen Bittner, The Many Lives of Khrushchev’s Thaw: Experience and Memory in Moscow’s
SOVIET MODERNITY POST-STALIN 397

studies has become increasingly dynamic, to be sure. Focusing on the social

as well as the cultural and making important contributions to the subfield,
each of the three books under review poses productive questions about the
extent to which the death of Stalin marked a break in the history of the Soviet
Union. In the ambitious introduction to The Thaw, Kozlov and Gilburd
present a case for change. So, too, does Lukas Mücke in his Die allgemeine
Altersrentenversorgung in der UdSSR, 1956–1972. In contrast, Brian LaPierre,
in Hooligans in Khrushchev’s Russia, emphasizes continuity.
In this review, I examine these three books’ engagement with the question
of continuity and change in part by presenting them as exercises, if implicit,
in the history of emotions.3 Indeed, affect is central to interpretations of
Arbat (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2008); Juliane Fürst, Jones, and Susan Morrissey,
“The Relaunch of the Soviet Project, 1945–64,” Slavonic and East European Review 86, 2
(2008): 201–7; Miriam Dobson, Khrushchev’s Cold Summer: Gulag Returnees, Crime, and the
Fate of Reform after Stalin (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2009); Fürst, Stalin’s Last
Generation: Soviet Post-War Youth and the Emergence of Mature Socialism (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 2010); Mark Smith, Property of Communists: The Urban Housing Program
from Stalin to Khrushchev (DeKalb: Northern Illinois University Press, 2010); and Benjamin
Tromly, Making the Soviet Intelligentsia: Universities and Intellectual Life under Stalin and
Khrushchev (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013). For works that highlight change,
see, e.g., M. R. Zezina, Sovetskaia khudozhestvennaia intelligentsiia i vlast´ v 1950–60-e gody
(Moscow: Dialog MGU, 1999); Yitzhak Brudny, Reinventing Russia: Russian Nationalism and
the Soviet State, 1953–1991 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1998); Susan E.
Reid and David Crowley, eds., Style and Socialism: Modernity and Material Culture in Post-
War Eastern Europe (Oxford: Berg, 2000); David MacFadyen, Red Stars: Personality and the
Soviet Popular Song, 1955–1991 (Montreal: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 2001); Roger
Markwick, Rewriting History in Soviet Russia: The Politics of Revisionist Historiography, 1956–
1974 (New York: Palgrave, 2001); Vladimir Kozlov, Neizvestnyi SSSR: Protivostoianie naroda
i vlasti, 1953–1985 (Moscow: OLMA-PRESS, 2006); Karl E. Loewenstein, “Re-emergence
of Public Opinion in the Soviet Union: Khrushchev and Responses to the Secret Speech,”
Europe–Asia Studies 58, 8 (2006): 1329–45; Alexei Yurchak, Everything Was Forever, Until It
Was No More: The Last Soviet Generation (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2006); B.
M. Firsov, Raznomyslie v SSSR: 1940–1960-e gody. Istoriia, teoriia i praktika (St. Petersburg:
Evropeiskii universitet v Sankt-Peterburge, 2008); Melanie Ilić and Jeremy Smith, eds., Soviet
State and Society under Nikita Khrushchev (London: Routledge, 2009); P. J. Schmelz, Such
Freedom, If Only Musical: Unofficial Soviet Music during the Thaw (Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 2009); Marko Dumančić, “Rescripting Stalinist Masculinity: Contesting the Male Ideal
in Soviet Film and Society, 1953–1968” (Ph.D. diss., University of North Carolina, 2010);
Emily Lygo, Leningrad Poetry, 1953–1975: The Thaw Generation (Bern: Peter Lang, 2010);
Kristin Roth-Ey, Moscow Prime Time: How the Soviet Union Built the Media Empire That Lost
the Cold War (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2011); Jones, Myth, Memory, Trauma:
Rethinking the Stalinist Past in the Soviet Union, 1953–70 (New Haven: Yale University Press,
2013); and Denis Kozlov, The Readers of Novyi Mir: Coming to Terms with the Stalinist Past
(Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2013).
 3
  For the turn toward the study of emotions in the East European, Russian, and Eurasian
field, see, for example, Ian [Jan] Plamper, Shamma Shakhadat [Schamma Schahadat], and
Mark Eli [Marc Elie], eds., Rossisskaia imperiia chuvstv: Podkhody k kul´turnoi istorii emotsii
398 ANATOLY PINSKY

the metaphor of a thaw; if some scholars present the metaphor to mean

anticipation or optimism, others emphasize uncertainty or anxiety.4 Kozlov
and Gilburd write of post-Stalin optimism, LaPierre of anxiety, and Mücke of
feelings of gratitude and entitlement. The themes of emotions and continuity
versus change overlap to an extent. For example, post-Stalin optimism suggests
rupture in terms of affect, whereas anxiety implies continuity in that Soviet
citizens continued to feel materially and physically insecure. The different
arguments are in part a function of different objects of analysis. Like other
scholars who write of optimism and change, Kozlov and Gilburd center their
attention on intellectuals; like those who emphasize anxiety and continuity,
LaPierre concentrates on the lower classes.5 Mücke, interested in pensioners
of various social backgrounds, is more difficult to classify in this regard.
A question that emerges is what might unite the different affective
experiences of these as well as the various other social types discussed in the
contributions to Kozlov and Gilburd’s volume and the growing literature on
the 1950s and 1960s. In this connection, scholars of the post-Stalin era would
be well served by directing attention to 1990s and early 2000s literature
on the early Soviet period.6 Indeed, we would benefit in particular from
turning to the work of the “modernity school,” one of the most innovative
literatures in the Soviet field in the last two decades.7 Many of the insights

(Moscow: Novoe literaturnoe obozrenie, 2010); Mark D. Steinberg and Valeria Sobol, eds.,
Interpreting Emotions in Russia and Eastern Europe (DeKalb: Northern Illinois University Press,
2011)—both reviewed in Kritika 15, 4 (2014): 853–72—and Jan Plamper, Geschichte und
Gefühl: Grundlagen der Emotionsgeschichte (Munich: Siedler, 2012).
 4
  For interpretations of the metaphor, see Nancy Condee, “Cultural Codes of the Thaw,”
in Nikita Khrushchev, ed. William Taubman, Sergei Khrushchev, and Abbott Gleason (New
Haven: Yale University Press, 2000), 160–76; Bittner, The Many Lives of Khrushchev’s Thaw,
“Introduction: History of a Metaphor”; and Miriam Dobson, “The Post-Stalin Era: De-
Stalinization, Daily Life, and Dissent,” Kritika 12, 4 (2011): 921–22. One finds invocation
of similar emotions in the older literature, too. For example, Hosking writes of “uncertainty”
and Martin McCauley writes of “hope and despair.” See Hosking, Beyond Socialist Realism,
20; and Martin McCauley, ed., Khrushchev and Khrushchevism (Basingstoke, UK: Macmillan,
1987), 1.
 5
  For other discussions of these different reactions to post-Stalin change, see Ben Nathans,
“Uncertainty and Anxiety: On Khrushchev’s Thaw,” The Nation, 26 September 2011; and
Dobson, “The Post-Stalin Era,” 912.
 6
  It has recently been argued that scholars of the post-Stalin Soviet Union uncritically use the
analytical tools of historians of earlier periods. See Anna Krylova, “Soviet Modernity: Stephen
Kotkin and the Bolshevik Predicament,” Contemporary European History 23, 2 (2014): 167–
92. This review takes a different approach.
 7
 See, e.g., Stephen Kotkin, Magnetic Mountain: Stalinism as a Civilization (Berkeley:
University of California Press, 1995); Peter Holquist, “ ‘Information Is the Alpha and Omega
of Our Work’: Bolshevik Surveillance in Its Pan-European Context,” Journal of Modern History
69, 3 (1997): 415–50; David L. Hoffmann and Yanni Kotsonis, eds., Russian Modernity: Politics,
SOVIET MODERNITY POST-STALIN 399

of the modernity scholars suggest that what places intellectuals, hooligans,

pensioners, and others in a single history is their interaction with an expansive
state, whose ambition in the early post-Stalin years remained the molding
and integration of its population.8 However, this review emphasizes not the
modern state’s activities but citizens’ affective responses to its objectives. In
so doing, the review foregrounds the notion that individuals, caught in the
instability of modern life, are marked by both profound optimism and acute
anxiety.9 The ambivalence and ambiguity of modernity might help scholars
to conceptualize the affective reality of the early post-Stalin era and thus grasp
what might have united intellectuals, hooligans, pensioners, and other social
types—without, however, overlooking the differences among them. It would
compel us, too, to ask another question of continuity and change: in what
ways might the emotional ambivalence and ambiguity of the early post-Stalin
era have been distinct from that of earlier periods?
 

Knowledge, Practices (Houndmills, UK: Macmillan, 2000); Kotkin, “Modern Times: The Soviet
Union and the Interwar Conjuncture,” Kritika 2, 1 (2001): 111–64; Amir Weiner, Making
Sense of War: The Second World War and the Fate of the Bolshevik Revolution (Princeton, NJ:
Princeton University Press, 2002); Igal Halfin, ed., Language and Revolution: Making Modern
Political Identities (London: Frank Cass, 2002); Mark Steinberg, Proletarian Imagination: Self,
Modernity, and the Sacred in Russia, 1910–1925 (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2002);
Halfin, Terror in My Soul: Communist Autobiographies on Trial (Cambridge, MA: Harvard
University Press, 2003); Hoffmann, Stalinist Values: The Cultural Norms of Soviet Modernity,
1917–1941 (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2003); Weiner, ed., Landscaping the Human
Garden: Twentieth-Century Population Management in a Comparative Framework (Stanford,
CA: Stanford University Press, 2003); Francine Hirsch, Empire of Nations: Ethnographic
Knowledge and the Making of the Soviet Union (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2005);
Jochen Hellbeck, Revolution on My Mind: Writing a Diary under Stalin (Cambridge, MA:
Harvard University Press, 2006); Daniel Beer, Renovating Russia: The Human Sciences and
the Fate of Liberal Modernity, 1880–1930 (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2008); and
Kotsonis, States of Obligation: Taxes and Citizenship in the Russian Empire and Early Soviet
Republic (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2014). For an excellent discussion of much
of this literature and other works, see Michael David-Fox, “Multiple Modernities vs. Neo-
Traditionalism: On Recent Debates in Russian and Soviet History,” Jahrbücher für Geschichte
Osteuropas 55, 4 (2006): 535–55, on which I draw heavily in this essay. For related work
on the late imperial period, see, e.g., Laurie Manchester, Holy Fathers, Secular Sons: Clergy,
Intelligentsia, and the Modern Self in Revolutionary Russia (DeKalb: Northern Illinois University
Press, 2008); and Steinberg, Petersburg Fin de Siècle (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2011).
 8
  For this aspect of modernity, see esp. Holquist, “ ‘Information Is the Alpha and Omega of
Our Work’ ”; Weiner, Making Sense of War; and Weiner, Landscaping the Human Garden.
 9
 Steinberg, Proletarian Imagination, 6–7. For some of the theory on which Steinberg’s book
is based, see Marshall Berman, All That Is Solid Melts into Air: The Experience of Modernity
(New York: Penguin, 1982); and Zygmunt Bauman, Modernity and Ambivalence (Cambridge:
Polity, 1991). For another discussion of the optimism and anxiety at the core of modernity, see
Beer, Renovating Russia.
400 ANATOLY PINSKY

In their collection of essays, Kozlov and Gilburd bring together many of the
scholars working on the early post-Stalin era. In an extensive introduction,
the editors provide an illuminating discussion of the history of the thaw
metaphor. They highlight Fedor Tiutchev’s use of the metaphor upon the
death of Nicholas I in 1855 to signify an anticipation of change. On the
death of Stalin, the metaphor returned to public discourse thanks to Ilya
Ehrenburg (Il´ia Erenburg), who, as is well known, popularized it in a 1954
novella of the same name, in which the residents of a Volga town unfreeze
their hearts and minds and hope for further change to come. Ehrenburg’s
thaw resembled Tiutchev’s, standing for “motion, awakened feelings, and
above all, anticipation” (19). Given their presentation of the metaphor, it
comes as no surprise that Kozlov and Gilburd challenge those scholars who
in the 1990s and 2000s emphasized the endurance of Lenin- and Stalin-era
policies and political culture. They aim to rehabilitate an image of the 1950s
and 1960s as a time of “crucial shifts in policies, ideas, artistic practices, daily
behaviors, and material life” (3).
Rhetorically, Kozlov and Gilburd have presented a forceful case for
change, but the argumentation is at times problematic. For example, they
are interested in the Thaw as an “event,” a concept used by Michel Vovelle to
challenge Fernand Braudel’s notion of the longue durée. If the latter focuses on
long-term processes, the former implies smaller, short-term happenings that
nevertheless had a “formative and experiential quality, a lasting impact” (30)
for a given place and period. This formative and experiential quality, Kozlov
and Gilburd write, affected above all the intelligentsia and more specifically
the shestidesiatniki—the “people of the Sixties,” a self-designation that linked
this generation to the radical intelligentsia of the 1860s. In making such a
claim, they anticipate the counterargument that the thaw metaphor shaped
the mentalities of only a small cross-section of Soviet society (as Sheila
Fitzpatrick suggests, gently, in the afterword). To defend their view of the
Thaw as an “event,” then, they extend the borders of the intelligentsia,
explaining that the post-Stalin intelligentsia was much larger than its
nineteenth-century counterpart: “The intelligentsia of the 1950s and 1960s
was a sizeable and fast-growing cohort of educated professionals inseparable
in origin and lifestyle from the rest of the people” (55). Yet the claim that
physicists and lyric poets (fiziki and liriki), say, were inseparable in origin
and lifestyle from collective and state farmers (kolkhozniki and sovkhozniki)
seems unnuanced if not inaccurate. In the footnote, the editors attend to the
size and growth of the intelligentsia: “According to the official statistics, 28.8
million people in the USSR were ‘engaged in intellectual labour’ in 1968,
SOVIET MODERNITY POST-STALIN 401

compared to 2.6 million in 1926.” However, here the editors have made a
seamless, but problematic, move from discussing a social group akin to the
prerevolutionary intelligentsia to invoking an official category. Moreover,
even if we accept that a significant portion of 28.8 million official intelligenty
in 1968 interpreted their lives through the lens of the metaphor, this excludes
some 100 million adult citizens, including hooligans, most pensioners, and
various other representatives of the diverse Soviet population.
One does not doubt that the 1950s and 1960s were a time of important,
long-lasting change, and that the processes to which the thaw metaphor refers
may have shaped the mentalities of many—historically significant—Soviet
people. However, what may be questioned is whether this argument needs
to be made, even in this more modest way, given the state of the literature.
Kozlov and Gilburd frame their interpretation as a response to a “chorus
of sceptics” about the Thaw (26).10 However, if this chorus is skeptical of
anything it is merely that all was warm, anticipatory, and discontinuous in
the early post-Stalin years. One of the skeptics, listed in a footnote, is Miriam
Dobson, who does indeed assert in her influential 2009 Khrushchev’s Cold
Summer that she aims to “challenge … the concept of the ‘thaw.’ ” But Dobson
concludes that she sees “the period as forward-looking, ambitious, and full of
hope on the one hand, but disorienting and potentially unsettling on the
other,” given her subjects’ enduring attachment to Stalinist ideas.11 Another
is Oleg Kharkhordin, who in his 1999 The Collective and the Individual in
Russia argues that after Stalin mutual surveillance was nearly perfected and
that consequently fear remained palpable in Soviet society. But alongside this
provocative claim Kharkhordin argues for a simultaneous, if paradoxical, rise
in the value of privacy and autonomous self-fashioning.12
The 11 articles that follow the introduction present a picture of the
1950s and 1960s as more complex than suggested either by Kozlov and
Gilburd’s interpretation of the thaw metaphor or by their argument for
change. The limitations of their reading of the metaphor become clear if one
foregrounds the contributors’ treatment of emotions, implicit but central
to their interpretations; the reader discovers not only Kozlov and Gilburd’s
anticipation but Dobson’s anxiety, Kharkhordin’s fear, and much more
10
  As cited by Gilburd and Kozlov, these scholars include Nancy Adler, Iurii Aksiutin, Miriam
Dobson, Cynthia Hooper, Polly Jones, Oleg Kharkhordin, Susanne Schattenberg, and S. S.
Zgorzhel´skaia.
11
 Dobson, Khrushchev’s Cold Summer, 15.
12
 Kharkhordin, The Collective and the Individual in Russia, chaps. 7–8. The strongest dismissal
of the thaw metaphor is Smith, Property of Communists, 12. Smith’s dismissal is somewhat
cavalier but provocative and thus productive.
402 ANATOLY PINSKY

besides. In an article on Gulag returnees in Vorkuta, Alan Barenberg writes

of thousands of “returnees” who chose to remain in or near their place of
exile, where they were able to successfully rejoin Soviet society. Barenberg
emphasizes not anticipation, anxiety, or fear but pride. In Vorkuta, he
explains, ex-prisoners drew on social networks developed on the “inside” to
find jobs and housing. Thus, unlike returnees to Moscow and Leningrad,
former prisoners in Vorkuta did not experience an emotional trajectory of
post-release euphoria followed by delight, curiosity, and ultimately uneasiness
(147). Instead, as memoirs and interviews reveal, ex-prisoners were proud of
the city they built as free laborers. Amir Weiner, in his article on the western
borderlands (earlier published in the Journal of Modern History), asks why the
authorities would have amnestied tens of thousands of exiled nationalists and
their families. This was a result, Weiner explains, of the center’s “confidence”
in its ability to replace terror with the modern practices of social engineering
and categorization. If the center felt confident, regional and local party and
KGB officials, and some citizens, were “anxious” and “horrified” (330), much
like Dobson’s and Kharkhordin’s subjects, if for different reasons.
The question of change, for its part, is addressed in Katerina Clark’s
fascinating article on the relationship between poetry of the first two thaws,
1953–54 and 1956, and the late 1930s. Clark uncovers in the former a
surprising “return” to the latter: an interest in the inner life of the individual
and use of the terms “sincerity,” “genuine,” “true,” and “the lyric.” These terms
are consonant with Kozlov and Gilburd’s interpretation of the Thaw, but Clark
does not present them as strict departures. Ultimately, she approaches the
question of continuity or change with a studied—and appropriate, it seems
to me—ambivalence, as much, she suggests, depends on the prerogative of the
historian.13 Addressing the issue of change in his own article, Weiner explains
that Moscow ultimately heeded the periphery’s concerns and, for example,
used communal participation to cleanse former nationalists from select western
regions. Emphasizing ambiguity rather than ambivalence, Weiner argues
forcefully for both continuity and change in Soviet totalitarianism: control
and remolding persisted—if not to the degree posited by Kharkhordin—but
became communal. What is more, if The Thaw presents a variegated emotional
world, Weiner’s contribution suggests that what united citizens who were either
anxious or optimistic, proud or confident, or some combination of these and
other emotions, was interaction with an ambitious, modern state.14
13
  Also for such ambivalence, see Oksana Bulgakowa’s excellent contribution to this volume,
“Cine-Weathers: Soviet Thaw Cinema in the International Context.”
14
 For a similar approach to uniting disparate groups, see Yanni Kotsonis, “Introduction:
A Modern Paradox—Subject and Citizen in Nineteenth- and Twentieth-Century Russia,”
SOVIET MODERNITY POST-STALIN 403
 

In Hooligans in Khrushchev’s Russia, Brian LaPierre joins those who see Stalin-
era continuities under Khrushchev. LaPierre is, in fact, listed among Kozlov
and Gilburd’s chorus of skeptics; but as far as his book is concerned, it does
not deny the existence of the Thaw (see, for example, the subtitle).15 LaPierre’s
is a story not about the intelligentsia but about working-class men—or, more
specifically, working-class family men between the ages of 25 and 50 who
have not completed primary or secondary school, live in dull, underresourced
factory towns in the Russian Soviet Federated Socialist Republic (RSFSR),
and drink to excess as a result. They are the hooligans in Khrushchev’s Russia,
petty and not-so-petty criminals whose crime was to have shown disrespect
for the mores of Soviet society. Hooligans were ostensibly everywhere,
“depressingly ordinary and commonplace social character[s]” (8). LaPierre
is interested above all in the way in which these ubiquitous miscreants
were created. If earlier scholars have emphasized social disorder and moral
panic, LaPierre highlights the categorization activities of central officials and
criminologists, on the one hand, and local citizens, police, prosecutors, and
judges, on the other. As defined by the former, “hooliganism” was a vague,
expansive notion, especially in the case of a new category, “petty hooliganism,”
created in 1956. As understood by the latter, it became even more protean
and encompassed “such trivial and norm-breaking actions as walking outside
the designated path of a park, … going out in public ‘clad in pajamas,’ ” not
owning a bed, and hanging curtains of the wrong color (152). Like Weiner,
LaPierre presents a state in the modern, paradoxical business of categorizing,
or dividing, its population in order to unite or harmonize it. What is more, he
directs our attention to the emotions that the related processes elicited among
the Soviet people.
Also like Weiner, LaPierre casts the Khrushchevian state as intrusive
in a new way, and writes of an anxiety among local actors that facilitated,
rather than resulted from, the intrusion. In this connection, LaPierre reveals
that, in contrast to popular depictions and stereotypes, as of the late 1950s
the hooligan was less the man on the street or in the courtyard than the
man in your apartment or next door—your husband, father, or neighbor.
The hooligan had become domesticated, because of changing definitions of

in Russian Modernity, 4. See also Sheila Fitzpatrick, Everyday Stalinism: Ordinary Life in
Extraordinary Times. Soviet Russia in the 1930s (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999).
15
 Gilburd and Kozlov cite Brian LaPierre, “Making Hooliganism on a Mass Scale: The
Campaign against Petty Hooliganism in the Soviet Union, 1956–1964,” Cahiers du monde
russe 47, 1–2 (2006): 349–75.
404 ANATOLY PINSKY

the crime and the ways in which local actors interpreted these definitions.
In perhaps the most interesting part of the book, LaPierre shows that this
recategorization and consequent pursuit of the hooligan into the home
entailed the public encroaching on the private after Stalin. The Khrushchev-
era state had, in fact, become more intrusive than its predecessor, exhibiting
a “willingness … to project state power into disordered domestic sites” (89).
Crucial is the fact that, for their part, Khrushchev-era citizens willingly
opened their doors (91).
The domestication of hooliganism and conversion of the private to the
public might be termed a continuity in that it extended Stalin-era policies
even as it deepened them. The continuity emphasized by LaPierre, however,
is that the Soviet state, in dealing with its hooligan problem, violated the
touchstone of the Thaw: the principle of socialist legality. Indeed, the petty
hooligan decree was itself something of an abrogation of this principle, as
it included catchall language, permitted fast-track processing, and provided
no legal oversight or safeguards. In addition, to combat hooligans and petty
hooligans in particular, the state relied on obshchestvennost´—volunteer
activists whose numbers were increased drastically under Khrushchev to
supplement the weakness of official institutions. In their zeal, these activists—
members of comrades’ courts and druzhiny (auxiliary police units)—paid
no mind to those legal principles that did exist. The result was familiar
“repression, arbitrary state power, and unrestrained policing” (97). The aim,
to a great extent achieved, was “a punishment process from which no deviant,
no matter how seemingly insignificant, was supposed to escape” (97). Thus
the Khrushchevian state extended its reach to much more than the home.
One sees little warmth and anticipation in a world in which the everyman
was a drunken, unruly worker and the everywoman his victim. Echoing
Stephen Bittner—whom he cites sympathetically several times—LaPierre is
right to limn a more complex picture of the affective experience of the early
post-Stalin era.16 “Khrushchev’s hesitant reforms,” he writes, “called into
being a confused and unsettled socialism: a socialism of unresolved opposites
within whose Janus face Soviet citizens saw both a past and a future filled with
penalties and limits as well as promises and possibilities” (196). That said,
LaPierre might have done more to examine the coexistence of these opposites;
he explains that “societies often turn to the figure of the deviant during times
of acute social tension or transition to affirm their core cultural values,” but
this important insight deserves more discussion (130). The same can be said
for the Janus-faced citizen.

16
  See Bittner, The Many Lives of Khrushchev’s Thaw.
SOVIET MODERNITY POST-STALIN 405

Also, given his evidence, LaPierre misses an opportunity to further

probe the nature of the continuities he has hypothesized. With respect to his
argument about the intrusiveness of the Khrushchev-era state, the book is a
fine complement to Kharkhordin’s The Collective and the Individual in Russia,
as LaPierre investigates practices that Kharkhordin, despite his subtitle, A
Study of Practices, does not examine in depth.17 It has been noted that the
modernity school focuses on official intentions, whereas “neo-traditionalist”
scholars of the 1920s and 1930s emphasize “real and unintended results.”
Michael David-Fox has stated in reference to this debate that “the literature
will advance only with new models that can fully grapple with intentions
and consequences … and their intricate interrelationship.”18 LaPierre has
examined both intentions and results and concluded—if implicitly—that
citizens themselves, in making the state more intrusive, realized the modern
project.
Yet the intrusiveness thesis and the nature of the state deserve further
interrogation. A useful corrective is the work of Deborah Field, which
explores the ways in which citizens used the state to their own advantage,
fragmenting it and creating a more complex institutional creature—one, it
should be added, that ought to be placed in a theoretical or comparative
context.19 LaPierre’s own sources—and focus on the local—in fact suggest
17
  For this point about Kharkhordin, see Ben Nathans and Kevin Platt, “Socialist in Form,
Indeterminate in Content: The Ins and Outs of Late Soviet Culture,” Ab Imperio, no. 2 (2011):
310. Here Nathans and Platt cite a review of Kharkhordin by Berthold Unfried, Journal of
Modern History 73, 3 (2001): 716.
18
 For both this quotation and the phrase “real and unintended results,” see David-Fox,
“Multiple Modernities,” 550–51. In an otherwise wide-ranging article, David-Fox does
not mention that much existing literature—e.g., Kotkin, Magnetic Mountain; Steinberg,
Proletarian Imagination; Halfin, various titles; and Hellbeck, Revolution on My Mind—has in
fact productively explored this interrelationship.
19
  See Deborah Field, Private Life and Communist Morality in Khrushchev’s Russia (New York:
Peter Lang, 2007), 3, 5–7, 25, 67–68, 79, 81–82, 84, 94–95, 97, 101–2. See also Edward
Cohn, “Sex and the Married Communist: Family Troubles, Marital Infidelity, and Party
Discipline in the Postwar USSR, 1945–64,” Russian Review 68, 3 (2009): 429–50; and Dobson,
“The Post-Stalin Era,” 914–17. One might ask how the phenomena investigated by Field and
Cohn relate to those analyzed in Kotkin, Magnetic Mountain, chap. 5, “Speaking Bolshevik.”
If they are similar, one wonders to what extent an examination of the interrelationship between
intentions and results can in fact advance the literature beyond Kotkin’s crucial insights. See
also Stephen Kotkin, “The State—Is It Us? Memoirs, Archives, and Kremlinologists,” Russian
Review 61, 1 (2002): 35–51; and the focus of Kotkin’s article, Jan Gross, Revolution from
Abroad: The Soviet Conquest of Poland’s Western Ukraine and Western Belorussia (Princeton,
NJ: Princeton University Press, 1988). But perhaps the phenomena examined by Field and
Cohn were different from those studied by Kotkin in significant ways given the changed aims
and nature of the post-Stalin state and society? In posing this question, should we not take
into consideration Igal Halfin and Jochen Hellbeck’s sophisticated critique (“Rethinking the
406 ANATOLY PINSKY

that his subjects turned the state to similar ends.20 In addition, one suspects
the discussion of violations of socialist legality could have been productively
placed in a context older and more varied than Stalinism. Indeed, these
violations seem to have been a function not only of a Stalinist inheritance but
of a weak Russian state impatient to modernize and thus reliant on human
resources unfit for the task—in the case of the Khrushchev era, poorly trained
social activists.21 Here Peter Holquist’s effort to reconcile the modernist and
neo-traditionalist approaches is germane, even if he refers to a degree of
violence that did not characterize the Khrushchev years:
the dynamic [“disjunctures between planning and reality … continually
rebounded in excesses, violence, and terror”] seems to be less “Stalinist”
than a case of the historically specific and hyper-charged recurrence of
a “persistent condition” of Russian history, to borrow a concept from
Alfred Rieber: the fantasy of employing state action as the instrument
for transforming an inert Russian society, and the consequent frustration
when Russian society proved tenaciously impervious to such transforma-
tive action. The frustrations generated by such aspirations then fed into a
propensity to rely on violence to overcome this stubbornness.22

Overall, one wonders if LaPierre has set himself too modest a goal: his
aim is to reclassify hooliganism rather than reinterpret the Khrushchev era. To
be sure, he offers a compelling, well-researched argument about the latter, but
it is a familiar one, if arrived at by way of a new object of analysis. In adding
a new character to the story of the early post-Stalin era, LaPierre reminds us
that, to cite two of the emotions he identifies, “excitement” existed alongside
“unease” (197). Yet he might have told us more about the nature of the
coexistence of these as well as other feelings.
 
Stalinist Subject: Stephen Kotkin’s ‘Magnetic Mountain’ and the State of Soviet Historical
Studies,” Jahrbücher für Geschichte Osteuropas 44, 3 [1996]: 456–63) of Kotkin’s “speaking
Bolshevik” concept? Regrettably, the literature rarely engages with this critique, despite the
many invocations of “speaking Bolshevik” that exist. For reasons of space, the above questions
cannot be answered here.
20
  In LaPierre, see, e.g., 111, 113, 116–17. LaPierre comes close to Field’s conclusions on 63,
179–82.
21
  For possible evidence, see 117–18, 127, 129, 133–35, 147.
22
  For discussion of Holquist’s point, see David-Fox, “Multiple Modernities,” 550–51. Peter
Holquist, “New Terrains and New Chronologies: The Interwar Period through the Lens of
Population Politics,” Kritika 4, 1 (2003): 171. In the quotation, Holquist discusses an article
by Lynne Viola (the source of the quotation within the quotation), “The Aesthetic of Stalinist
Planning and the World of the Special Villages,” Kritika 4, 1 (2003): 101–28. For a point
similar to Holquist’s, see Laura Engelstein, “Weapon of the Weak (Apologies to James Scott):
Violence in Russian History,” Kritika 4, 3 (2003): 692–93.
SOVIET MODERNITY POST-STALIN 407

In arguing for change, Kozlov and Gilburd productively gesture to increased

similarities between the post-Stalin USSR and postwar Western Europe; Lukas
Mücke, in Die allgemeine Altersrentenversorgung in der UdSSR, investigates
them in detail through the lens of pension reform. For a period often tied
to youth and rejuvenation, Mücke gives us an important study of the elderly
and aging.23 As he points out, the Soviet people grew older after Stalin and,
because Soviet women lived longer than Soviet men, the pension problem
was also in part a gendered problem. At the book’s center are two pension
reforms that, he argues, made for key breaks in Soviet history and reflect
the general post-Stalin concern for the material welfare of the population.
The first, in 1956, granted pensions to workers and employees, while the
second, in 1964, extended pensions to collective farmers. Thanks to these
reforms and their continued improvement through the 1970s, most—but not
all—Soviet citizens were afforded pensions or another form of care in old age.
For a pension, old age alone (55 for women, 60 for men) was insufficient;
as important was work history, or the principle “to each according to his
performance.” Using letters and other sources, Mücke demonstrates an
influence on the state from below and reveals persistent problems such as
lack of resources for the reforms’ implementation, discrimination against
women, and the low amounts paid to collective farmers, 97 percent of whom
received pensions below the poverty line. In the realm of pension reform, the
post-Stalin state embarked upon and implemented an ambitious project but
ultimately failed to achieve the Leninist goal of universal coverage.
Like Weiner and LaPierre, Mücke examines, if implicitly, the consequences
of the modern state’s drive to categorize, in particular the reforms’ effect on
the Soviet social structure. According to Mücke, the right to a pension—or the
category of the pensioner—created a class of people that identified as a social
group with similar behavior and values. He draws on M. Rainer Lepsius’s
concept of Versorgungsklasse, the idea that class position is tied to differences in
income transfers and accessibility to public goods and services. To complement
Lepsius, Mücke borrows the concept of “entitlement community” from Mark
Edele’s analysis of veterans of the Great Fatherland War.24 As he maintains,
pensioners, like veterans, constitute entitlement communities insofar as they
shared not a feeling of common belonging but similar conduct and self-
perception in their engagement with state institutions. He adds, however,
23
  For literature on youth and the Thaw, see, e.g., Alexander Prokhorov, “The Adolescent
and the Child in the Cinema of the Thaw,” Studies in Russian and Soviet Cinema 1, 2 (2007):
115–29.
24
  See Mark A. Edele, Soviet Veterans of the Second World War: A Popular Movement in an
Authoritarian Society, 1941–1991 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008).
408 ANATOLY PINSKY

that some pensioners did share a sense of group identity, best captured by the
creation and rapid spread of pension councils. At the same time, the social
reality created by the reforms entailed the division of this group, because the
legislation included various subcategories, not least the distinction between
collective farmers and everyone else.
Mücke focuses, too, on the relationship between state and people and the
causes of social stability. Key are reciprocal gift-relations (Gabenbeziehungen),
which scholars have used, he explains, to understand the Western welfare state.
Mücke considers the relationship in the USSR reciprocal in that the citizen
expected to receive something from the state in return for having worked
on its behalf. This, however, was a complex reciprocity, an irreconcilable
hybrid. On the one hand, the discourse featured a paternalistic dimension:
the original “gift” came from above. Mücke presents a widespread rhetoric,
to an extent internalized, of citizens expressing their profound gratitude to
the party and state for their pensions and promising to work harder. On the
other hand, the relationship featured a qualificatory dimension, or the idea
that the “gift” originated from below; the people had worked on behalf of the
party and state and thus felt entitled to pensions. In this scenario, the citizen
appears not as a “passive, childlike, infantilized subject but as an owner of a
felt … claim to adequate security against existential risks” (394). If LaPierre’s
subjects reinvented ambiguous categories, Mücke’s pushed for the creation
of a category—the pensioner—that would encompass them. And if LaPierre
mentions the Janus-face citizen and his/her constituent emotions in passing,
Mücke examines the existence of contradictory emotions in more detail: a
feeling of (passive) gratitude existed alongside a sense of (active) entitlement.
As the discussion of the relationship between state and people makes
clear, Mücke sees important similarities between the West and the Soviet
Union, although he invokes an older register, that of modernization rather
than modernity; if the former implies processes such as industrialization,
urbanization, and secularization, the latter refers to state projects such as
categorization, surveillance, and subject creation.25 In the final section of the
book, Mücke poses the question of whether the USSR can be considered
a welfare state—a question seldom rigorously asked of the Soviet case—and
takes the position that a state’s ability to provide security for its citizens
is of primary importance. Based on the data analysis performed earlier in
the book, Mücke concludes that the USSR was not a welfare state but a
Schwellenland—a newly industrialized country that, despite its shortcomings,
was clearly moving in the direction of the welfare state.

25
  For further discussion of this distinction, see David-Fox, “Multiple Modernities,” 537.
SOVIET MODERNITY POST-STALIN 409

Stephen Kotkin famously placed “the USSR in a narrative of the welfare

state,” and Mücke has submitted this claim to extensive interrogation.26
However, one wonders why Mücke does not address two distinguishing
features of the Soviet system: the aim to fundamentally transform human
beings and the exceptional extent of Soviet welfare promises. One wishes
he had engaged with Mark B. Smith’s Property of Communists, which
argues that the USSR was “never a welfare state” but “a thoroughgoing
welfare system,” “fundamentally different in kind from the welfare states
of capitalist countries.”27 Mücke uses the concept of family resemblance to
create a comparative framework in which socialist and capitalist cases can
be placed alongside one another. However, the proper designation for the
extended family may be not the welfare state but the modern state—a family
that includes both capitalist and socialist states and thus welfare systems of
different aim and scope as members.
In his discussion of reciprocal gift-relations, Mücke poses the productive
question of the extent to which his particular active subject was a new
phenomenon in Soviet history. The late-Stalin-era veteran in Amir Weiner’s
Making Sense of War strikes me as similar to the post-Stalin-era pensioner in
that both present their earlier service to the state—fighting in World War
II, in Weiner’s case—as meriting state acknowledgment and the bestowal of
privilege.28 Further research on the existence of such a subject in the Stalin and
post-Stalin eras, as Mücke proposes, would indeed be worthwhile. However
old or widespread his active subject is proven to be, Mücke has shown the
seriousness—and emotional complexity—with which post-Stalin pensioners,
real and aspiring, engaged the Soviet state and Soviet discourse.
 

Reflecting on the debate about whether the USSR can be considered modern,
David-Fox has cautioned that one should not “simply [discount] the broader,
non-statist features of modernity … or implicitly [relegate] them to ‘liberal
modernity.’ ” One of these characteristics is the “iconoclastic flux associated
with urbanism and aesthetic modernism beginning in the nineteenth
century,” to which the “rigid, dictatorial, immobile features of Soviet
communism (especially under ‘late Stalinism’) appear antithetical.”29 By
26
 Kotkin, Magnetic Mountain, 20. Mücke lists Kotkin in the bibliography but does not
explicitly discuss his point about the welfare state.
27
 Smith, Property of Communists, 16, 177. In contrast to Mücke, Smith takes on Kotkin
directly (15–16).
28
 Weiner, Making Sense of War.
29
  David-Fox, “Multiple Modernities,” 542.
410 ANATOLY PINSKY

contrast, Anna Krylova has emphasized the profound socioeconomic as well

as cultural change that began in the Stalinist 1930s and continued through
the late Soviet period.30 Nancy Condee, too, has written of Khrushchev’s
“providing the political conditions for a tentative reemergence of modernist
values—whose overlapping characteristics include radical novelty, an impulse
to extreme individuation, and the valorization of inaccessibility.”31
Moreover, the incorporation of theories of modernity that highlight
flux promises to move the debate surrounding the Thaw from the binary of
anxiety versus anticipation toward a model that includes and complicates both
poles. As I have suggested in the introduction to this essay, such concepts of
modernity indicate how diverse, contradictory emotions could have permeated
Soviet society and individual subjectivities. In his pioneering study of worker
writers in the late imperial and early Soviet periods, Mark Steinberg, building
on the arguments of Marshall Berman and Zygmunt Bauman, has shown that
the instability of modern life imparted both optimism and pessimism, hope
and anxiety, to the modern subject. In a sentence in All That Is Solid Melts into
Air—the form of which beautifully captures its content—Berman writes of
Karl Marx and his Communist Manifesto, a phrase in which has lent Berman
his title: “how brilliantly [Marx] develops the themes by which modernism will
come to define itself: the glory of modern energy and dynamism, the ravages
of modern disintegration and nihilism, the strange intimacy between them;
the sense of being caught in a vortex where all facts and values are whirled,
exploded, decomposed, recombined; a basic uncertainty about what is basic,
what is valuable, even what is real; a flaring up of the most radical hopes in the
midst of their radical negations.”32 Steinberg’s worker writers at once found
themselves in and propelled the modern whirlwind; they expressed a deep
love for the modern as well as unsettling doubts about the virtues of science,
industry, and machines; a faith in future utopia yet a vision of imminent
apocalypse; a tight embrace of the city but a longing look back to nature and
the countryside.33 To be sure, the emotional ambiguities and ambivalences
of the modern do not assume identical forms in all places and in all times—
and, we might add, among all individuals and groups at a specific place in
time. One might ask, then, what particular ambiguities and ambivalences
emerged in the early post-Stalin era, and to what extent they differed within

30
  Krylova, “Soviet Modernity.”
31
  Condee, “Cultural Codes of the Thaw,” 171.
32
 Berman, All That Is Solid Melts into Air, 121.
33
 Steinberg, Proletarian Imagination, chap. 5, “Revolutionary Modernity and Its Discontents,”
esp. 188–89, 194–95, 197, 213.
 SOVIET MODERNITY POST-STALIN 411

and across social types.34 If the Stalin-era USSR is conceptualized as a variant

of modernity, too, one might ask if analogous contradictions characterized
Stalin-era subjectivities and thus how these contradictions may have changed
after the death of Stalin in 1953.35
What is striking about the emotions captured in the three books under
review is their expression in particular textual forms: for example, anticipation
is found in novellas, pride in memoirs and interviews, anxiety in petitions,
and gratitude and entitlement in letters to newspapers and authorities. To
recreate the emotional worlds of Soviet men and women—no matter the
era—one must examine the ways in which these forms interacted in shaping
and being shaped by individual Soviet citizens.36 Were some forms privileged
by an individual or the larger culture in the fashioning of subjectivity? How
do the forms relate to one another? Do their constituent emotions and ideas
overlap with or contradict one another? And if their emotions and ideas can
be combined, how can one stitch them together to create a larger tapestry of
self? 37 If we ask such questions of the Thaw, we might feel compelled, if the
reader will indulge a play on the metaphor, to ask yet another: if something
melts, might it not melt into air?

Dept. of History
European University at St. Petersburg
ul. Gagarinskaia 3
191187 St. Petersburg, Russia
[email protected]

34
  For example, we know that if Steinberg’s (worker) writers looked to nature in the countryside,
many post-Stalin (professional) writers embraced the village itself. See Kathleen Parthé, Russian
Village Prose: The Radiant Past (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1992); and N. V.
Kovtun, “Derevenskaia proza” v zerkale utopii (Novosibirsk: Sibirskoe otdelenie Rossiiskoi
akademii nauk, 2009).
35
  For modernity and contradiction under Stalin, see Eric Naiman, “On Soviet Subjects and
the Scholars Who Make Them,” Russian Review 60, 3 (2001): 314.
36
  For a discussion of the relationship between subjectivity and literary form in relation to
literature, see Anatoly Pinsky, “The Diaristic Form and Subjectivity under Khrushchev,” Slavic
Review 73, 4 (2014): 805–27. In this review, I attempt to widen my earlier discussion from
literature to the conventional sources of the historian.
37
  We might add the question: what role does the body play in all this? See Paul John Eakin’s
fascinating How Our Lives Become Stories: Making Selves (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press,
1999).

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