Roger Moorhouse - The Devils' Alliance - Hitler's Pact with Stalin, 1939-1941

As Germany endured postwar tribulations of her own, those on the right increasingly saw the concept of territorial expansion as a panacea for the combined ills of poverty, hunger, and overpopulation. In time, Hitler was to add a new ideological gloss to such sentiments, railing against the perversities and excesses of the Bolsheviks and advocating German expansion at their expense. In Mein Kampf , written in 1924, he had clarified his own rather half-baked ideas on the subject. Russia, he wrote, had been deprived of its “Germanic ruling class” by the revolution and taken over by the Jews, so now it was in a “ferment of decomposition” and “ripe for dissolution.” Consequently, he suggested, it was time for the German people to “turn [their] eyes towards the lands of the East,” for it was there that their shortage of living space— Lebensraum —would be rectified.

Of course, the partnership on offer in 1939 was a long way from the merciless conquest that Hitler had envisaged or the westward expansion foreseen by Stalin, but it could nonetheless be regarded by both as a first step along that road. For all their ideological obsessions, both were alive to the potential that lay in serendipity. Stalin would have been well aware of Lenin’s dictum that history proceeds not in straight lines but by “zig-zags and roundabout ways.” Hitler, meanwhile, had done much thus far to advance the Nazis’ ideological goals through opportunism and realpolitik, so it was not entirely illogical to believe that a nonaggression pact with the Soviets could be but a prelude to the latter’s subordination and eventual destruction. Both sides, then, could have been forgiven for believing that by engaging with the enemy they were fulfilling their ideological destiny.

The German foreign minister would certainly not have been immune to such grandiose thoughts. Conceited and arrogant, Ribbentrop was deeply unpopular, even among his fellow Nazis. A former champagne salesman, he had married into money, added a spurious aristocratic “von” to his name, and bluffed his way into the upper echelons of the Third Reich, where his international contacts had earned him a role as Hitler’s favorite foreign policy advisor. From there, his oleaginous and ingratiating manner had secured an appointment as ambassador to London in 1936, before he finally landed the position of foreign minister early in 1938. Bellicose and incompetent in equal measure, Ribbentrop had contributed greatly to the poisoning of international relations over the previous months. Faithfully and belligerently echoing his master’s voice, he had been instrumental in the slide toward what he viewed as an inevitable, even desirable, conflict to establish German hegemony in Europe. In this respect, Ribbentrop had also been a key player in the developing relationship with the Soviet Union, which—ideological differences aside—offered Germany not only a secure eastern flank but also the prospect of an economic collaboration that would be essential for the coming conflict. The pact that he was coming to negotiate would be a volte-face that would shock the world, but it would give Hitler his war on hugely favorable terms. Ribbentrop knew that this would be his finest hour.

After the welcome at Khodynka, the members of the German delegation were taken to the former Austrian legation building, which had been allocated to them as a residence. Many then took the opportunity to experience something of the city, and the regime, of which they were guests. Heinrich Hoffmann visited the Novodevichy Cemetery to see the grave of Stalin’s second wife, Nadezhda Alliluyeva, which he described as one of the “most beautiful” he had ever seen. Paul Schmidt, meanwhile, opted for a short tour of the capital, accompanied by a translator. “At first sight,” he recalled, “there was an almost disappointing similarity to the other European cities. But, upon closer inspection, the key differences occurred to me. The happiness, that one was used to seeing upon the faces of people on the street in Berlin, Paris or London, appeared to be absent in Moscow. The people looked serious and stared straight ahead with a haunted air. Only very occasionally did I see a smiling face.”

If Schmidt was perhaps guilty of allowing his prejudices to color his experience, pilot Hans Baur was left in little doubt about the realities of life in the Soviet Union. Leaving the German military attaché’s residence by car, Baur’s guide pointed out the secret policeman whose task it was to inform the authorities of their departure and where they were going. Soon, the guide explained, “another car would tack itself on to us and follow fifty yards or so in the rear, and wherever we went and whatever we did, the [secret police] would be on our heels.” Politically naive, Baur had to be warned repeatedly not to take photographs and caused a scene when he tried to tip the Russian driver for his efforts. “The man was furious,” he recalled. “He wanted to know whether this was the thanks he got for having done his best for us—to get him into prison. We knew perfectly well that it was forbidden to take tips.”

At the embassy, meanwhile, a lavish buffet had been laid for the new arrivals. Heinrich Hoffmann was astonished, as he had not expected to find such opulence in the Soviet capital. He was soon disabused of the assumption that the food on display had been supplied locally, however: “Everything had come from abroad—the bread, even, from Sweden, the butter from Denmark and the rest from various sources.” The complexities of the food situation in Moscow had already been made plain to Hans Baur earlier at the airfield. Seeking to dispose of food left over from the inbound flight, Baur had offered rolls, biscuits, and chocolate to the team of Soviet mechanics and cleaners busying themselves with his planes. To his surprise, his offer had been declined, with the foreman telling him that to accept was forbidden and that the Russian people had enough to eat. Bemused but determined not to let the food go to waste, Baur resolved to leave the items out on a bench in the hangar; very soon, they all duly disappeared.

While his entourage thus acquainted themselves with the Soviet capital, Ribbentrop was eager to open talks with his Soviet counterparts. Against the advice of his embassy colleagues—who had suggested a more measured approach so as not to appear too keen—Ribbentrop hurried, upon arrival, straight into his first session of discussions with the Soviets. There were other concerns. Embassy advisor and translator Gustav Hilger recalled being pulled aside by Ribbentrop in an unexpected show of paternal concern as they left for the Kremlin. “You look so worried” Ribbentrop said. “Is there any reason?” Hilger, who was born in Moscow and had lived in Russia for most of his life, voiced his misgivings about their mission: “I believe that what you are about to do in the Kremlin will go well only as long as Germany remains strong.” Ribbentrop was unmoved, replying, “If that is all, then I can only tell you that Germany will be able to deal with any situation that comes up.”

With that, Ribbentrop and Hilger, accompanied by the German ambassador to Moscow, Friedrich-Werner von der Schulenburg, and the chief of Stalin’s bodyguard, Nikolai Vlasik, climbed into a limousine of the Soviet NKVD to be whisked through Red Square. Entering the Kremlin beneath the impressive Spassky Gate, the party was driven to the Senate, an elegant, three-story building on the Kremlin’s northeastern side, just across the wall from Lenin’s mausoleum. Throughout, an unseen bell tolled ominously to mark their arrival.

Descending from the car, the party was met by the bald, fleshy Alexander Poskrebyshev, chief of Stalin’s personal chancellery, and led up a short flight of stairs to the prime minister’s office, located on the first floor. There, amid the spartan, functional furnishings, stood Stalin himself, simply attired in a plain tunic jacket over baggy woolen trousers and calf-length leather boots. With his narrow, yellowing eyes and pockmarked skin, the Soviet leader, or Vozhd , as he was popularly known, was instantly recognizable. Alongside him stood Vyacheslav Molotov, his foreign minister, a diminutive, nondescript figure in a plain gray suit, his signature pince-nez perched on his nose above a neatly trimmed, graying moustache. It was rare for a foreigner to encounter such a concentration of Soviet power, and Schulenburg reportedly gave a squeak of surprise when he saw Stalin; despite serving in Moscow for five years as ambassador, he had never met the Soviet leader. Ribbentrop, too, was impressed and would later wax lyrical about Stalin as “a man of extraordinary calibre,” who merited his reputation. For his part, Stalin usually avoided foreign visitors on principle, so his presence was most probably a tactic calculated to intimidate his guests and throw them off guard. Whatever the motivation, it was certainly proof of how seriously the negotiations were being taken.