The simplest and easiest response is to conclude that Soviet-American
confrontation was so deeply rooted in differences of values, economic
systems, or historical experiences that only extraordinary action— by
individuals or groups—could have prevented the conflict. One version of the
inevitability hypothesis would argue that the Soviet Union, given its
commitment to the ideology of communism, was dedicated to worldwide
revolution and would use any and every means possible to promote the demise
of the West. According to this view—based in large part on the rhetoric of
Stalin and Lenin—world revolution constituted the sole priority of Soviet
policy. Even the appearance of accommodation was a Soviet design to soften up
capitalist states for eventual confrontation. As defined, admittedly in
oversimplified fashion, by George Kennan in his famous 1947 article on
containment, Russian diplomacy "moves along the prescribed path, like a
persistent toy automobile, wound up and headed in a given direction, stopping
only when it meets some unanswerable force." Soviet subservience to a
universal, religious creed ruled out even the possibility of mutual
concessions, since even temporary accommodation would be used by the Russians
as part of their grand scheme to secure world domination.
A second version of the same hypothesis—argued by some American revisionist
historians—contends that the endless demands of capitalism for new markets
propelled the United States into a course of intervention and imperialism.
According to this argument, a capitalist society can survive only by opening
new areas for exploitation. Without the development of multinational
corporations, strong ties with German capitalists, and free trade across
national boundaries, America would revert to the depression of the prewar
years. Hence, an aggressive internationalism became the only means through
which the ruling class of the United States could retain hegemony. In support
of this argument, historians point to the number of American policymakers who
explicitly articulated an economic motivation for U.S. foreign policy. "We
cannot expect domestic prosperity under our system," Assistant Secretary of
State Dean Acheson said, "without a constantly expanding trade with other
nations." Echoing the same theme, the State Department's William Clayton
declared: "We need markets—big markets—around the world in which to buy and
sell. . . . We've got to export three times as much as we exported just
before the war if we want to keep our industry running somewhere near
capacity." According to this argument, economic necessity motivated the
Truman Doctrine, the Marshall Plan, and the vigorous efforts of U.S.
policymakers to open up Eastern Europe for trade and investment. Within such
a frame of reference, it was the capitalist economic system—not Soviet
commitment to world revolution—that made the Cold War unavoidable.
Still a third version of the inevitability hypothesis—partly based on the
first two—would insist that historical differences between the two
superpowers and their systems of government made any efforts toward postwar
cooperation almost impossible. Russia had always been deeply suspicious of
the West, and under Stalin that suspicion had escalated into paranoia, with
Soviet leaders fearing that any opening of channels would ultimately destroy
their own ability to retain total mastery over the Russian people. The West's
failure to implement early promises of a second front and the subsequent
divisions of opinion over how to treat occupied territory had profoundly
strained any possible basis of trust. From an American perspective, in turn,
it stretched credibility to expect a nation committed to human rights to
place confidence in a ruthless dictator, who in one Yugoslav's words, had
single-handedly been responsible for more Soviet deaths than all the armies
of Nazi Germany. Through the purges, collectivization, and mass imprisonment
of Russian citizens, Stalin had presided over the killing of 20 million of
his own people. How then could he be trusted to respect the rights of others?
According to this argument, only the presence of a common enemy had made
possible even short-term solidarity between Russia and the United States; in
the absence of a German foe, natural antagonisms were bound to surface.
America had one system of politics, Russia another, and as Truman declared in
1948, "a totalitarian state is no different whether you call it Nazi,
fascist, communist, or Franco Spain."
Yet, in retrospect, these arguments for inevitability tell only part of the
story. Notwithstanding the Soviet Union's rhetorical commitment to an
ideology of world revolution, there is abundant evidence of Russia's
willingness to forego ideological purity in the cause of national interest.
Stalin, after all, had turned away from world revolution in committing
himself to building "socialism in one country." Repeatedly, he indicated his
readiness to betray the communist movement in China and to accept the
leadership of Chiang Kai-shek. George Kennan recalled the Soviet leader
"snorting rather contemptuously . . . because one of our people asked them
what they were going to give to China when [the war] was over." "We have a
hundred cities of our own to build in the Soviet Far East," Stalin had
responded. "If anybody is going to give anything to the Far East, I think
it's you." Similarly, Stalin refused to give any support to communists in
Greece during their rebellion against British domination there. As late as
1948 he told the vice-premier of Yugoslavia, "What do you think, . . . that
Great Britain and the United States . . . will permit you to break their
lines of communication in the Mediterranean? Nonsense . . . the uprising in
Greece must be stopped, and as quickly as possible."
Nor are the other arguments for inevitability totally persuasive. Without
question, America's desire for commercial markets played a role in the
strategy of the Cold War. As Truman said in 1949, devotion to freedom of
enterprise "is part and parcel of what we call America." Yet was the need for
markets sufficient to force a confrontation that ultimately would divert
precious resources from other, more productive use? Throughout most of its
history, Wall Street has opposed a bellicose position in foreign policy.
Similarly, although historical differences are important, it makes no sense
to regard them as determinative. After all, the war led to extraordinary
examples of cooperation that bridged these differences; if they could be
overcome once, then why not again? Thus, while each of the arguments for
inevitability reflects truths that contributed to the Cold War, none offers
an explanation sufficient of itself, for contending that the Cold War was
unavoidable.
A stronger case, it seems, can be made for the position that the Cold War was
unnecessary, or at least that conflicts could have been handled in a manner
that avoided bipolarization and the rhetoric of an ideological crusade. At no
time did Russia constitute a military threat to the United States.
"Economically," U.S. Naval Intelligence reported in 1946, "the Soviet Union is
exhausted.... The USSR is not expected to take any action in the next five
years which might develop into hostility with Anglo Americans." Notwithstanding
the Truman administration's public statements about a Soviet threat, Russia
had cut its army from 11.5 to 3 million men after the war. In 1948, its
military budget amounted to only half of that of the United States. Even
militant anticommunists like John Foster Dulles acknowledged that "the Soviet
leadership does not want and would not consciously risk" a military
confrontation with the West. Indeed, so exaggerated was American rhetoric about
Russia's threat that Hanson Baldwin, military expert of the New York Times,
compared the claims of our armed forces to the "shepherd who cried wolf, wolf,
wolf, when there was no wolf." Thus, on purely factual grounds, there existed
no military basis for the fear that the Soviet Union was about to seize world
domination, despite the often belligerent pose Russia took on political issues.
A second, somewhat more problematic, argument for the thesis of avoidability
consists of the extent to which Russian leaders appeared ready to abide by at
least some agreements made during the war. Key, here, is the understanding
reached by Stalin and Churchill during the fall of 1944 on the division of
Europe into spheres of influence. According to that understanding, Russia was
to dominate Romania, have a powerful voice over Bulgaria, and share influence
in other Eastern European countries, while Britain and America were to
control Greece. By most accounts, that understanding was implemented. Russia
refused to intervene on behalf of communist insurgency in Greece. While
retaining rigid control over Romania, she provided at least a "fig-leaf of
democratic procedure"—sufficient to satisfy the British. For two years the
USSR permitted the election of noncommunist or coalition regimes in both
Hungary and Czechoslovakia. The Finns, meanwhile, were permitted to choose a
noncommunist government and to practice Western-style democracy as long as
their country maintained a friendly foreign policy toward their neighbor on
the east. Indeed, to this day, Finland remains an example of what might have
evolved had earlier wartime understandings on both sides been allowed to
continue.
What then went wrong? First, it seems clear that both sides perceived the other
as breaking agreements that they thought had been made. By signing a separate
peace settlement with the Lublin Poles, imprisoning the sixteen members of the
Polish underground, and imposing—without regard for democratic
appearances—total hegemony on Poland, the Soviets had broken the spirit, if not
the letter, of the Yalta accords. Similarly, they blatantly violated the
agreement made by both powers to withdraw from Iran once the war was over, thus
precipitating the first direct threat of military confrontation during the Cold
War. In their attitude toward Eastern Europe, reparations, and peaceful
cooperation with the West, the Soviets exhibited increasing rigidity and
suspicion after April 1945. On the other hand, Stalin had good reason to accuse
the United States of reneging on compacts made during the war. After at least
tacitly accepting Russia's right to a sphere of influence in Eastern Europe,
the West seemed suddenly to change positions and insist on Western-style
democracies and economies. As the historian Robert Daliek has shown, Roosevelt
and Churchill gave every indication at Tehran and Yalta that they acknowledged
the Soviet's need to have friendly governments in Eastern Europe. Roosevelt
seemed to care primarily about securing token or cosmetic concessions toward
democratic processes while accepting the substance of Russian
domination. Instead, misunderstanding developed over the meaning of the Yalta
accords, Truman confronted Molotov with demands that the Soviets saw as
inconsistent with prior understandings, and mutual suspicion rather than
cooperation assumed dominance in relations between the two superpowers.
It is this area of misperception and misunderstanding that historians have
focused on recently as most critical to the emergence of the Cold War.
Presumably, neither side had a master plan of how to proceed once the war
ended. Stalin's ambitions, according to recent scholarship, were ill-defined,
or at least amenable to modification depending on America's posture. The
United States, in turn, gave mixed signals, with Roosevelt implying to every
group his agreement with their point of view, yet ultimately keeping his
personal intentions secret. If, in fact, both sides could have agreed to a
sphere-of-influence policy—albeit with some modifications to satisfy American
political opinion—there could perhaps have been a foundation for continued
accommodation. Clearly, the United States intended to retain control over its
sphere of influence, particularly in Greece, Italy, and Turkey. Moreover, the
United States insisted on retaining total domination over the Western
hemisphere, consistent with the philosophy of the Monroe Doctrine. If the
Soviets had been allowed similar control over their sphere of influence in
Eastern Europe, there might have existed a basis for compromise. As John
McCloy asked at the time, "[why was it necessary] to have our cake and eat it
too? . . . To be free to operate under this regional arrangement in South
America and at the same time intervene promptly in Europe." If the United
States and Russia had both acknowledged the spheres of influence implicit in
their wartime agreements, perhaps a different pattern of relationships might
have emerged in the postwar world.
The fact that such a pattern did not emerge raises two issues, at least from
an American perspective. The first is whether different leaders or advisors
might have achieved different foreign policy results. Some historians believe
that Roosevelt, with his subtlety and skill, would have found a way to
promote collaboration with the Russians, whereas Truman, with his short
temper, inexperience, and insecurity, blundered into unnecessary and harmful
confrontations. Clearly, Roosevelt himself—just before his death—was
becoming more and more concerned about Soviet intransigence and aggression.
Nevertheless, he had always believed that through personal pressure and
influence, he could find a way to persaude "uncle Joe." On the basis of what
evidence we have, there seems good reason to believe that the Russians did
place enormous trust in FDR. Perhaps—just perhaps—Roosevelt could have found
a way to talk "practical arithmetic" with Stalin rather than algebra and
discover a common ground. Certainly, if recent historians are correct in
seeing the Cold War as caused by both Stalin's undefined ambitions and
America's failure to communicate effectively and consistently its view on
where it would draw the line with the Russians, then Roosevelt's long history
of interaction with the Soviets would presumably have placed him in a better
position to negotiate than the inexperienced Truman.
The second issue is more complicated, speaking to a political problem which
beset both Roosevelt and Truman—namely, the ability of an American president
to formulate and win support for a foreign policy on the basis of national
self-interest rather than moral purity. At some point in the past, an
American diplomat wrote in 1967:
[T]here crept into the ideas of Americans about foreign policy ... a
histrionic note, ... a desire to appear as something greater perhaps than one
actually was. ... It was inconceivable that any war in which we were involved
could be less than momentous and decisive for the future of humanity. ... As
each war ended, ... we took appeal to universalistic, Utopian ideals, related
not to the specifics of national interest but to legalistic and moralistic
concepts that seemed better to accord with the pretentious significance we
had attached to our war effort.
As a consequence, the diplomat went on, it became difficult to pursue a
policy not defined by the language of "angels or devils," "heroes" or
"blackguards."
Clearly, Roosevelt faced such a dilemma in proceeding to mobilize American
support for intervention in the war against Nazism. And Truman encountered
the same difficulty in seeking to define a policy with which to meet Soviet
postwar objectives. Both presidents, of course, participated in and reflected
the political culture that constrained their options. Potentially at least,
Roosevelt seemed intent on fudging the difference between self-interest and
moralism. He perceived one set of objectives as consistent with reaching an
accommodation with the Soviets, and another set of goals as consistent with
retaining popular support for his diplomacy at home. It is difficult to avoid
the conclusion that he planned—in a very Machiavellian way—to use rhetoric
and appearances as a means of disguising his true intention: to pursue a
strategy of self-interest. It seems less clear that Truman had either the
subtlety or the wish to follow a similarly Machiavellian course. But if he
had, the way might have been opened to quite a different—albeit politically
risky— series of policies.
None of this, of course, would have guaranteed the absence of conflict in
Eastern Europe, Iran, or Turkey. Nor could any action of an American
president—however much rooted in self-interest—have obviated the personal and
political threat posed by Stalinist tyranny and ruthlessness, particularly if
Stalin himself had chosen, for whatever reason, to act out his most
aggressive and paranoid instincts. But if a sphere-of-influence agreement had
been possible, there is some reason to think—in light of initial Soviet
acceptance of Western-style governments in Hungary, Czechoslovakia, and
Finland—that the iron curtain might not have descended in the way that it
did. In all historical sequences, one action builds on another. Thus, steps
toward cooperation rather than confrontation might have created a momentum, a
frame of reference and a basis of mutual trust, that could have made
unnecessary the total ideological bipolarization that evolved by 1948. In
short, if the primary goals of each superpower had been acknowledged and
implemented—security for the Russians, some measure of pluralism in Eastern
European countries for the United States, and economic interchange between
the two blocs—it seems conceivable that the world might have avoided the
stupidity, the fear, and the hysteria of the Cold War.
As it was, of course, very little of the above scenario did take place. After
the confrontation in Iran, the Soviet declaration of a five-year plan,
Churchill's Fulton, Missouri, speech, and the breakdown of negotiations on an
American loan, confrontation between the two superpowers seemed irrevocable.
It is difficult to imagine that the momentum building toward the Cold War
