Many, many years may pass – decades, centuries, but memory of the exploit of the Malozemel’tsy will live on in the hearts of their descendants.1
A new war film hit Russian cinema screens in late 2016, strongly endorsed by President Putin. 28 panfilovtsev (Panfilov’s 28) tells the story of a handful of outnumbered Red Army soldiers who make a stand against a German tank battalion closing in on Moscow in November 1941.2 In an heroic act of self-sacrifice, they destroy 18 tanks while paying the ultimate price. This is a new version of the 1967 film Za nami Moskva (Moscow is Behind Us), which appeared during the war cult of the Brezhnev years.3 Still popular at the height of the Putin-era war cult, Panfilov’s 28 is overtly supportive of the national war myth, painted in black and white with its unquestionable heroes martyred in the defence of the Fatherland in the face of the fiendish enemy threatening its very existence.
The film retells the story of an exploit which was widely reported during the war to boost the morale of the population. Like Malaia zemlia, this local myth was so powerful that it was taught in school history lessons in the postwar years. Streets and towns were named after the heroic riflemen, monuments were erected to them and books written about them. Its heroes became a legend. This is the reason given by writer and director Andrei Shal’opa for wanting to make the film in the first place. However, during the lengthy filming process, archival evidence came to light suggesting that, although such a skirmish had indeed taken place, not all the Soviet soldiers had died. It appears that the encounter had been mythologised at the time thanks to an exaggerated report by Krasnaia zvezda war correspondent Vasilii Koroteev.4 Although Koroteev was probably doing his duty within the unspoken guidelines of the times to seek out examples of Soviet heroism in order to boost public morale, an investigation in 1948 into the incident proved that the whole affair had been wildly over-inflated. The findings of the investigation were, however, suppressed by the authorities in order to maintain the popular myth that had by then developed.5 The parallels with the hypedup Soviet myth of Malaia zemlia are obvious.
Fast forward to today, when transparency is still apparently an issue. Shal’opa protested against mounting criticism of the resurrected myth by attacking those who seek to debunk instances of accepted national heroism, which in his view only serves ‘to weaken the people’s moral foundation’.6 According to the director, it is dangerous to pull the carpet out from under this widespread myth, a mainstay of Russian cultural heritage and the nation’s identity. Although Shal’opa recognises that the action is not strictly speaking historically true, he claims that the basic facts remain relevant: that the incident actually took place and real, heroic people definitely died.7 Accordingly, he has creatively reworked this longstanding myth along the lines of a David and Goliath encounter, using it to explore the nature of idealised patriotism as the state currently wishes to see it disseminated.
Despite its much-vaunted discrepancies, many Russians still buy into this emotive myth. The film was funded in several ways, indicative of the appetite for this type of material across the board. A very successful crowd funding operation proved that the film resonates with those who are comfortable using the internet to consume their culture. Like We are from the Future, this blockbuster is aimed at younger viewers and also received funding from an internet gaming company. Finally, state sponsorship and endorsement by the president and minister of culture demonstrate its utility in developing Russian national pride today.8
The production of this film demonstrates that unashamed myth making still has a place in modern Russia, which is actively promoting the positive side of its history to motivate and cement its population in the present. Alongside the huge interest in patriotic films, a new statue to Vladimir the Great has appeared next to the Kremlin in Moscow.9 As the new monument was unveiled, President Putin urged Russians to unite against external threats, to become once again the victorious nation led by his namesake over a thousand years ago. State rhetoric has thus moved on from the Soviet era with a noticeable shift in emphasis in the twenty-first century from simply remembering the war, its heroes and victims, to a focus on the celebration of victory firmly linked to national pride. Under the current memorial climate, the war has become both an existential narrative of Russia’s national identity and a metaphor for national unity as, more than ever, the state is once again staking a firm claim to ownership of the war cult.
In Novorossiisk, this state-centric grip on the war myth is much in evidence, backed up by the mayor and the local authorities who organise the cycle of annual rituals. Just as in the case of the crowd funders of Panfilov’s 28, though, the myth of Malaia zemlia also belongs to the ordinary people of Novorossiisk – in their families and schools and at ceremonies of remembrance. This book has uncovered the distinctiveness of mythology in the Soviet Union and contemporary Russia and the true complexity at work in the construction and propagation of a local war myth by exposing the human perspective of remembrance in addition to the much-flaunted ideology of a superpower.
There has always been much genuine reinforcement between top-down and bottom-up memorial initiatives in Novorossiisk, although the war cult of the Brezhnev era still left some scope for individual remembrance and the local dimension. In the twenty-first century, however, there remains some tension between perceived ‘genuine’ and ‘designer’ memory, with some proactivity and spontaneity of remembrance activities confirming the significance of the bottom-up agency of small groups and individuals. Most divergence from the official myth or mode of remembrance is to be found on the edge of the town, on the periphery of accepted memory, where the authorities are sometimes challenged and the emphasis is on the individuals remembering and remembered rather than on passive acceptance of a myth propagated from above.
The myth of Malaia zemlia has had a chequered journey from its inception in 1943 through its heyday in the Brezhnev era to today. Following a series of complicated twists and turns, the identity of the hero city has developed within an evolving memorial environment. This has been rendered even more complex thanks to the dubious presence in and huge influence on the myth of Leonid Brezhnev. This inherited problem has been resolved for the moment with the erection and relocation of the Brezhnev statue, as the general secretary has found his new memorial niche. Novorossiisk seems more at ease with its own history now that it has been reclaimed from the shadow of Brezhnev’s political ownership. While a few grey corners still await closer scrutiny, the accepted local myth remains as black and white as the film about Panfilov’s regiment.
With this new sense of ownership of their town’s identity, many citizens of Novorossiisk feel a responsibility for the propagation of a myth which is perceived to be good for the moral education of the younger generation. In comparison with war memory in the West it is perhaps surprising that so many young people buy into the myth. However, Russia has seen a campaign of patriotism in the twenty-first century, with a focus through the school curriculum on the younger generation who will, in the future, bear the responsibility for remembrance. In this way, perhaps, the Russian government has led the way where other Western states are only just starting to educate their children to follow.
Today’s myth is a powerful social construction, founded under Stalinism and propagated under communism, while remaining strong in modern Russia. Virtually every living participant may be dead, and many of the postwar generation too, but the myth lives on successfully. This longevity is due to the undeniably positive narrative and proactive attempts to rejuvenate commemorative rituals. The sheer resonance of the myth with generations of citizens of Novorossiisk is clear from my research, underlined by the inter-connectedness in the hero city of a sense of historic place with the urban and political landscape.
Despite an element of legend, today’s myth of Malaia zemlia is based largely on indisputable fact, supported by increasing quantities of historical minutiae. Novorossiisk is forging a successful relationship with its Soviet history, which is effective for the town by virtue of its largely unchallengeable nature. Thanks to its local significance and the unique Beskozyrka ritual, citizens seem content to adopt the myth and proud of their cultural and military heritage. In this respect, Novorossiisk represents an extreme case, where the desire for continued local war memory coincides with the national position on the transmission of memory, assuring the maintenance of the hero city’s own special identity and status.
So what of the future? In contrast with Brezhnev’s legacy, the war cult of the Putin era is not centred on the alleged exploits of one man, nor is Putin as frail as the elderly Brezhnev in his final years. Both these facts render the contemporary war cult potentially more enduring than that of the Brezhnev era, particularly as the recent conflict in Ukraine and increased tension with the West have triggered a build-up of rhetoric referring to the Great Patriotic War in the Russian media. It is not possible to predict the future of the war myth in Novorossiisk precisely, but this book has uncovered sufficient evidence to make some informed speculation. There is no reason to suppose that popular opinion will change tack with a sudden wish to forget the local history evident in museums and libraries and on the streets of the hero city. Even with a new mayor, Beskozyrka is successfully continuing after the death of Konstantin Podyma and the town has made plans for the replacement of Captain Lesik on Heroes’ Square. The end of direct transmission of war memory in Novorossiisk will conclude a tradition of intergenerational meetings, but this may equally result in fewer bored pupils as students are allowed to research local history more independently. Similarly, the new Immortal Regiment ceremony seems set to continue engaging children and their families. Even as the war myth gradually evolves into local history, it retains its relevance and utility for Novorossiisk: as long as it guarantees regional prestige and a stream of tourists, it will surely be supported by the local authorities and town council.
Propagation of the myth is not merely a local initiative and it is doubtful if remembrance would be so popular if maintained in its own bubble outside the national mnemonic environment generated under the Putin government. The state’s war myth has been increasingly deployed since the turn of the century to imbue self-confidence amongst Russians sometimes criticised by the West. Similarly, political authoritarianism has been gradually ramped up by a government looking to forestall any potential internal revolution, such as those occurring in neighbouring Georgia (2003) and Ukraine (2004 and 2014). The strong element of state control and centralisation under the guise of a democratic society may not be evident or even matter to the ordinary resident of Novorossiisk, who takes it for granted and sees only the local result of the national war cult that has helped to fuel the popularity of the myth of Malaia zemlia.
The main proponent of the national meta-narrative of the war is the president and the longevity of the current war cult may depend on the length of his tenure. Vladimir Putin has developed a tight emotional hold on Russia with an increasingly powerful narrative of patriotism and militarism, both referring back to war victory.10 Since the annexation of Crimea, Putin has personally promised to build up trade in the Novorossiisk area, including the formation of a new transport hub linking the two hero cities of Novorossiisk and Sevastopol’, with the development of more modern infrastructure behind Novorossiisk.11 A new bridge linking Russia to Ukraine is being built across the Kerch’ Straits – Putin is succeeding in this expensive project, where Hitler’s plans in early 1943 for a five-kilometre bridge for cars and trains came to nothing.12 In conjunction with the growing naval base in Novorossiisk, these measures should boost the local economy considerably and probably stimulate not only the maintenance of monuments but also the budget devoted to remembrance.
For the moment, though, the Russian economy continues to struggle as a result of Western sanctions, conflict in the Middle East and a weak rouble. This disruption may exacerbate the unsustainability of a national economy facing lower oil prices, and the local economy will no doubt suffer as the national embargo on some imports reduces the flow of goods through the port of Novorossiisk. The consequences could be similar to those of the 1990s, when everyday financial concerns and decreasing official budgets displaced commemoration of the war from the political agenda nationwide. If state policies and President Putin become too unpopular, both he and his war cult may themselves be consigned to history. Whatever happens in the short to medium term, the myth of Malaia zemlia is strong and stable enough to live on in Novorossiisk in the longer term as it mutates into local history. The town is moving forward, comfortable in its own skin, as the shadows of Brezhnev and the Brezhnev-era monuments remain static in the background.