FinermanWorks

March 3rd

If you go into a Bulgarian restaurant tonight, you would notice the festive atmosphere. It is not merely the thrill of finally having a customer. No, you are in the midst of the celebration of Bulgaria’s Liberation Day.

For lack of evidence, most people don’t believe that Bulgaria exists. Unfortunately, for 500 years the Bulgarians were under the same impression. They were just another subjugated people of the Ottoman Empire. Worse, unlike the Greeks, Serbs or Romanians, the Bulgarians couldn’t even cling to nurturing legends and songs of their heroic resistance. Even in the 14th century, Bulgaria wasn’t much of a country. In the Turkish catalog of conquests, Bulgaria was simply swept up. So, when the rest of the Ottoman Empire succumbed to indolence and stagnation, Bulgaria was a trend-setter.

The Ottoman decline began in the late 17th century when the sultans limited their ambitions to the Harem. Over the next two centuries, the Turkish Empire began losing one province after another. Austria “liberated” Hungary and Croatia. France annexed Algeria. Quoting Homer and Byron, Britain helped free Greece. But Russia was the most aggressive and determined enemy of the Ottoman Empire.

As the self-anointed heir of Byzantium and the champion of the Slavic Peoples, Russia vowed to free the Balkans from the Ottoman Empire. Holy Mother Russia even intended to reclaim Constantinople for Christendom. (Of course, there were also some secular advantages to having naval access to the Mediterranean.) Russia had already driven the Turks out of Crimea and Rumania. In 1877, it was ready to complete the crusade. Bulgaria’s independence was at hand.

The Russo-Turkish War was between the two most inept powers in Europe. If Turkey was “the sick man of Europe”, Russia was the stupid lummox of the continent. But a lummox is usually quite strong; and even when it trips over its own feet, it will crush anyone beneath it. Turkey couldn’t move out of the way. After a short but bloody war, Russia nearly achieved her goal. Constantinople had yet to be taken, and the sudden presence of the British navy in the Black Sea was intended to discourage any further Russian ambition. However, Bulgaria, Macedonia and Bosnia were liberated, or at least had changed from Turkish rule to Russian domination.

Acknowledging the obvious, Turkey ceded these territories in the Treaty of San Stefano, signed on March 3, 1878. Bulgaria was once again an independent country (although a presumably Pro-Russian one) and a very large country at that. In addition to its ancestral lands, Bulgaria now encompassed Macedonia and Thrace.

The other Great Powers of Europe-Britain, Austria-Hungary and Germany-were alarmed by the prospect of Russian control of the Balkans. Forming a united front in 1878, they met in Berlin and forced Russia to surrender most of her gains. You almost have to feel sorry for Russia. The Lummox was pitted against the combined wiles of Bismarck and Disraeli. (That does seem an invincible, irresistible combination; in fact, the two brilliant rogues actually liked each other. What a joint press-conference that would have been!)

Bulgaria’s independence was acknowledged but on more humble dimensions. Macedonia and Thrace actually were returned to the Ottoman Empire. (Bosnia’s final status was undecided but would be administered by Austria-Hungary. That certainly would prove eventful.)

Nonetheless, half a Bulgaria is better than none, and Bulgarians still celebrate March 3rd as National Liberation Day. Of course, Bulgaria still coveted that lost territory. In 1912, in alliance with Greece and Serbia, Bulgaria fought and defeated Turkey. The following year, Greece, Serbia and Turkey allied to fight Bulgaria. And in 1914, Turkey and Bulgaria were allied against Serbia AND Russia.

Hey, that’s the Balkans.

March 1st:  Happy St. David’s Day.

In honor of the Patron Saint of Wales, it is customary to wear and eat a leek. This would also make David the patron saint of halitosis.

Living in the sixth century, David should have had a few legends in which he fought dragons and evil wizards. He was a contemporary of King Arthur, but David was apparently immune to excitement. His life reads like a human resource manual. The drab, charisma-free man would have been a disaster as a missionary, but he was ideal for doing a pew inventory. And that is exactly what Wales needed.

The impoverished, mountainous region had been inundated with refugees, the survivors of Roman Britain. Fleeing the Angles-Saxons, these Britons had lost their classical culture, their knowledge of Latin, even an awareness of vowels. They had regressed to a more primitive Celtic society. The Church feared that they would lose their Christianity too.

The methodical David prevented that by making the Church unavoidable. He founded churches and monasteries throughout Wales. These ecclesiastical franchises were the foundations on which society could stabilize and begin to rebuild. David’s bureaucratic nature may well have saved Wales. Without him, the dispossessed, despairing Britons might well have skipped off the nearest cliff. (Lemming does sound like a Welsh name.)

So remember St. David. He is the closest that a saint will ever get to a MBA.

January 11, 1927:  Louis B. Mayer Wants To Feel Classy

Every year you torment yourself with the question “Will I really watch the Academy Awards again?”  There are good reasons to do so.  First, if you are a masochist, the gratification would be obvious: hours of stupefying boredom mixed with irritating attempts at entertainment.  Then, there is the cultural obligation.  If these people are “stars”, shouldn’t you know who they are?  (Mastering the distinction between Shia LaBoeuf and Emile Hirsch could earn you the respect of teenagers!)  And, those of us of a graying age have a morbid fascination seeing how our past favorites now look:  who still are glamorous and who should sue their plastic surgeons?

Of course, you will want to hear the speeches.  If nothing else, you will feel so superior.  The usual speech at the Oscars is terrible:  incoherent, rambling and too often neurotic.   Surprisingly, most of the speeches are only 45 seconds in length; they do seem so much longer.  Indeed, the Academy tries to impose a time limit on the speakers.  Notice how the orchestra begins playing the 46th second of a speech, just as the year’s winning set designer is thanking his acupuncturist.  If the speaker ignores that hint, one of those smiling models–who likely has a black belt in karate– will subtly pinion his arms and nudge him off stage.  But despite this terror-imposed punctuality, a two-hour ceremony somehow lasts four hours or so.

Consider the irony:  if our movies were as bloated and misdirected as the Oscars ceremony, Hollywood might still be orange groves near a small city named Los Angeles.  Yet, Hollywood is one of the great and enduring success stories of America.  In 1906, the perennial sunshine of Southern California was conducive for shooting film and tempted a New York-based studio to open a west coast office.  Even then, filmmakers had a tendency to copy each other.  By 1915, most American movies were made in California, and an agricultural community outside of Los Angeles had become the center and synonym for movies.

The world loved Hollywood’s films.  Charlie Chaplin, Mary Pickford and Douglas Fairbanks by themselves ensured a trade surplus for America.  As for the producers and studio heads–Louis B. Mayer, Cecil B. DeMille, Samuel Goldwyn and others–they were rich and powerful but still dissatisfied.  Men of modest origins but not modest natures, they wanted honors and deference.  In another time or country, they could have acquired titles of nobility; but 20th century America had none to offer.  However, in 20th century America these producers were free to anoint themselves.  So they did.  On January 11, 1927 Louis B. Mayer announced the formation of a society whose chief purpose was self-adoration.  Grasping for prestige, the organization’s name was the Academy of Motion Pictures Arts and Sciences.  Its first president was the preeminent leading man of the day: the popular and presentable Mr. Fairbanks.  (His divorces were amicable.)  As befits any prestigious Academy, there would be annual awards for merit.

The first awards ceremony was at a banquet in May, 1929.  Fourteen awards were given out in 15 minutes.  We would recognize most of the awards’ categories:  best film, best actor, best actress, best director, etc.  But the prize for “Best Title Writing” requires some explanation.  Movies were silent, and any narration or dialogue would appear on title cards flashing on the screen.  So, when the villain wants to have his way with Lillian Gish, a title card would express Miss Gish’s indignation:  “You cad!”  The first award for best Title Writing was also the last.  In 1927’s”The Jazz Singer” Al Jolson had turned to the audience and said aloud, “You ain’t heard nothing yet.”  The Hollywood film now talked.

The tradition of the terrible acceptance speech also dates to that first Awards ceremony.  The winner for best actor was Emil Jannings.  He was German but in silent films no one could detect his miserable knowledge of English.  The advent of the “talkie”, however, ended his prospects in Hollywood.  He actually was on a train out of town when the first Awards ceremony was held.  Jannings wired his acceptance speech, saying thank you and adding  “I therefore ask you to kindly hand me now already the statuette award for me.”

Of course, Hollywood could not resist filming itself.  The highlights of each ceremony were compiled and distributed as news reels to be shown in movie houses around the world.  Until 1952, that was the only way the public saw the Oscars; and through the wonders of editing, every winner was concise, eloquent and sober.  So the public never heard Greer Garson’s acceptance speech after she won Best Actress of 1942 for her performance in “Mrs. Miniver.”  Not even a transcript has survived, so only as legend and rumor is it remembered as the longest and worst speech in the history of the Academy Awards.  According to the Guinness Book of Records, Miss Garson spoke for nearly six minutes.  She began, “I’m practically unprepared” and then commenced a broad philosophical meandering about the nature of film.  No one could remember the details; amnesia can be a mercy.  Until Miss Garson, the Academy never thought of imposing a time limit on speakers.  After her, the limit was set at 45 seconds.

Yet, as you can see on YouTube, some strange speeches did elude editing.  Winning best actress for 1935, Bette Davis seems more vengeful than grateful.  “I am very pleased: everyone who voted for me at the Academy and all the people who have wished this year that I get it.”  In fact, Miss Davis was nursing a grudge.  In 1934, she had received critical praise and popular acclaim for her performance in “Of Human Bondage.”  Yet, the Academy had failed even to nominate her.  The omission caused such an outcry that the Academy was cowed into an unprecedented concession:  it would permit write-in votes for Best Actress.  She still failed to win; however, the next year the Academy was wise enough to give the formidable Miss Davis the award for a film with a very accurate title:  “Dangerous.”

At least Bette Davis was being Bette Davis.  In 1940, Vivien Leigh sounded like the prototype of the Stepford Wife.  Awarded Best Actress for her performance as Scarlett O’Hara, Miss Leigh said, ” Ladies and Gentlemen.  Please forgive me if my words are inadequate in thanking you for your very great kindness.  If I were to mention all those who have shown me wonderful generosity through “Gone With the Wind” I should have to entertain you with an oration that is as long as “Gone With the Wind” itself.  So if I may, I should like to devote my thanks on this occasion to that complefied figure of energy, courage and very great kindness in whom all points of “Gone With the Wind” meet, Mr. David Selznick.”

Such fulsome praise of a producer is not unusual, and it might even be mandatory in an Oscar speech.  In fairness, if any producer actually deserved that idolatry, Selznick did.  Through his constant and tireless work, he really did produce “Gone With the Wind.”; and it was his gut instincts to cast a minor English starlet as Scarlett O’Hara.  But Vivien Leigh’s speech is so artificial and stiff; it is practically embalmed.  Consider the use of the word “complefied”; it is a form of the Latin past participle for complete.  Who in the audience would have understood it except some priests and professors–very few of whom were at the Academy Awards that night.  Like the speech itself, the word is contrived and pretentious.  Furthermore, Miss Leigh seems uncomfortable in her recitation, as if she were the hostage of the speechwriter.  Perhaps she was, and the culprit was her fiancé at the time: Laurence Olivier.

Olivier certainly knew what sounded Shakespearean but had not quite mastered the coherence.  Thirty-nine years later, he had not improved.  Upon receiving a Lifetime Achievement Academy Award, Lord Olivier expressed his thanks: “In the great wealth, the great firmament of your nation’s generosities this particular choice may perhaps be found by future generations as a trifle eccentric, but the mere fact of it–the prodigal, pure human kindness of it–must be seen as a beautiful star in that firmament which shines upon me at this moment, dazzling me a little, but filling me with warmth of the extraordinary elation, the euphoria that happens to so many of us at the first breath of the majestic glow of a new tomorrow.”  The words are lofty and poetic; with Olivier’s magnificent voice, the speech sounds wonderful.  It just does not make the least sense.  And since Olivier was being broadcast live on television, he could not be edited into a passable semblance of reason.

Television has given the Oscars a worldwide audience and the winners the temptation to say whatever they want.  We will hear their political opinions and learn the names of their agents, children and high school English teachers.  Some will charm us with their wit, but more will amaze us with their lack of it.  Others will mistake us for psychoanalysts and divulge neuroses we didn’t want to know.  Of course, we will wonder why we are watching and make a determined resolution not to look next year.  We made the same vow last year.

February 21st

The Romans consider March the appropriate beginning of the year; it was the first month when the weather was suitable for a war.  In 1916, Erich von Falkenhayn couldn’t wait a week.  The Chief of Staff of the German Army had a strategy with all the subtlety you’d expect from a Prussian.  With a larger population than France, Germany could win a war of attrition.  So von Falkenhayn would force France into a battle that would be–as the Germans termed it–a meat grinder.  The German attack, beginning this day in 1916, was against the French fortifications near the city of Verdun.

Von Falkenhayn should have been aware that the French had allies.  Perhaps he dismissed the Russians as an ill-supplied horde led by imbeciles.  But the British had proved tenacious, and Vicks armaments were nearly as good as Krupps.  Indeed, the British would mount an offensive to relieve Verdun, and that effort was the Somme.  It turned out that the British were a well-supplied horde led by imbeciles.  (The junior officers, however, proved fine poets–even if the acclaim was usually posthumous.)

But Von Falkenhayn also overlooked the calibre of his ally.  The Austrians were an adequately-supplied, polyglot mob more likely to defect than fight; and their commanders were more conspicuous for their charm than ability.  (The last decade of the Hapsburg Empire was described by a British diplomat as “situation critical but not serious.”)  True, the Austrians were only facing the Russians but what if….

And that IF actually happened.  In June, four Russian armies attacked the Austrian lines in the Ukraine and Southern Poland.  The campaign, named for its commander Alexei Brusilov, lasted until September when the Russians finally ran out of supplies; but in that time, the Austrians lost 15,000 square miles, 1.5 million men– including 400,000 prisoners, and any claim to having an army.  The Brusilov Offensive was actually the greatest victory of the War; if it had happened on the Western Front, the War would have ended.  But the incompetent Tsarist government and the disintegrating Russian society couldn’t support this unparalleled victory.  Russia no longer could afford to win a battle, let alone fight it.

However, Russia’s victory was France’s salvation.  To keep Austria-Hungary from collapsing, 15 German divisions were rushed from France to the Eastern Front.  So the French held on to Verdun, losing 160,000 men but not their will to fight (at least until 1940).  Having lost 140,000 men themselves, the Germans abandoned the campaign.  Von Falkenhayn could claim his attrition strategy had succeeded, but Kaiser and the German General Staff didn’t seem to agree.

The general was replaced.  He eventually would be reassigned as the military advisor to the Ottoman Empire.  There, no one expected him to win.

February 8, 1904:  Remember Port Arthur!

In Japan today, there probably are a half-dozen or so 125 year-olds celebrating this anniversary of the Russo-Japanese War. It is unlikely that there are similar commemorations in Russia. First, you don’t celebrate a defeat. More importantly, Russia had trouble keeping its troops alive in 1904; so the odds of anyone surviving another century of Tsarist incompetence, Soviet brutality, and the damn Russian climate would be very unlikely.

The Russo-Japanese War could be described as a fight between two vultures. The decaying corpse happened to be Korea. However, Japan was the more popular vulture. The American and British publics were rooting for it; my grandmother remembered pep songs for the Japanese. Japan’s imperialism was not necessarily more endearing than Russia’s, but the Little Bully seemed preferable to the Big Bully. For 90 years, ever since Waterloo finally pacified the French, the chief aim of British foreign policy was to contain Russian expansion.

The British and Russians were fighting proxy wars in Afghanistan, Persia, and the Balkans. They fought a real one in the Crimea. And to frustrate Russian expansion in the Pacific, Britain formed an alliance with that up-and-coming little power Japan. Of course, the British lent their unmatched expertise in training the Japanese navy. Furthermore, the British assistance was not merely academic. How do you think that the Japanese knew the exact movements of the Russian fleets?

On this day in 1904, Japan started the war with a surprise attack on the Russian base at Pearl…Port Arthur in Korea. The Japanese army soon overran all of Korea and then proceeded to bash the Russians in Manchuria. The war lasted 19 months; the Russians did not win a single battle. Worse, the disastrous incompetence of the Tsarist government led to rioting in Russian cities, mutinies in the armed forces and demands for reform that would drag Russia at least into the 18th century.

But even Japan was suffering from the cost of war–literally. For all its victories, it was on the verge of bankruptcy. Modern war is expensive, and British assistance had not included blank checks. So both countries were ready for peace: Russia was tired of losing, and Japan was just tired. Despite the fact that Teddy Roosevelt looked somewhat Japanese, he was the accepted mediator for the peace negotiations which occurred at Portsmouth, New Hampshire. The ensuing treaty established Japan’s hegemony over Korea; no, the Koreans were not at the conference.

Russia was so thoroughly humiliated that Britain finally felt that it could stop worrying about the Tsarist Empire. Indeed, Whitehall was finally noticing just how obnoxious Kaiser Wilhelm was. For its part, Russia considered the need for long-overdue reforms but decided to blame the Jews instead. The same Tsarist incompetence would soon commit Russia to the defense of Serbia; but that eventually would cure Tsarist incompetence. As for Japan, it had Korea and a little bit of Manchuria. What more could it possibly want?

Once upon a time, an English king had a stammer.  However, thanks to a decisive form of surgery, Charles I was cured.  That therapy happened on this day in 1649.

But some 350 years late, my friend Hal Gordon is still trying to save King Charles.  Hal has taken up fencing so he is ready to skewer entire regiments of Roundheads.  Unfortunately, time travel remains a challenge.  Hal’s first attempt transported him 750,000 years into the future where he found himself siding with the Morlocks.  (Well, Hal is a Republican.)

Even worse for Hal, it seems that Charles I defies rescue.  The Four Musketeers tried it in “Twenty Years After.”  (Actually, the sequel to “The Three Musketeers” came out just a year later.  Dumas had no problem with writer’s block; he had a staff of ghostwriters.)  The Musketeers think they have the rescue plan all worked out.  The real axeman is kidnapped and replaced by one of the Frenchmen; the others are hiding under the scaffold.  Somehow they will snatch the king, fight their way out of London and make it to the ship awaiting them in the Channel. 

Will they need a miracle?  As a matter of fact, they do have an omniscient power on their side:  Oliver Cromwell.  He knows exactly what they are planning and intends to let them succeed–up to a point.  Cromwell prefers not to be blamed for regicide, so he will let Charles escape–at least from England.  But, if the ship in the Channel should mysteriously explode before reaching France, Cromwell can’t be blamed for that.  (Only suspected.)

In any case, Charles should have survived the scaffold.  However, the Musketeers’ hopes, Cromwell’s scheme and King Charles’ neck are spoiled by Mordaunt, the thoroughly vindictive son of Lady DeWinter.  With his Oedipal devotion, Mordaunt is determined to kill everyone from the first novel.  He, too, disguises himself as an axeman and he gets to the scaffold ahead of the musketeer.   Now, if John Woo had worked for Dumas, there could have a great dueling scene between the two axemen.  But Dumas simply has Mordaunt kill the king; the author saves the climactic confrontation abroad the floating bomb in the English Channel. 

(You will be relieved to know that the Musketeers survive, and there is no vindictive grandson of Lady DeWinter in “The Man in the Iron Mask”.)

However, I digress–which is my usual means of communication.  But if Hal can travel back to the 17th century, so might someone else–not merely to spoil the rescue but to make “Paradise Lost” funny.

And now for a  factual account of this day’s history:  https://finermanworks.com/your_rda_of_irony/2009/01/30/english-hystery-2/

My synagogue will be very disappointed in what I have to say.  Kate Middleton, the fiancee of William Windsor, is not remotely Jewish.  Yes, her mother’s maiden name is Goldsmith–which seems a Jewish moniker as well as occupation.  Furthermore, with the very same name, there is a prominent (and frequently notorious) British family which definitely is Semitic.  Remember the international playboy Sir James Goldsmith; you probably know someone he slept with.  That Goldsmith family founded the University of London at a time when Oxford and Cambridge wouldn’t allow Jews to graduate.  (They could attend the colleges, however;  English Anti-Semitism can be very polite.)

However, Kate Middleton ain’t one of those Goldsmiths–who originally were the Goldschmidts.  No, her Goldsmiths seem to be parishioners all the way back to Stonehenge.

If it is any solace at my synagogue, Prince William may be 1/32nd Jewish.  There were rumors about Prince Albert, the consort of Queen Victoria.  He did seem unusually brunet and intelligent for a Saxe-Coburg-Gotha, and his mother was said to be on very cordial terms with the Court financier.  Prince Philip did consent to genetic testing to help identify the remains of the Romanovs.  But I doubt that anyone in the Royal family will offer a swab sample to prove a relationship with Sacha Baron Cohen.

p.s.  Let’s not forget the historic significance of this day:  https://finermanworks.com/your_rda_of_irony/2010/01/08/new-orleans-and-salaciously-old-orleans/

I can tell you the date of the battle of Manzikert but I have yet to memorize my cell phone number.  So how would I remember that today is the birthday of Joan Stewart Smith?  Of course, the name Stewart would trigger my mnemonic synapses.  And I would be just as cognizant if she were Joan Hohenzollern Smith, Joan Romanov Smith or Joan Qing/Manchu Smith.  However it really helped that she publicly announced that today is her birthday.  (She is in public relations but I am still willing to believe her.)

Happy Birthday Joan.  I hope that you don’t mind sharing it with Bishop Ussher.  He could use you as a publicist.

January 4, 1581:  Happy Birthday Bishop Ussher

Imagine being remembered for the most stupid thing you ever said.  And I mean “remembered“:  three centuries later, people would still be mocking you.  That is the pathetic legacy of James Ussher (1581-1656).  He’s the one who said that the universe was created in October, 4004 B.C.  Now stop your sneering.  He was not a village idiot or a charlatan, but a highly respected scholar and Anglican clergyman.   However preposterous his calculation now seems, it was a painstaking interpolation of history and the Bible.

His chronology was the culmination of four years of research.  Ussher was so diligent that he would not trust the Greek or Latin translations of the Bible; he went back to the original Hebrew.  (You may question the quality of Hebrew taught in 16th century Dublin, and if he ever practiced it with any merchants in London.)  The polyglot Ussher was also using the works of Greek and Roman historians to weave the pagans’ chronology with the Bible’s.   Finished in 1654, “Annales Veteris et Nove Testamenti” was in fact an unprecedented work of scholarship.

Until Ussher, ancient history had no precise chronology.  Yes, theater goers knew that Julius Caesar died on March 15, but the exact year was a guess.   When did Alexander the Great live?  You’d think that scholars would know; they didn’t.  History since Anno Domini had a defined order; but “before Christ” was a vague progression.  People knew that Rameses came before Cyrus, who came before Hannibal, but the specific dates were unknown.  Ussher changed that and with an impressive degree of accuracy.  He was the first true chronicler of ancient history.  The battle of Marathon–490 B.C.: correct.  Babylonians destroy Jerusalem–586 B.C.: give or take a year.  King David died–970 B.C.:  seems plausible.  Yes, you notice the diminishing precision.

Being a clergyman (an archbishop, no less) Ussher regarded the Bible as an infallible historical work.   So his chronological interpolation would extend to the beginning of history, and I do mean “The Beginning.”  If you take the Bible literally, then Ussher’s calculation cannot be faulted.  The universe was created in 4004 B.C.  But that is a matter of faith rather than history.

Unfortunately, Archbishop Ussher is best remembered for his worst assertion, not his genuine and lasting contributions to scholarship.  But history isn’t supposed to be fair–just accurate.

On this day in 1776, George Washington proved himself to be an immoral secular humanist by ruining a British Christmas party. While the Hessian garrison in Trenton, New Jersey was celebrating the birth of Jesus by compressing the 12 days of Christmas into one hangover, the sacrilegious Continental army crossed the Delaware River and attacked. We all know the painting of that Freemason Washington standing in a boat as his men rowed to battle. Of course, truly devout Americans would have walked upon the water.

Yes, the Americans won that day, but the Continental Congress should have disavowed such godless cheating. Why wasn’t George Washington court-martialed for his impiety? In fact, as an apology to Jesus, we should have called the Revolution off.

Boxing Day

This day celebrates the invention of production placement when Arena Sports Productions gave the infant Jesus a pair of authentic Spartacus boxing gloves.  There were tentative plans to arrange a fight between Jesus and the future emperor Claudius.  However, some doubted whether the palsied, stammering Roman would be a fit match for a carpentry major at Nazareth Community College.  It was hoped that Jesus would cure Claudius before beating him up.

As you know, however, that fight never happened.  The first real Boxing Day bout occurred between St. Stephen the King of Hungary and St. Stephen the Very Tactless over whose feast day this was.  Since this was prior to the Marquess of Queensbury rules, Tactless Steve and Paprika Breath fought it out with poison tipped crosiers.     (Fight available on pay-per-view.)  And it was a split decision.

(So, do I have a career with Wikipedia?)

Vladimir Putin is feeling sentimental today. It is the 98th anniversary of the founding of the Cheka, the first Soviet secret police. In honor of this special day, 98 journalists will be assassinated. (To make that quota, the corpse pile will have to include four movie critics and seven cooking columnists; Russia is running out of journalists.)

We tend to think of Lenin as a misunderstood old dear, just a badly tailored Edmund Gwenn. Of course, that is only because we are comparing him to Stalin. In fact, Lenin wasn’t that old, a mere 47 at the time of the November Revolution. (Now, don’t you feel like an under-achiever.) Nor was he remotely lovable. Although he was not a Stalinoid monster, Lenin was a certifiable creep. He was an obsessed, remorseless tyrant who actually read calculus books for fun. Would you be any less dead if Lenin shot you for the sake of dialectic materialism than if Stalin shot you because it was his hobby?

So, it was not surprising that Lenin would establish a secret police just six weeks after the November Revolution. (So much for the honeymoon.) The first head of the Cheka was Felix Dzerzhinsky who was unique among the Bolshevik aristocracy in that he really was an aristocrat. Anyone who slighted him at a soiree or beat him at tennis probably did not live to regret it. Dzerzhinsky may have betrayed his class but not his tastes. In the midst of revolution and civil war, Dzerzhinsky requisitioned a Rolls-Royce for his personal use. It should be noted that his timing was as impeccable as his style. He died of heart attack in 1926, and so avoided a less natural cause of death from Stalin.

In organizing the Cheka, Lenin was just observiing a hallowed Russian tradition. Since Ivan the Terrible, the Tsars had relied on secret police as well. Indeed, Ivan set the standard. His death squads, the Oprichniki, had a very distinctive insignia: the severed head of a dog on their saddles. The dog’s head presumably would sniff out treason. Ivan distrusted his nobles, and the Oprichniki eliminated the causes of his anxiety. Of course, even the Oprichniki found that Ivan could be a little too whimsical. There is a story of a father-and-son team who had risen high in the Oprichniki hierarchy. While at a feast, Ivan thought of a test of loyalty for entertainment. The son was ordered to strangle the father. Before the guests, the son did as he was ordered. Then Ivan ordered the son to be executed; after all, how could Ivan trust anyone who would kill his father?

At least, subsequent Tsars and their secret police refrained from decapitating dogs for decor. (However, Faberge could have made some wonderful facsimiles.) In the last decades of the Russian Empire, the secret police was known as the Okhrana. Their chief concern was suppressing the growing radical movement. They proved so successful at infiltrating revolutionaries groups that Okhrana agents actually were managing many of the revolutionary plots. In 1911, Okhrana oversaw the assassination of the Russian Prime Minister, Pyotr Stolypin. A political moderate, at least by Russian standards, Stolypin’s attempts at reforms outraged the conservatives. So, Okhrana manipulated a thoroughly infiltrated radical group to kill him. The actual assassin was a genuine revolutionary but his supervisor and his supervisor’s supervisor were all on the Okhrana payroll. It was a perfect Okhrana coup: the reactionaries kill the moderate and frame the radicals.

Yes, the Okhrana even infiltrated the Bolsheviks. One of their double agents was a young Georgian who called himself Stalin. We can surmise that Stalin only gave up the names of the people he didn’t like. Of course, that could have been enough to crowd Siberia.

Oprichniki, Okrana, Cheka, KGB…These are the happy memories that Vladimir Putin is enjoying today. And who says that you can’t bring back the good old days?