Category Archives: economics

Preparing for VE Day in London

From Victory ’45: The End of the War in Eight Surrenders, by James Holland and Al Murray (Grove Atlantic, 2025), Kindle pp. 169-172:

ON 7 MAY IN LONDON THE BRITISH Prime Minister, Winston Churchill, was woken with the news of the surrenders earlier that morning in Reims: Jodl had signed on behalf of the Flensburg government at 2.41 a.m. Delivering the news was Captain Richard Pim, head of the map room. Churchill looked at the document and initialled it. This was the news he had been waiting so long for. He teased Pim that finally he had made up for years of bringing him bad news by delivering the best news of the war. Celebrations, though, would have to wait – a decision was made that 8 May would be ‘Victory in Europe Day’, rather than as the BBC had po-facedly decided ‘Ceasefire Day’. Even with unfinished business in the Far East, this was bigger than any ceasefire; Churchill would have his victory.

The news was impossible to contain – the Ministry of Information told the public at 7.40 p.m. that a formal announcement of the victory would be made the next day by the Prime Minister. That said, the shooting hadn’t yet stopped. The Kriegsmarine took it upon itself to sink two ships off the Firth of Forth, the Norwegian Sneland I and the Canadian Avondale Park. Nine merchant seamen were killed by U-2336, the last maritime deaths in the western theatre, drawing out the pointless killing to the very last.

Nevertheless, a national holiday was declared for 8 May. Knowing that the moment was approaching, the government made sure that the Ministry of Food had sufficient beer for the impending celebrations. Licensing hours were extended – though this conjures up the notion that they could somehow be enforced on such a day. The ministry had prepared for VE Day, instructing shops on how long they should open, reassuring people that milk would be delivered as usual and that bakers should bake enough bread for the following day. Government departments received the code words ‘Mousetrap: noon tomorrow’ to alert them to it being official.

Celebrations had begun on the evening of the 7th and went into the early morning of the 8th – at 2 a.m. ships in Southampton Docks sounded air horns and a searchlight flashed V for Victory.

The newspapers were also allowed, for the first time since war had been declared, to run a weather forecast. Weather forecasting had been a top-secret enterprise up to this point, something upon which the fate of nations, of invasions, of bombing raids and air defence hung. VE Day lifted such secrecy. The first forecast since September 1939 predicted rain for the afternoon. Fortunately it was wrong and a fine day followed, with sunshine – the ‘King’s weather’.

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Forging Ahead for the Postwar

From Victory ’45: The End of the War in Eight Surrenders, by James Holland and Al Murray (Grove Atlantic, 2025), Kindle pp. 52-54:

While, on the face of it, Wolff appeared to be one step ahead of Kaltenbrunner in his contacts with the Allies, the RSHA chief had been stockpiling immense amounts of cash for a post-war world in which money could well buy him out of trouble. Twenty miles north-west of Bolzano, down a long Alpine valley, lay Merano, a small spa town popular before the war for its mountain sports, which had been home to a number of Jews, most of whom had since been arrested and deported. Since early the previous year, it had also been the headquarters of an outrageous money-laundering operation. In fact, there were warehouses next to Merano’s racecourse now stuffed with boxes full of counterfeit British and US banknotes.

The location of Merano – between Innsbruck and Austria to the north, Switzerland to the east, and with Verona, Lake Garda and Bologna all as local satellites – made the town the ideal place from which to run a money-laundering operation. To launder money, the ability to distribute it and spread it to the four winds was essential, but equally important was to keep the enterprise away from too many prying eyes. Kaltenbrunner was mostly in Berlin, but Merano was surrounded by mountains and isolated. Here another of his creatures could mastermind the entire operation with comparative impunity.

Forging British banknotes had originally been devised by the SD back in 1940, although the counterfeiters initially struggled and by the time of Heydrich’s assassination in Prague in June 1942 the operation had already been wound down. Under Kaltenbrunner, however, counterfeiting British notes was revived as Operation BERNHARD. The aim was no longer to flood the British economy but rather to use the money to finance secret intelligence operations. And this time the counterfeiters were of an entirely higher calibre: Jewish prisoners at Sachsenhausen concentration camp to the north of Berlin who were superb at the art of forging banknotes. By 1943, some 140 prisoners were producing tens of millions of pounds’ worth of notes from six flat-bed printing presses. By May 1944, Kaltenbrunner ordered them to start producing US dollars as well, not exactly for intelligence operations but for his own personal use, whether that might be a last stand in the Alpine redoubt – certainly his cover story – or, more realistically, to accumulate a vast private fund for a rainy post-war day.

Running the laundering of this extraordinary counterfeiting operation was another unscrupulous rogue called Friedrich Schwend, part of the mosaic of corruption, criminality and deceit that marked the Nazi regime. Like Kaltenbrunner, Schwend had been only too willing to cast ideology aside in favour of looking after number one and was proving adept at adapting his skills to self-preservation. Schwend was thirty-eight, a former pre-war car engine salesman and a smooth-talking charmer who had been working for the Abwehr, the Wehrmacht’s intelligence service – rather than the SS-run RSHA – at the start of the war. Repeatedly getting himself into trouble, he was caught out by his superiors selling unauthorized but bogus German U-boat plans to the British for cash, captured by Italian secret intelligence agents, turned back over to the Germans at the Brenner Pass and flung in prison at Klagenfurt in the Austrian Alps.

Kaltenbrunner learned about Schwend from none other than Wilhelm Höttl, who suggested this canny rogue as just the man for overseeing a money-laundering operation. That Schwend had fallen foul of the Abwehr was no disqualification for working for Kaltenbrunner; quite the opposite, in fact. Releasing Schwend from his incarceration, the RSHA boss instructed him to run the entire laundering operation of forged banknotes, giving him, frankly, astonishing levels of latitude so long as he successfully and swiftly spread the notes as far and wide as possible. Incredibly, Schwend even negotiated for himself a 33.33 per cent cut of every pound sterling he brought into circulation.

In very swift order, Schwend established his small operation under the entirely fake name of ‘Stab. 4 Deutsches Panzerkorps’, initially at Abbazia and Trieste before realizing that Merano offered a considerably better, more discreet location. Taking over the Schloss Labers, a grand – but not too grand – villa perched among vineyards on a hill overlooking the town, and protected by a small squad of SS police troops, Schwend got down to building a fortune. With the forged notes he bought houses, hotels, ships, cars and shares in a number of companies. Some of it was used for bribes and he also sent plenty to vaults in Zurich. He developed a dense network of couriers and agents, including Jews. Jack Van Herten, for example, was a Dutch Jew operating under the cover of the International Committee of the Red Cross. In reality, he was smuggling Jews to the Middle East but at the same time passing on laundered money for Schwend. And Schwend also took over those warehouses at the Merano racecourse, hiding counterfeit notes in race boxes that were then distributed to Holland, France, Denmark and elsewhere. It was a huge operation and Schwend was making millions. But Kaltenbrunner was making even more. And right under the nose of the Höchster SS und Polizeiführer in Italy, Karl Wolff.

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Filed under Austria, Britain, economics, Germany, Italy, military, Switzerland, U.S., war

RLS’s Highlanders

From Storyteller: The Life of Robert Louis Stevenson, by Leo Damrosch (Yale University Press, 2025), Kindle pp. 472-477:

However Louis’s best fiction may have originated, it sprang from long-meditated themes. His love of tales of piracy was waiting for Treasure Island; his dread of interior conflict was waiting for Jekyll and Hyde. The roots of Kidnapped reached back to his earliest days, when his family spent extended vacations at Bridge of Allan, a popular health resort northwest of Edinburgh. Nearby were Stirling Castle, which had endured eight sieges over the years, and the battlefield of Bannockburn, where a Scottish army defeated the English in the fourteenth century. Bridge of Allan was also close to the imaginary line that divided the Lowlands from the Highlands, as shown on the map (fig. 56). It wasn’t an actual physical boundary, or an administrative one either, but reflected an awareness that the cultures on either side were profoundly different from each other. In Kidnapped a character mentions “the Highland line.”

Louis was there at least ten times between the ages of three and twenty-five, and eagerly devoured tales of the romantic past. At Davos he planned to write a formal history of the Highlands, and although that never happened, the reading he did for it was still fresh in his mind when he began Kidnapped.

As their name implies, the Highlands of Scotland are very different, geographically and geologically, from the fertile Lowlands. They are dominated by mountain ranges, and Ben Nevis, at 4,400 feet, is the highest mountain in the British Isles. Population was sparse, supported mainly by cattle raising and subsistence farming. In a book about “Britishness” Linda Colley says that Lowland Scots “traditionally regarded their Highland countrymen as members of a different and inferior race, violent, treacherous, poverty-stricken and backward.” Conversely, Highlanders regarded the urban and commercial Lowlanders as a threat to their way of life.

As everyday garments men in the Highlands wore kilts, which were originally full-length cloaks but in the eighteenth century had been modified to knee-length skirts (women wore dresses, not kilts). The common language of the Highlands was Gaelic, completely different from the Lallans (“Lowland”) Scots that Louis enjoyed using; he never learned Gaelic. In the Lowlands most of the landlords, merchants, lawyers, clergy, and professors had welcomed the 1707 union of Scotland with England. They spoke English, and many of them pursued careers in London. That was the class to which both sides of Louis’s family belonged. He never felt that he belonged, however, and he identified in imagination with the culture of the Highlands, which appealed to him as romantic, passionate, and risk-taking—everything Edinburgh was not. “In spite of the difference of blood and language,” he once wrote, “the Lowlander feels himself the sentimental countryman of the Highlander.”

Clann is the Gaelic word for “family,” and clan membership was fundamental to Highland life. “The Highlands were tribal,” the historian T. C. Smout says, “in the exact sense that nineteenth-century Africa was tribal.” A clan might coincide geographically with a particular region, but some chieftains had no land at all; the basis of allegiance was blood relationship. Clan members owed military service to their chief if summoned, a feudal obligation that had not existed in England since the Middle Ages. The obligation of service operated in both directions. Smout explains, “Since all the clansmen from the chief downwards were blood relations of each other, it followed that the chiefs were expected to feel fatherly obligations even towards the poorest and weakest, and all the clansmen were expected to give unstinted help to each other in time of crisis.”

There were at least 120 clans in Scotland (including some in the Lowlands), depending how they’re counted—possibly more than 200. Among the most famous Highland clans were the Campbells and Stewarts in the south, the Mackenzies and Macdonalds further north, and in the western Hebrides the Macleans and Macleods. The map indicates the principal locations of a number of clans.

As Fernand Braudel showed in his classic study of the Mediterranean, mountain people everywhere have resisted control from outside, fragmenting into tribes or clans and engaging in endless feuds. Clan solidarity was intense in the Highlands; a character in Kidnapped comments that “they all hing together like bats in a steeple.”

Louis empathized with their defense of a traditional culture. Walter Scott’s novels celebrated the heroic past—that was why Louis’s father loved them—but he acknowledged the historical fatality of its passing, and understood that the defeat of the clans made the development of modern Scotland possible. Louis felt deeply disaffected from modern Scotland, and lost causes always fired his imagination.

Kidnapped is set in 1751, at a time in history that may need some context today. After King James of Scotland succeeded Queen Elizabeth in 1603 as James I, his line—the Stuarts—had occupied the British throne, ruling over England and Wales as well as Scotland. In 1714, however, the next Stuart in the succession was a Catholic. He would have become King James III, but Parliament had declared Catholicism to be disqualifying, and a Protestant imported from Germany was crowned instead as George I. From then on, many Scots claimed allegiance to the displaced Stuart heir, who was known as the Pretender. His supporters were called Jacobites, from Jacobus, the Latin form of James.

In 1715 James led an armed rebellion to recover the throne, but was defeated in battle in the north of England and spent the rest of his days in France. There was a second rebellion in 1745, led by his son Charles Edward Stuart—“Bonnie Prince Charlie”—and it too was put down. Many Scots continued privately to toast the Pretender as “the king over the water,” but England cracked down, constructing forts throughout Scotland to maintain control. English soldiers—the notorious redcoats—patrolled everywhere, and in effect the Highlands became occupied territory.

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Max Heiliger’s Recycled Wealth

From The Escape Artist: The Man Who Broke Out of Auschwitz to Warn the World, by Jonathan Freedland (HarperCollins, 2022), Kindle pp. 108-111:

WHAT WALTER SAW in Kanada was proof that Auschwitz had not lost its founding ambition, the one nurtured by Heinrich Himmler. Even if it were now tasked with the business of mass murder, its Nazi proprietors were clearly determined that Auschwitz should continue to serve as an economic hub, that even in its new mission it should turn a profit.

For Kanada was a commercial enterprise. Every item that was not broken was collected, sorted, stored and repackaged for domestic consumption back in the Fatherland. In one month alone, some 824 freight containers were transported by rail from Auschwitz back to the Old Reich, and those were just the ones carrying textiles and leather goods. Walter could see this traffic for himself, how a goods train would pull up every weekday to be loaded with stolen property. It could be high-quality men’s shirts on a Monday, fur coats on a Tuesday, children’s wear on a Wednesday. Nothing would be allowed to go to waste. Even the unusable clothes were sorted, then graded: grade one, grade two, grade three, with that last category, the worst, shipped off to paper factories, where the garments would be stripped back to their basic fibres and recycled. If there was even a drop of value, the Nazis would squeeze it out. Murder and robbery went hand in hand. Some of these goods would be distributed for free to Germans in need, perhaps via the Winterhilfeswerke, the winter relief fund. A mother in Düsseldorf whose husband was off fighting on the eastern front might have her spirits lifted by the arrival of a thick winter coat or new shoes for the children – so long as she did not look too closely at the marks indicating the place where the yellow star had been torn off or think too hard about the children who had worn those shoes before.

Besides the women’s clothing and underwear and children’s wear, racially pure Germans back home were eligible for featherbeds, quilts, woollen blankets, shawls, umbrellas, walking sticks, Thermos flasks, earmuffs, combs, leather belts, pipes and sunglasses, as well as mirrors, suitcases and prams from the abundant supply that had caught Walter’s eye. There were so many prams that just shifting one batch, running into the hundreds, to the freight yard – pushed in the regular Auschwitz fashion, namely in rows of five – took a full hour. Ethnic German settlers in the newly conquered lands might also get a helping hand, in the form of furniture and household items, perhaps pots, pans and utensils. Victims of Allied bombing raids, those who had lost their homes, were also deemed worthy of sharing in the Kanada bounty: they might receive tablecloths or kitchenware. Watches, clocks, pencils, electric razors, scissors, wallets and flashlights: they would be repaired if necessary and despatched to troops on the front line. The fighter pilots of the Luftwaffe were not to miss out: they were given fountain pens that had once inscribed the words and thoughts of Jews.

A few items would find a new owner on the spot. Those SS men who could get away with it, accompanied by their wives, would treat themselves to a trip to Kanada, dipping into the treasure trove for whatever took their fancy, whether it be a smart cigarette case for him or a stylish dress for her. The place was brimming with luxuries for every possible taste. Still, it was not these delights that gave Kanada its economic value or that took Auschwitz closer to its founding goal of becoming a moneymaking venture. A clue to the greater treasure was in that bench of women squeezing toothpaste tubes, looking for jewels or rolls of banknotes. Even beyond the high-end goods, Kanada was awash with precious stones, precious metals and old-fashioned cash.

Walter saw it with his own eyes, often barely concealed, stashed by victims in their luggage. It might be in dollars or English pounds, the hard currency that deportees had acquired after selling their property: their homes or their businesses, sold at giveaway prices in the hurried hours before their expulsion from the countries where their families had lived for generations. There was a team of clearance workers who specialised in finding money and jewels, but everyone in Kanada had the argot: ‘napoleons’ were the gold coins that carried the image of the French emperor, ‘swines’ the ones that bore, even a quarter-century after the Bolshevik revolution, the face of the Russian tsar. There seemed to be cash from every corner of the globe, not only francs and lire, but Cuban pesos, Swedish Croons, Egyptian pounds.

Walter had never seen wealth like it, a colossal fortune tossed note by note and coin by coin into a trunk set aside for the purpose. All the stolen valuables went into that trunk: the gold watches, the diamonds, the rings, as well as the money. By the end of a shift, the case would often be so full that the SS man would be unable to close it. Walter would watch as the Nazi in charge pressed down on the lid with his boot, forcing it to snap shut.

This was big business for the Reich. Every month or so, up to twenty suitcases, bulging with the wealth of the murdered, along with crates crammed with more valuables, would be loaded on to lorries and driven, under armed guard, to SS headquarters in Berlin. The destination was a dedicated account at the Reichsbank, held in the name of a fabulously wealthy – and wholly fictitious – individual: Max Heiliger.

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RLS in the “Long Depression”

From Storyteller: The Life of Robert Louis Stevenson, by Leo Damrosch (Yale University Press, 2025), Kindle pp. 276-277:

This was the time of a “Long Depression” that lasted for six years throughout Europe and the United States. Britain was hardest hit of all. Louis was now confronted with a reality he had been insulated from, and as Furnas says, “There rubbed against him the direct knowledge that to be penniless was more miserable than picturesque; that economic disaster was cruel to individuals as well as abstractly depressing to masses; that alcoholism was incapacitating, not jolly.”

In many ways The Amateur Emigrant anticipates Orwell’s Down and Out in Paris and London half a century later.

Those around me were for the most part quiet, orderly, obedient citizens, family men broken by adversity, elderly youths who had failed to place themselves in life, and people who had seen better days. . . . Labouring mankind had in the last years, and throughout Great Britain, sustained a prolonged and crushing series of defeats. I had heard vaguely of these reverses; of whole streets of houses standing deserted by the Tyne, the cellar doors broken and removed for firewood; of homeless men loitering at the street-corners of Glasgow with their chests beside them; of closed factories, useless strikes, and starving girls. But I had never taken them home to me, or represented these distresses livingly to my imagination.

In a real sense Louis was escaping from defeats of his own. “We were a company of the rejected. The drunken, the incompetent, the weak, the prodigal, all who had been unable to prevail against circumstances in the one land were now fleeing pitifully to another, and though one or two might still succeed, all had already failed. We were a shipful of failures, the broken men of England.” Of Scotland too, of course. “Skilled mechanics, engineers, millwrights, and carpenters were fleeing as from the native country of starvation.” What skills was he himself bringing?

Yet a surprising optimism prevailed. “It must not be supposed that these people exhibited depression. The scene, on the contrary, was cheerful. Not a tear was shed on board the vessel. All were full of hope for the future, and showed an inclination to innocent gaiety. Some were heard to sing, and all began to scrape acquaintance with small jests and ready laughter.” Louis always enjoyed children, and noted with amusement that they were attracted to each other “like dogs” and went around “all in a band, as thick as thieves at a fair,” while the adults were still “ceremoniously maneuvering on the outskirts of acquaintance.”

As the title of The Amateur Emigrant suggests, he belonged among these people only in a sense. It would be some years before he could support himself by writing, but his parents might resume their subsidies before then, as indeed did happen. His fellow travelers were not just emigrants but immigrants, whereas (despite what the passenger list said) he had no intention of making a home in America. In much the same way, by the time Orwell published his book he had ended his experiment of being down and out. Still, the voyage was a turning point. “Travel is of two kinds, and this voyage of mine across the ocean combined both. ‘Out of my country and myself I go,’ sings the old poet: and I was not only travelling out of my country in latitude and longitude, but out of myself in diet, associates, and consideration.”

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Polish Heweliusz Series on Netflix

My latest weekly update from Culture.pl includes a profile of a new and interesting Polish film series: Heweliusz: Netflix Revisits Poland’s Most Tragic Ferry Disaster. During our recent pilgrimage to Gdansk, we stayed in a nice hotel on Heweliusz Street not far from Gdansk Main train station. Here are some excerpts from the story on Culture.pl.

Jan Holoubek’s blockbuster is more than just a solid piece of good entertainment. In this Netflix series the story of the greatest maritime disaster in post-war Poland becomes a tale of the victims of the transformation and the brutal verdicts of history.
It was 5:12 a.m. on January 14, 1993, when the rail-truck ferry Jan Heweliusz, operating between Świnoujście [= Ger. Swinemünde] and Ystad, capsized in the stormy winds. A few minutes earlier, Captain Andrzej Ułasiewicz had broadcast a ‘Mayday! Mayday!’ message, calling for help from all nearby vessels. He had 36 passengers and 29 crew members on board, all of whom found themselves in the water at a temperature of 2 degrees Celsius during a raging storm, force 12 on the Beaufort scale. Ułasiewicz didn’t even try to save himself – he remained on the bridge until the end, trying to relay information to rescue units – German, Danish, and Polish. When the waters receded, he was named as the main culprit in the Heweliusz tragedy, whose story is now told in Jan Holoubek’s series.

From its inception, the MF Jan Heweliusz was considered an exceptionally unlucky vessel. Launched in 1977 at the Norwegian Trosvik shipyard, it sailed under the Polish flag for the next 16 years, experiencing around 30 different breakdowns during that time. Its history of adventures was so rich that Swedish sailors dubbed it ‘Jan Haverelius,’ or ‘Accident John.’

The Polish ferry capsized twice while in port (hence why one of the series’ characters explicitly calls it ‘a f…cking roly-poly toy’), its engines failed, and its ballast system malfunctioned. The Heweliusz also collided with a fishing boat.

However two other failures proved crucial to the tragic events of January 14, 1993. The first was damage to the ferry a few days before the sinking. While docking at the Swedish port, the vessel struck the quay, bending the gate securing the ferry’s entrance, allowing water to enter. The shipowners, Euroafrica company, a subsidiary of Polish Ocean Lines, were aware of the defect but decided not to suspend operation until it was fully repaired. The reason was simple – a vessel sitting in port wouldn’t earn any money, and the company’s management wouldn’t allow it. The crew members themselves were supposed to carry out makeshift repairs, but without the proper equipment and time, they could only partially repair the damage.

The second of the ferry’s structural defects proved even more significant and far-reaching. It involved a multi-ton concrete cover on one of the decks. In 1986, during a voyage, a refrigerated truck caught fire on the ferry, spreading to other vehicles and engulfing the vessel’s superstructure on one of the upper decks. The ferry was then renovated at the Hamburg shipyard, and the damaged deck was poured with a layer of concrete. Immediately after the Heweliusz tragedy, attempts were made to argue that the poured concrete weighed ‘only’ 30 tons (a small amount compared to the vessel’s total weight), and that the reconstruction concerned one of the lower decks. However, in reality, the ferry was loaded with more than twice that weight, and the renovation only affected one of the upper decks, significantly affecting the vessel’s stability. Stability, which had already been far from ideal, chiefly due to the wide captain’s cabin on the bridge, which, in hurricane-force winds, turned into a veritable sail. All of this meant the ferry was unable to cope with the severe storm that struck the ship that January night, claiming the lives of 20 sailors and all of the ferry’s passengers.

The questions that researchers of the Heweliusz tragedy have been asking themselves for years resonate powerfully, yet at the same time, seemingly incidentally, in Jan Holoubek’s series. Not as a theme in itself, but as a footnote to the story of the people grappling with the consequences of the disaster. Kasper Bajon’s story skillfully transports us across several timelines and between characters examining Heweliusz’s case from different perspectives. Guides through this world include a crew member (Konrad Eleryk) who survived the disaster, plagued by remorse; Captain Ułasiewicz’s widow (Magdalena Różczka), who must defend his memory and care for her teenage daughter; and the truck driver’s wife (Justyna Wasilewska), who lives in the same neighborhood and is left destitute after his death. Finally, there is Captain Piotr Binter (Michał Żurawski), a sailor and friend of Ułasiewicz. As a juror deciding the causes of the disaster, he must choose between loyalty to his deceased friend and his career, which is threatened by the pressures of a political and business alliance.

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Relieving Lwów in 1919

From Kosciuszko, We Are Here!: American Pilots of the Kosciuszko Squadron in Defense of Poland, 1919-1921, by Janusz Cisek (McFarland, 2025), Kindle Loc. 361ff.

Despite his harrowing experiences and incomplete recovery, [Merian] Cooper had no intention of returning to the U.S., nor of indulging in a more than well-earned rest. He quickly discovered another passion, service in the American Food Administration, which had started its activities also in Poland. Its chairman Herbert Hoover, had already visited Polish territory in 1913 and in November 1915 sent Vernon Kellogg there. He was to evaluate the situation of those in Poland who had been affected by the war. The situation was tragic. Right until the end of the war, the country had been pillaged by the German, Russian, and Austro-Hungarian armies. According to Hoover’s findings, the front rolled across some parts of territories populated by Poles seven times, causing death and enormous destruction to the infrastructure. Agriculture was particularly badly hit and due to this fact the food situation deteriorated. Many areas had not been sown for several years, others had fallen into neglect because of the death of the owner, lack of machinery or an epidemic. The worst disasters affected the poorest layers of society and children. When Poland again roused herself to an independent existence she not only faced military threats from East and West, but was forced into battle against hunger and epidemics, which attacked her together with the Bolshevik armies advancing westward.

The prices of basic articles increased repeatedly several-fold. Even firewood was rationed due to lack of coal. The tragic food situation was reflected in the reports of the U.S. Military Attache to Warsaw. Herbert Hoover had already drawn attention to the suffering in Poland in his speech entitled “An Appeal to World Conscience,” enumerating it along with the suffering in Belgium, northern France, Serbia, Romania, Montenegro, Armenia, and Russia.

At Hoover’s initiative on January 24, 1919, Congress passed an appropriation bill of $100,000,000 to finance appropriate aid. In a later period, the financial aid was significantly increased. Prior to this resolution, Hoover, in December 1918, before the official recognition of the Polish government by the U.S., sent Kellogg to Warsaw to ascertain Poland’s needs and to examine the possibilities of providing effective help. Kellogg together with Colonel William R. Grove and others arrived in Warsaw on January 3, 1919, almost at the same time as Paderewski. After a tour of most of the centers, Hoover’s envoys estimated that from a general population of 27 million who were under the control of the Warsaw government, at least four million were famine stricken, and another million were in need of additional nourishment. Shortly after, food distribution stations run by Americans appeared in many Polish towns. In May 1920, at the height of the operation, 1,315,490 Polish children were being fed on a daily basis. There was particular hardship in Lwów and the surrounding area. Much of central and western Poland had escaped military threat and the presence of foreign armies, but Lwów was the arena of an extremely complicated conflict. During the partitions, the town was one of the most shining centers of Polish culture and also home to Pilsudski’s strongest military centers. Lwów itself had a strong Polish majority; however, the villages of eastern Galicia remained Ukrainian. The only Polish element in the countryside was the intelligentsia and landowners. On November 1, 1918, when the Austro-Hungarian monarchy was in a complete state of impotence, the population of Lwów was surprised by a proclamation of the establishment of the Western Ukrainian People’s Republic and by a Ukrainian military action which aimed to occupy the city. For the next three weeks there waged a severe and bloody battle. Not until November 21, 1918, did volunteer and regular Polish units come to the relief of the occupied city.

The defense of Lwów passed into history as an example of heroism, patriotism and the determination to unite this territory with Poland. Unfortunately, it was not a conclusive victory. Lwów and the immediate city outskirts continued to come under fire from Ukrainian artillery. The only railway line linking Lwów with Poland was sabotaged, and trains derailed several times. Practically every transport going to the city had to fight its way by force. There was no electricity, water or food supplies in the city. It is not surprising that the U.S. Food Administration considered food-aid for Lwów as one of its tasks. Merian Cooper was placed in charge of the mission there.

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Afonso de Albuquerque vs. Ormuz

From Conquerors: How Portugal Forged the First Global Empire, by Roger Crowley (Random House, 2015), Kindle p. 173:

That Albuquerque possessed an intemperate streak was becoming increasingly apparent, not just to the hapless Omanis but also to his own captains. It was usual for the captain-major to consult with his ship commanders and, often, to be subject to a vote of the whole group. Albuquerque, intelligent, impatient, and possessed of an unshakable belief in his own abilities, had no such tact or cooperative spirit. The captains had been nominally informed at the start of the Omani expedition, but as the weeks wore on the relationship became strained. By mid-September they were inside the mouth of the Persian Gulf, increasingly distant from the key task to which they had been assigned: blocking the mouth of the Red Sea. The drive up the Arabian coast had one clear destination in Albuquerque’s mind: the island city of Ormuz, a small nugget of parched rock anchored offshore that was the axis of all Gulf traffic between Persia and the Indian Ocean. It was an immensely wealthy trading place—the great Arab traveler Ibn Battuta had found it “a fine large city with magnificent bazaars” and tall handsome houses. When the Chinese star fleet had called, they’d declared “the people of the country…very rich….There are no poor families.” It controlled the famed pearl fisheries of the Persian Gulf and dispatched large numbers of Arabian horses to meet an insatiable demand among the warring empires of continental India. “If the world were a ring, then Ormuz would be the jewel in it,” ran the Persian proverb. Albuquerque was well aware of the city’s reputation and strategic worth.

Aggressive action against Ormuz seems to have formed no part of his instructions from King Manuel to “establish treaties.” The harbor was thronged with merchant ships when Albuquerque arrived, but he proceeded in customary style. He refused all gifts from the king’s messengers; his reply was simple: become vassals of the Portuguese crown or see your city destroyed. The chief vizier, Hwaga Ata, concluded that Albuquerque, with just six ships, was a seriously deluded man, but on the morning of September 27, 1507, in a hubbub of noise, Portuguese bronze cannons again outgunned a far larger Muslim fleet. The vizier quickly sued for peace, accepted Manuel as his lord, and agreed to payment of a hefty annual tribute.

Albuquerque saw the hand of the Christian God at work in the victory.

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Venezuela’s Oil Industry Makeover

From Venezuela’s Collapse: The Long Story of How Things Fell Apart, by Carlos Lizarralde (Codex Novellus, 2024), Kindle pp. 230-233:

Nationalizing and running government-owned enterprises had been perfected by socialist governments for one hundred years. From the examples in France and Germany, to the more recent profitable state ventures in China and Vietnam, there were many successful formulas to choose from. In Venezuela, participatory identity politics drove an entirely different agenda.

This story has been chronicled in the book Comandante, a first-person account by the Guardian’s Caracas correspondent Rory Carroll. Published in 2013, the book provides a unique view of events unfolding between 2004 and 2012, the years before Chávez died.

In one chapter Carroll describes a visit to Ciudad Guayana, the place where every Venezuelan government since the late 1960s had invested in the promise of a non-oil economy based on hydroelectric power, ore, bauxite, gold, and diamond mining. Ciudad Guayana would become tragically violent by the 2010s, and already bore the hallmarks of squalor and massive de-industrialization. At the city’s aluminum plants, in the hands of new worker-managers, everything had collapsed well before Chávez’s death.

“Political managers from Caracas with no background in industry. Ideological schools set up in factories. Investment abandoned, maintenance skimped, machinery cannibalized. A catalog of grievances detailing blunders, looting, and broken promises. Venalum, they said, had at a time stopped exporting to the United States to vainly seek ‘ideologically friendlier’ markets in Africa and South America. After months of stockpiling, aluminum managers returned to US buyers, but then the market had crashed, losing the company millions. To curry favors with Miraflores [the presidential palace in Caracas A.N.], another company imported trucks from Belarus, Chávez’s European ally, but the cabins were too high for the region’s twisting paths, terrifying drivers. The trucks were abandoned. Managers at another factory halted production and sold the company’s entire stock before disappearing with the cash. On and on went the denunciations, one anecdote bleaker than the last. Worst of all, said the union men, was that for the previous years bosses had refused to renew collective agreements, meaning workers lost their rights and half their wages to inflation.”

Carroll’s descriptions show the new priorities in the running of these enterprises. The formal world of management seems to have been trumped by the personal feelings and experiences of the new leaders. Most importantly, by the intuitive sense of their ethnic legacy. In this view a government company’s assets did not represent an opportunity for the country’s future profit. Rather, it was booty stolen from the blood and sweat of centuries. It was treasure. And the fair and right thing to do with treasure was to distribute it.

On a grand scale this was the fate of PDVSA, the state oil company. Because the value of treasure was perceived to be intrinsic to itself, and had no relationship to exploration, extraction, refining, and its sale in global markets, the new Chavista leadership’s priority was its distribution among the people. After 20,000 highly skilled managers and middle managers were fired in the PDVSA purges of 2003, more than 100,000 bona-fide Chavista party members were hired to work at the company. One of the best-run energy companies in the world had become a patronage machine tasked with running myriad welfare programs. The government would distribute the treasure while crude production capabilities degraded, refining capacity dwindled, and entire operational capabilities were destroyed. Actual production sank to about a million barrels a day in 2019, down from the 3.5 million that had been produced the year before Chávez assumed power. It was the lowest level in almost seventy-five years. The trendlines for production into the 2020s looked bleak.

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Spanish American Caste System

From Venezuela’s Collapse: The Long Story of How Things Fell Apart, by Carlos Lizarralde (Codex Novellus, 2024), Kindle pp. 178-181:

The caste system in Spanish America was the most important, and likely the least understood, organizing principle of colonial society. Contemporary historians, particularly at American universities, have debated for decades how the caste system worked, to what extent its rules were enforced, and how relevant it was to everyday society across Spanish colonies.

No one disputes the extent to which the Venezuelan society of the late 1700s, more than that of any other Spanish American colony, was gripped by a furious battle between Creoles and those of mixed-race over the future of their society. The legacy of violence from battles between Indians and Spanish, and the enforcement of African enslavement, had shaped the Wars of Independence. But underneath the conflicts there was a revolt against the caste system.

The lives of distinct social groups marked by religious and ethnic descent had been tightly regulated for hundreds of years in the Muslim and Christian strongholds of Spain. Muslims born of Arab and Syrian ancestry in the Emirate of Granada had different privileges than Mozarabs (Muslims of Spanish ancestry [no, rather Christians under Muslim rule]), those of Jewish ancestry, or the Slavic or Berber warriors in the employ of Sultan Boabdil. Those rights, regulations, and privileges would change for different social groups in Christian-controlled cities like Avila or Valladolid but were just as rigidly enforced, if not more so. Everywhere in the Iberian Peninsula there were rules determining where different ethnic and religious groups could live, who they could marry, and what kind of work they could do. The Spanish exploration and subsequent invasion of today’s Dominican Republic and Cuba came only a few years after the conquest and occupation of the Emirate of Granada. The fall of the Emirate in 1492 had been followed by the reorganization of the social hierarchies, with Muslims dispossessed of their lands and castles, some enslaved, those Mozarabs that opposed the Spanish punished, and those that had collaborated, and professed Catholicism rewarded. Many of the men arriving in the Caribbean had been the same Extremeño and Castilian soldiers fighting in Granada.

Historians of Spanish America tend to see the caste system in its uniquely European and Catholic sense. In the classic Race Mixture in the History of Latin America, Magnus Mörner argues that castes were “created by transferring to the New World the hierarchic, estate-based, corporative society of late medieval Castile and imposing that society upon a multiracial, colonial situation.” But he forgets how multi-ethnic Spain had been since the Muslim invasion of 711. Something else he fails to mention is the extent to which the Mexicas and the Incas in Peru had perfected their own rigid caste systems.

Tenochtitlan and Cusco were organized on even more fixed social lines than Granada or Avila. Hierarchies of lineage, genealogy, ethnicity, and work ruled much of the lives of every inhabitant. The canal that used to separate today’s Zocalo in Mexico City from the market in Tlatelolco, for example, signaled a completely different set of rights and regulations for the ethnically specific inhabitants of each area. In the Mexica city there were slaves and traders from different nations, a priestly class, a warrior class, an aristocracy, and carefully designated guilds for different types of labor. It was in Mexico City and Cusco, cities built on civilizations based on caste-like groupings, that the Colonial Spanish American imaginary was created, and exported to lesser colonies such as Venezuela.

Equally relevant to this discussion is the speed of change in the ethnic composition of colonies like Venezuela from the 1550s through the early 1800s. In 1503 Queen Isabella I issued a royal proclamation encouraging the Spanish and those of indigenous descent to intermarry. By 1514 intermarriage was fully codified in a Royal Edict. Promoting ethnic diversity was an intuitive choice for a Spanish monarch of the time. It would dilute the power of the former rulers and legitimize the new ones. Previous rulers in different parts of the Iberian Peninsula had taken similar actions for the same reasons over the previous 1,000 years.

Later in the 1500s, kidnapped Africans would be transported in substantial numbers to work as slaves in the Spanish Caribbean, where plantation economies were beginning to thrive. The conquerors’ early ideology of slavery was based on the ancient practice in North Africa—a place that the south of Spain was still culturally tied to. It was not racialist in the way the word is understood today: anyone captured in the Mediterranean Sea by pirates would be routinely sold into slavery well into the 1700s. Miguel de Cervantes, before writing Don Quixote, had been captured on the high seas and sold in a Tunisian market as a slave. Five years later he was able to purchase his freedom and write his famous novel.

That is partly why in Spanish America, as opposed to the British colonies and later the southern United States, it was easier and more culturally accepted for the enslaved of African descent to buy or be granted freedom. Once free, they would establish themselves as free artisans near their former plantations or in the cities.

Ethnic diversity in cities was not only a long legacy of both the Iberian Peninsula and the great pre-Hispanic empires. It was a fact created by the bringing together of people of different races and backgrounds in one place. The new colonial social order even made it possible for people from formerly enemy indigenous nations, and their descendants, to now live in peace near each other.

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Filed under Africa, democracy, economics, Mexico, migration, nationalism, Peru, religion, slavery, Spain, Venezuela