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  Articles on Soviet feats in outer space appeared regularly from 1957

  through 1960 in newspapers and journals from a variety of genres as

  diverse as the Soviet Red Army’s newspaper Krasnaia zvezda (Red star)

  and even literary journals such as Literaturnaia gazeta (Literary gazette).

  As 1957 and 1958 unfolded, the Communist Party newspaper Pravda and

  the governmental newspaper Izvestiia were particularly interested in promoting fantastic new feats in outer space. The press was completely en-

  grossed with the canine heroic pursuits of Laika and a literal host of other

  Soviet dogs that were used experimentally in these test flights before the

  age of Yuri Gagarin and human cosmonauts began.47 After Gagarin’s

  1961 flight Soviet Premier Khrushchev himself would become obsessed

  with ceremonies in Red Square throughout this period to glorify cosmo-

  nauts and their achievements as well as to make these “official” celebra-

  tory versions focused on successes (not the equally abundant yet classi-

  fied failures). So much so, that his son Sergei in his memoirs recalls an

  incident immediately after Khrushchev’s ouster in October 1964 that is

  revealing of this emotion. Sergei recounts how his father (now officially

  retired) on October 23, 1964, much to Leonid Brezhnev’s consternation,

  almost had his driver take him to Red Square to partake in the festivities

  of three new cosmonauts—a staple, celebratory event that he relished in

  the earlier years and now missed immensely. Luckily for Brezhnev, the

  new general secretary of the Communist Party, Khrushchev controlled

  his excitement for the cosmonauts’ heroic feats and instead told the driver

  to go to his placid dacha outside Moscow.48

  Although most Soviet writers (and journalists) in varied, censored

  publications glorified Russian achievements in space in the late 1950s

  and early 1960s before Khrushchev’s ouster, there were the occasional

  letters to editors (published in such newspapers as Komsomol’skaia prav-

  da) that questioned the public support of the space effort—yet they were generally anomalies to the norm.49 Public debate on the efficacy of the

  space program did exist in the popular press under Khrushchev.50 Some-

  Getting Ready for Krushchev’s Sputnik  41

  times, ordinary concerned citizens wrote letters to editors of newspapers

  that questioned why so much funding was shunted to the space program

  at a time when salaries for workers in factories were woefully low and

  consumer items so scarce. Slava Gerovitch, a historian of Soviet technol-

  ogy and science, has also argued that a corollary to these debates in the

  popular press was a developing tension between cosmonauts themselves

  and Soviet engineers—particularly whether automatons (or computer de-

  vices) should be used in space or real-live test pilots, cosmonauts, or ani-

  mals. Cosmonauts were particularly concerned about their professional

  role in this development, and wanted to be in control of the flight process

  itself. But there was also the public concern about the safety for humans

  (cosmonauts) as well as animals in spaceflight.51

  With these exceptions aside, public cultural discourse on the space

  program was mostly constrained and even limited to voices with large

  public reputations (such as major writers of literary significance). Fur-

  thermore, one can argue this discussion in the press was class-specific.

  Namely, it was the cultural intelligentsia of the 1950s and 1960s who

  raised these issues and concerns regarding the amount of funds spent on

  large-scale technologies. Some literary figures, such as Il’ia Ehrenburg,

  were concerned about how technology and the space race obscured the

  importance of other aspects of Soviet life on Earth, such as the develop-

  ment of literature and the arts, and questioned the substantial funds and

  government subsidies put into these technical arenas.52 These critiques

  by literary figures and citizens alike may have been a repercussion of

  the Khrushchev “thaw”—the limited loosening of controls on artistic

  and public expression in the Soviet Union from 1956 until approximately

  1962.53 The intelligentsia had a strong collective sense of its past and may

  have felt ostracized by the celebratory focus on Soviet technology. Some-

  times these debates raged in popular journals but mainly in those read

  by a more educated public—this is especially true for a variety of topical

  issues and debates that appeared in Literaturnaia gazeta (Literary newspaper) during this time period. One interesting topical debate became

  known as the Liriki-fiziki or the “lyrical poets vs. physicists,” while others dealt with the funding of big science. These debates, also featured in the

  Communist Youth League press, focused on how the arts could survive

  in an age where technological feats reigned supreme. Ironically, the cul-

  tural intelligentsia was obsessed itself with “cosmic visions” thematically,

  42  James T. Andrews

  but at some point rocket specialists (and the regime’s prioritized military

  investments during the Cold War) may have impinged on the cultural

  intelligentsia’s status.

  The historian of technology Paul Josephson, in his analysis of the

  public ramifications of nuclear, atomic, and space science, has argued

  that celebrations and mass rallies (particularly in Moscow) became an

  important site for the Soviet “masses” to become involved in the spec-

  tacle of display, constructed from above, for Soviet “big science.” His work

  has also touched on themes regarding the efficacy of space research.54 As

  Josephson has aptly noted in his diligent research, planetariums hosted

  lectures on outer space, short stories for adults and children were writ-

  ten with exaggerated platitudes by writers, while Soviet composers cre-

  ated popular songs (especially short chastushki) to be sung to children at schools celebrating Sputnik.55

  What is generally left out of the scholarly analysis of the rhetoric of

  Soviet technological feats in outer space, however, is how official academ-

  ic institutions, besides the Soviet press and journalistic community, also

  played a distinct and crucial role in the celebratory theatrics of Soviet

  space accomplishments. Established scientific institutions, such as the

  Academy of Sciences, probably became the greatest proponents and con-

  duits for disseminating more detailed public lectures on the significance

  of these achievements. Furthermore, as proponents of the regime, they

  carried a level of scientific and technical authority among the general

  public that may have eclipsed the litany of pronouncements in the press

  and journals.

  In actuality, it was the real father of the Russian space program, S.

  P. Korolev, the director of the post–World War II Soviet rocket program,

  who was asked to direct these celebrations at the academy. He gave the

  1957 keynote commemorative speech for the capstone series of events

  planned in the Khrushchev era that honored Soviet space legends such as

  Konstantin Tsiolkovskii. Fortuitously, some of these highly orchestrated

  celebratory events were planned by scientists and technicians during the

 
; centennial-year celebration of Tsiolkovskii’s birth, the year of the launch-

  ing of Soviet Sputnik 1 in 1957. Lectures and festivities such as these at the academy mythologized the “founding fathers of Soviet spaceflight

  and rocketry,” thus creating a Soviet pantheon as cultural referent. In

  the 1940s, primarily after the war and into the 1950s, the Soviets made

  several public (some unsubstantiated and others not) claims of national

  Getting Ready for Krushchev’s Sputnik  43

  priority in scientific discoveries—especially in the era of Sputnik regarding rocketry.56

  Understanding Popular Space Culture in the Era of Sputnik

  State-sponsored technological propaganda was not unique or excep-

  tional to Soviet Russia. In fact, it was an inherent aspect of Western gov-

  ernmental rhetoric as well as their construction of their own heroes in

  the press. Scientists in Soviet Russia, however, even the most heralded in

  the hagiography, such as Tsiolkovsksii, had their own ideas about popu-

  larizing notions of spaceflight. Furthermore, they tapped into the popu-

  lar interest in cosmic flight by an already engaged audience outside of the

  state’s purview or orchestration. This dynamic, however, created a com-

  plex and unique duality in Soviet political and cultural life. For instance,

  while both Stalin and later Khrushchev would use the figure of those

  such as Tsiolkovskii (or Gagarin) to focus on the superiority of Soviet

  technology over Western capitalism and its scientific system, figures like

  these men used these Soviet public venues to promote their own ideas

  about the future possibility of spaceflight.

  Although events like this were certainly propagandistic public spec-

  tacle, scientists and future physicists alike were still very impressed with

  the secondary depoliticized vision that Tsiolkovskii’s ideas embodied.

  In his memoirs the nuclear physicist and science adviser to M. S. Gor-

  bachev, Roald Z. Sagdeev, himself recognized the duality embedded in

  these Soviet public spectacles. On the one hand, he believes Stalin used

  Tsiolkovskii’s 1935 broadcast from Red Square to further build the notion

  of the superiority of Soviet technology. On the other hand, predominant-

  ly because of Stalin and the Soviet regime’s support, Tsiolkovskii’s work

  became better known in the 1930s and 1940s, and many future space

  scientists read his popular work voraciously. Sagdeev has argued that on

  May 1, 1935, enthusiastic Soviet citizens, including his own parents (edu-

  cated scientific academics), were enthralled by the speech. Furthermore,

  the popularization of spaceflight had a readymade audience that was not

  inextricably linked to prescribed directions from the regime itself.57

  Valentin Glushko, the designer of Energiya and many rocket engines

  that operated on Tsiolkovskii’s dream of using liquid propellants, corrob-

  orates to some extent Sagdeev’s perspective in his own memoirs. Glush-

  ko corresponded with Tsiolkovskii as a teenager and was inspired by his

  44  James T. Andrews

  popular books in the 1920s and 1930s. Glushko believed that mixed in

  with the Soviet propaganda and nationalist fervor of space exploration

  propagated from above was a sheer enthusiasm and pride on the part of

  future scientists (and young space enthusiasts) from below.58 Many physi-

  cists (and ordinary citizens alike) made pilgrimages to Kaluga (Russia) to

  see Tsiolkovskii before his death in September 1935, while Tsiolkovskii’s

  funeral in provincial Russia was almost a type of national, cathartic dirge

  and thus a reflection of the spontaneous interest in local space heroes.

  Popular adulation for space heroes continued into the Khrushchev

  era and beyond in Brezhnev’s times. The eminent historian of Russian

  science Loren R. Graham, in his recent memoirs, had a similar impres-

  sion on April 12, 1961, when he marched through Red Square at the cel-

  ebration for the cosmonaut Yuri Gagarin sponsored by the Soviet leader-

  ship. Graham found this a mix of propagandistic spectacle from above

  with a sincere, heartfelt public outpouring of support from below. As

  Graham looked back at that day and canonization, he also reviewed in his

  mind the views of Soviet citizens, their pride in Gagarin, and the popular

  interest in spaceflight: “In later years when the Soviet Union became a

  decrepit and failing society, I often recall that day as the apogee in Soviet

  citizens’ belief that they held the key to the future of civilization. The

  celebrations on the street were genuine and heartfelt. Soviet science was,

  they were sure, the best in the world, and Soviet rockets succeeded where

  American ones failed.”59

  In the end it is impossible critically to completely separate the re-

  gime’s nationalist paradigms from the pride generated from below. One

  cannot also assume that scientists like Tsiolkovskii, who gave heralded

  speeches on the future of Soviet cosmonautics, only had the regime’s

  agenda in mind when agreeing to propagate messages of national pride.

  Many of Russia’s cultural elites also popularized notions of spaceflight

  because of the inherent fascination they had with cosmic themes. Besides

  the politicized message of Soviet competition with the West, the Russian

  people themselves engaged notions of spaceflight from a sheer human

  impulse of fascination in exploration going back to the late imperial pe-

  riod forward to Khrushchev’s times.

  Part II

  Myth and Reality in the Soviet Space Program

  

  3

  Cosmic Contradictions

  Popular Enthusiasm and Secrecy in the Soviet Space Program

  Asif A. Siddiqi

  Since the collapse of the Soviet Union, Sputnik and its successors

  have been the subject of a vast literature that has generally split into two

  distinct categories. One body of work, focused on recovering “truth”

  about the effort, has sought to fill gaps in our knowledge. In the del-

  uge of “new” information available with the coming of glasnost and then

  continuing into the postsocialist period, historians and journalists have

  rushed to reveal the “real” story behind the Soviet space program. Anoth-

  er smaller but growing stream of recent literature, favored by social and

  cultural historians, has explored the meanings behind the undeniably

  massive cosmic enthusiasm that characterized the height of the Soviet

  space program in the 1960s. Here, scholars have delved into the social

  and cultural resonance of space, situating their claims in the broader ma-

  trix of postwar Soviet history. In broad terms the first canon has been

  concerned with production, and the latter with consumption. One obvi-

  ous bridge between these two literatures has been the figure of the Soviet

  cosmonaut, who was simultaneously part of the machinery of science,

  technology, and industry that allowed the Soviet Union to achieve many

  impressive feats in the early years of the space race and a constituent of 47

  48  Asif A. Siddiqi

  the machinery of public relations, critical to creating a global wave of

  popular enthusiasm for Soviet exploits. Despite a widespread fasc
ination

  with cosmonauts and what they represented, we know very little about

  the codes that governed their passage from one world to the other, from

  production to consumption, from the private to the public. Mediating this

  connection between production and consumption, between “truth” and

  “image,” was the regime of Soviet secrecy, which not only circumscribed

  the ways in which cosmonauts crossed over these divides, but also

  (re)constructed text, images, and symbols on cosmic topics in fundamen-

  tal ways that remain misunderstood.

  Secrecy pervaded every single aspect of the Soviet space program.1

  In the early 1960s so much of it was shrouded in secrecy that it seemed

  that the program could be capable of anything, and its future appeared

  boundless. The less we knew, the more seemed possible. This heightened

  level of secrecy, the strictest it was ever to be in the history of Soviet space exploits, was already in place by the launch of Sputnik, the world’s first artificial satellite. Two years before Sputnik’s launch, on August 8, 1955, the Soviet Presidium (as the Politburo was known at the time) approved a

  project to launch a satellite into Earth’s orbit; one of the first problems on

  the agenda was what to say to the world about the event. The final version of the official Telegraph Agency of the Soviet Union (TASS) communiqué, which was approved ten days later with the help of party ideologue

  and Politburo member Mikhail Suslov, established several precedents for

  all subsequent official pronouncements on the Soviet space program.2

  The press release contained no information on who built the satel-

  lite, who launched it, what kind of rocket was used, from where it was

  launched, why it was launched, and who decided to launch it. The final

  version of the communiqué, issued on the early morning of October 5,

  1957, is illuminating in what it does say: there is an abundance of arcane scientific and technical data about the satellite and its trajectory, as if to

  overwhelm the reader with mathematics in the absence of even a pic-

  ture of the object. What remains of the text is taken up by expressions of

  pride of the late “father” of Soviet cosmonautics, Konstantin Eduardovich

  Tsiolkovskii and some final words about possibilities opened up by this

  accomplishment. These allusions to the past and the future left a discern-