Kissinger, 1923–1968: The Idealist
Niall Ferguson
Penguin Press, $39.95 (cloth)
Roger Ebert once defined a blockbuster movie sequel
as a “filmed deal.” The literary equivalent is the official biography. A towering ego, obsessed
with the judgment of history, hand selects a scribe-for-hire, offering
the promise of heady remuneration and consort with fame in exchange for a
fawning hagiography. It would be refreshing to be able to report that Niall
Ferguson’s Kissinger, 1923–1968: The Idealist, is more than that.
Unfortunately, clocking in at nearly a thousand densely packed pages, it is
simply more of that.
The response has been predictable, too. By engaging
in such unabashed cheerleading, Ferguson’s book elicited reviews that reflect
the opinions people already hold of Kissinger: he is either a genius or war criminal, depending on your view of the
years not covered by this volume. Foreign Affairs, house organ of the
Kissinger-friendly Council on Foreign Relations, urges its subscribers
“to read this compelling book” about a “brilliant” statesman who stands as a
“towering figure.” The
Wall Street Journal was also deeply moved, welcoming the book as
“a corrective to harsher historical judgments of Mr. Kissinger”; the week
before this review appeared, the journal published an essay by Ferguson
describing his subject as unfairly victimized by the ceaseless “vitriol of the
left.” Conservative
historian Andrew Roberts, the author’s friend and Kissinger’s first choice to
serve as his official biographer, predictably heaped mountains of praise
on both author and subject in his New York Times review. (More
surprising is that the Times saw fit to publish a piece that so reeked
of conflict of interest.)
Others, of course, had a somewhat different
perspective. The
Washington Monthly, adding a barnyard epithet for good measure, scorns Ferguson’s
effort at “rescuing his subject’s tarnished reputation” and concludes that the
author “has made himself a hypocrite’s bullhorn.” Columbia University sociologist and counterculture
historian Todd Gitlin dismisses the book as “grotesque.” Eminent political
philosopher Alan Ryan was more reserved, but his
takeaway is clear: The Idealist is “a very odd book” by an author with “enthusiasm for
belligerent conservatism and imperialist projects.”
But these dueling perspectives make it too easy to
dismiss the book out of hand, without engaging it on its own terms. And such an
assessment is sorely needed because the analytical problems of The Idealist
run deep. As the title implies, Ferguson proffers a radically novel
interpretation of Kissinger, a turn that is, in theory, welcome. (Though it may
well have been simply a marketing necessity, intended to provoke, as the book
is a late entrant to an enormously crowded field).
Ferguson wants to cast Kissinger as an idealist.
Actually, the book vaguely specifies Kissinger’s “idealist” credentials and
seems to root them in the fact that as an undergraduate he found Kant
interesting. But Ferguson’s main project is to insist that Kissinger was not a
realist.
Was Kissinger an idealist, among those hopefuls who
envisioned pathways toward a world of perpetual peace? Or was he, in contrast,
deeply attuned to the perennial, cold-blooded imperatives of power politics?
Perhaps learning at the feet of his protagonist
(whose own memoirs sprawl across thousands of pages of score-settling bias),
Ferguson has embraced a strategy of literary overkill, a saturation-bombing of
verbiage aspiring to pummel stubborn facts into submission. But while his
central claim—Kissinger the idealist—is indeed novel and revisionist, it is
also wrong. Simply, plainly, fundamentally, and exactly wrong. Confidently and
repeatedly asserting the same erroneous claim does not make it accurate.
Ferguson is under enormous pressure to justify his
effort because The Idealist invites an obvious question: Do we really
need nearly a thousand new pages on Kissinger, and on that part of his life before
he joined the Nixon White House? There is no shortage of biographies and
studies on Kissinger. Among the many is Walter Isaacson’s Kissinger: A Biography
(1992), which was not an “authorized biography,” but one with which Kissinger
cooperated fully, sitting for interviews, providing papers, and actively
encouraging friends and affiliates to share their recollections. Isaacson produced a
big, valuable book, but even he managed to get to 1969 by page 157.
Innumerable studies have already walked us through
the contours of Kissinger’s life. Young Henry came of age in emerging Nazi
Germany, dealing with virulent anti-Semitism, increasing isolation, and
considerable stress, his immediate family fleeing at the last minute in 1938.
The extended family was less fortunate. Kissinger has insisted to every biographer
that these childhood traumas had no influence on him; all have wisely ignored
these implausible protestations, and most could easily see in these
experiences—an indelible illustration of barbarism and of the fragility of
civilized order—the roots of a realist worldview.
Settling with his family in the immigrant community
of Washington Heights, Manhattan, Kissinger was drafted in 1943 and trained in
South Carolina and then Louisiana. Assigned to the 84th Infantry Division he
faced real danger in Belgium, but soon enough, given his language skills, was
assigned to intelligence and then counter-intelligence. He went on to serve in
important administrative posts, overseeing the fates of local Germans and
ferreting out former Gestapo officers seeking to blend into the population—by
all accounts, without vengeance. Returning to America, Kissinger went to
college on the GI Bill, thriving at Harvard University, first as an undergraduate,
where he famously penned a 383-page senior thesis that inspired the “Kissinger
Rule” limiting their length. An ambitious graduate student, his dissertation would be published in
1957 as A World Restored. After school, Kissinger landed a gig at the
Council on Foreign Relations. Two important legacies of these New York
years were his book Nuclear
Weapons and Foreign Policy (1957)—a sensation that sold tremendously well—and the
relationship he forged with Nelson Rockefeller, wealthy scion of the legendary
American family, future governor of New York, and perpetual presidential
aspirant. Kissinger would be Rocky’s man—and on his payroll—for the balance of
the 1950s and ’60s.
Kissinger loathed the idea
that science, progress, and problem solving could lead to perpetual peace.
Kissinger returned to Harvard in 1957 and remained
there through 1968. In these years he developed a reputation as something of a
celebrity public intellectual and legendary bureaucratic infighter. Essentially loaned out by Rockefeller to serve as an advisor
to the new Kennedy administration, Kissinger was frustrated by his inability to
crack the young president’s inner circle. He retreated to his patron’s
welcoming arms and supported his bids to secure the Republican presidential
nomination in 1964 and 1968. Still on loan from the governor, Kissinger was
also an informal advisor to the Johnson administration. He visited
Vietnam three times in the mid-1960s on fact-finding missions and traveled to Paris in 1967 in
ultimately fruitless efforts to establish “back channel” negotiations with
Hanoi. Rocky’s man, Kissinger nevertheless managed to ingratiate himself with
both the Nixon and Humphrey campaigns, hoping to land an influential position
in government no matter who won the 1968 election. Kissinger became Nixon’s
national security advisor.
What does The Idealist add to this story?
Considerably more detail, some of which is colorful. (Like my father, the teenage
Kissinger was in the crowd at the Polo Grounds watching a football game the day
Pearl Harbor was attacked.) But much of it is drudgery, as the book also has the
tiresome habit of abandoning the narrative thread to introduce ad hominem
attacks and petty, provocative asides. Ironically, the avalanche of detail
covers up more than it reveals: uninitiated readers will come away from this
book with an incomplete and skewed sense of its subject.
Even for a commissioned biography, the rose-tinted
presentation of Kissinger presents a new standard for photoshopping away
unsightly flaws. One friendly biographer described the well-known Kissinger
persona: “particularly his abrasiveness, self-centeredness, and excessive
ambition.” Ferguson acknowledges that Kissinger was “reputed to be arrogant,” but chooses to
emphasize instead, at length, Henry’s devotion to his dog. The book
reads as if no slight against Kissinger, real or imagined, might go unanswered.
Consider,
for example, the international seminar and “journal” Confluence that
Kissinger ran as a Harvard student. In Ferguson’s assessment, “as for the
oft-repeated charge that Kissinger was actuated by self-interest, inviting
participants to the seminar and contributors to Confluence who would be
useful to him in later life, this seems unfair.” No, it
seems accurate.
The Idealist, then, is clearly not the book to
reach for if one seeks an insightful portrait of the man. So this book must
rise or fall on its head-turning central claim. Ferguson clearly understands
this; his title is designed to throw down the gauntlet. “Was Kissinger,”
he asks, “really a realist? The answer matters a good deal.”
The answer is: yes. To his fingertips. How do we know
this? Because the record could not be clearer. In pitching his idealist
fantasy, Ferguson postulates that one reason the conventional wisdom endures is
that Kissinger’s critics and others who would characterize him as a realist
have “not read” or “willfully misread” his writings. In particular, Ferguson
suggests that a proper read of Kissinger’s “four weighty books” published
before 1969—actually two major books and two minor efforts—would reveal the
true idealism of his hero. In fact, all four books are plainly, indelibly, and
robustly realist.
Part of the problem is that Ferguson is clumsy with
his use of terms, and he deploys them in an arbitrary fashion over the course
of the volume. The definition of “idealist” is stretched past the breaking
point, and the meaning of “realism” wanders aimlessly from chapter to chapter,
commonly underspecified and often reduced to caricature. This reflects another
basic weakness of the entire enterprise: Ferguson, a financial historian, does
not have a supple command of the relevant international relations theory.
Kissinger was a nuanced and often insightful theorist, and he certainly thought
that ideas mattered and that political legitimacy was important. But to
understand that “ideas matter,” for example, does not make one an “idealist.”
Kissinger was a classical realist. Some superficial
confusion about his intellectual pedigree is not entirely surprising, because
in contemporary international relations theory classical realism is a minority
perspective. The mainstream of the discipline is dominated by a more modern
style of realism that focuses almost exclusively on the balance of power and by
a “scientific” turn to the study of world politics emphasizing ahistorical
abstractions and universal laws. Classical realism, while centrally attentive
to power, nevertheless places great emphasis on the roles of history, ideas,
contingency, and uncertainty. As Kissinger incisively wrote, against the spirit
of the contemporary mainstream, “No significant conclusions are possible in the
study of foreign affairs—the study of states acting as units—without an
awareness of the historical context.” Kissinger also placed great emphasis on
consequential diplomacy—the role of great men in advancing interests and
shaping outcomes—throughout his career.
Additionally, classical realism—in contrast to
theoretical points of departure rooted in idealism—sees international politics as
characterized by the clash of interests (as opposed to misunderstandings), and
thus continuous: the resolution of one set of challenges will reveal a set of
new contestations. Moreover, for reasons that might have to do more with
realists than realism, it must be said that the paradigm—again, in stark
contrast with idealism—is properly associated with a brooding, deeply
pessimistic streak based on assumptions about humanity’s enduring potential for
barbarism, the looming danger of war, and other hazards smoldering just below a
thin crust of civilization.
In Kissinger’s postwar
cohort, Hans Morgenthau’s Scientific Man vs. Power Politics (1946) and
George F. Kennan’s American Diplomacy, 1900–1950 (1951) articulate core
tenets of realism and reflect sentiments that resonate throughout Kissinger’s
writings. Anyone familiar with these seminal statements of realism would see
plainly that Kissinger was writing expressly in their tradition. With
Morgenthau, Kissinger dissents from the “can-do” idea that science, progress,
and problem solving can overcome the perennial and intractable clashes of
international politics. Alongside Kennan, Kissinger bemoans the foreign policy
practice of democracies and especially of the United States, with its tendency
to swing wildly between under-attentive naïveté and overzealous crusading. Both
are perceived as dangerous, and neither well suited to advance the national
interest. This is classical realism.
Kissinger’s A World Restored is an excellent book. It is
one of the finest works in the classical realist tradition of the postwar era,
steeped in the core themes and analytical concerns of that perspective. (It is
required reading for a class I teach, Realist Theories of International
Relations.) A study of balance-of-power politics in Europe after the Napoleonic
wars, it is, as anyone who has studied Kissinger will properly conclude, a
tribute to the realpolitik diplomacy practiced by Klemens von Metternich, the Austrian
Foreign Minister for nearly forty years. It is hard to overstate
Kissinger’s awe at the statecraft of “the cool calculator in Vienna” (elsewhere
the “sober manipulator” of Vienna), who could engage in balancing acts “so
skillful . . . that it was hardly noticeable that the balancer was tipping the
scale.”
Metternich’s diplomacy, self-evidently, is not for
the idealists. “Whatever one may think of the morality of this step,” Kissinger
observes at one point, “there is no doubt that it achieved Metternich’s
objectives.” In case inattentive readers missed the point, he later notes,
“Philosophers may quarrel with the moral stature” of Metternich’s diplomacy,
“but statesmen can study it with profit.” He goes on: “Austrian policy was
based not on sentiment but on cold calculation.” Kissinger also notes his
hero’s “extraordinary cynicism, his cold-blooded exploitation of the beliefs of
his adversaries.”
Ferguson showers A World
Restored with praise and rightly calls attention to Kissinger’s emphasis on
national identity and historical experiences in explaining behavior in international
politics—again, that is what makes Kissinger a classical realist. But
there is simply no evidence to support Ferguson’s radically revisionist claim
that A World Restored does not reflect Kissinger’s enormous admiration
for Metternich. Reviewers at the time, as well as subsequent scholars, have
invariably acknowledged the obvious place of Metternich in Kissinger’s
pantheon. “So strongly is [Kissinger] under Metternich’s influence,” sniffed
one reviewer, “that in some cases he is led into biased accounts and
unconvincing explanations.” No reviewer dissented from the first observation,
which is obvious even to less experienced readers. When I first read the book
for an undergraduate seminar, my classmate opened the discussion by suggesting
that its subtitle should have been, “Why I want to have Metternich’s baby.”
Kissinger originally intended to include in his dissertation
a long section on the German statesman Otto von Bismarck, but, like many
graduate students, wisely realized that the best dissertation is a completed
one. He never let go of the material, though. His admiration for
that realist was of a kind with his worship of Metternich. Indeed Kissinger
eventually published a paper on Bismarck, filled with effusive praise for
another grandmaster of realpolitik. Comparing his successes to those of
“mythological figures,” Kissinger reports in awe, “With a few brusque strokes
Bismarck swept away the dilemmas that had baffled the German quest for unity.”
Touting Bismarck’s “magnificent grasp of the nuances of power relationships,”
Kissinger defends the first chancellor of Germany from charges that he was a
cynical opportunist, lauding him for choosing military alliances based not on
shared values but “strictly on considerations of utility.”
Ferguson takes on this glaring contradiction of his
thesis by sidestepping the published paper, instead working his way through
discarded drafts of a never-published manuscript. Describing it as “an
uncharacteristically uncertain tangle of deletions and insertions,” he
nevertheless quotes at length passages that Kissinger explicitly crossed out.
On the strength of this, Ferguson announces Kissinger’s “disavowal” of
Bismarck. Never plausible, the claim is embarrassed by passages that
incongruously flow from the same pen. Elsewhere, in a consideration of European
politics, Ferguson accurately observes, “Here as in much else, [Kissinger] was
led by de Gaulle and by his historical precursor as a practitioner of realism,
Bismarck.” A few pages later, we are told, “Kissinger’s map of Europe was a
Bismarckian one.”
Published the same year as A World Restored, Kissinger’s
Nuclear Weapons and Foreign Policy is an ambitious, innovative,
realist study, inspired by two vexing problems of the day: dissatisfaction with
the Korean War and the Eisenhower administration’s all-or-nothing military
doctrine of “massive retaliation.” Kissinger argued, cogently, that adversaries
would call such a bluff and that such a strategy was poorly suited to the goal
of extended deterrence, which would assure the security of distant allies, such
as those in Europe.
Kissinger opens with a good realist lecture: “We
added the atomic bomb to our arsenal without integrating its implications into
our thinking.” And he bemoans the fact that “we could
not translate it into a strategy for achieving positive goals,” most obviously
in Korea, where Kissinger seems to regret that they were not used. His
approach derived from the realist tendency to emphasize continuity over change
(armor and airplanes changed warfare, but not the recourse to war), and like
many realists he was thus sluggish to grasp the implications of the nuclear
revolution. To their credit, realists also are invariably attentive to the
relationship between force and politics. This is realism 101: the use of force
only has meaning in the context of the broader political objectives for which
it is introduced. It was this relationship, applied to nuclear weapons, that
Kissinger was inventively thinking through.
Burning political ambition alone led Kissinger to
support the Vietnam War.
An admirable effort, perhaps, but ultimately a
failure. Nuclear Weapons and Foreign Policy is a bad book—bloated,
unkempt, with flaws so obvious that Kissinger soon abandoned his central claim:
that the United States needed to adopt the strategy of fighting limited nuclear
wars. Moreover, not only should the United States initiate (limited) nuclear
war, it should, Kissinger argued, do so promptly. It would be a blunder “to
concede the first nuclear blow” because of the tremendous advantages to be
found in “the sudden introduction of nuclear weapons.”
Kissinger made two plain errors. First, his doctrine
of limited nuclear war would inevitably set the world on a hair trigger of
nuclear exchange, something he notes in passing (“each side will be constantly
tempted to anticipate its opponent in the first use of nuclear weapons”) but
brushes off without much concern. Second, despite the book’s elaborately
detailed schemes for keeping nuclear war limited, as a practical matter it seemed
obvious that “limited” nuclear war would invariably escalate into a mutually
annihilating exchange.
Serious critics received the book correctly: realist
approach, awful theory. Morgenthau was representative, admiring Kissinger’s
realist disposition and praising his understanding that the use of force is
about “the judicious application of what is technologically possible to what is
politically desirable and tolerable.” Again, good realism: “This is, of course
the classical military doctrine restored and applied to the conditions of the
atomic age.” But when it came to policy prescriptions, Morgenthau exposed and
eviscerated the utter folly of the limited war scheme. Or, as Ferguson puts it,
gently retreating to the passive voice, the book “fails to convince.”
The Necessity for Choice (1960) and The Troubled Partnership (1965), Kissinger’s
two other books from this era, are minor efforts. They are more or less calling cards dropped on Washington’s
doorstop, reminding the centers of power of his availability. [Research
required.] And they are obviously and unambiguously steeped in
realism. Necessity is most notable for its volte-face abandonment of the
arguments of Nuclear Weapons and Foreign Policy. It is also marred by
its emphasis on the purportedly extreme dangers posed by the missile gap—that
is, by a supposed Soviet nuclear advantage. Ferguson drapes the former in
back-bending understatement (the “remarkable shift” in Kissinger’s position was
“a not unreasonable adjustment”), and, more dubiously, steers the reader away
from an understanding of the latter. As Ferguson recounts, the United States
actually enjoyed considerable nuclear superiority at the time, and he gently
chides that Kissinger’s judgments “now seem wide of the mark,” hastening to add
that the errors are understandable, “a product of the ‘missile gap’ era.” Closer to the truth, however, is Greg Grandin’s assessment in
Kissinger’s Shadow (2015) that Kissinger “contributed to the false idea”
of the missile gap and was an important player in selling the myth.
Looking past Kennedy-era policy debates, what strikes
the modern reader of Necessity for Choice (and Troubled Partnership)
are the depths of Kissinger’s gloomy, dyed-in-the-wool realism, especially his
profound Kennanesque despair at the dangers caused by the naïve foreign policy
idealism that American democracy produced. From page one, the drumbeat is
steady: the declining United States is facing imminent, mortal dangers, but
“nothing is more difficult for Americans than to understand the possibility of
tragedy” or to “visualize national disaster.” And “nothing is more important
for America than to give up its illusions.” Americans fundamentally
misunderstand international politics, erroneously attributing “the cause of war
to machinations of wicked men,” when in reality it derives from the stubborn
clash of interests. Thus the problem is perennial and demands constant
vigilance. For reasons more than puzzling, Ferguson asserts that with Necessity
for Choice, “once again Kissinger was writing not as a realist but as an
idealist.”
Ferguson does not dwell on Troubled Partnership,
describing it as “written in a hurry” and soon “out of date,” but it is half a
good book, and its strengths are rooted in Kissinger’s realism. Increasing
tensions between the United States and its European allies, he explains, derive
from changes to the international balance of power: European economies have
grown considerably, the prospect of a Soviet invasion now seems remote, the
putative missile gap vanished. Thus the urgent threat that had held the
Atlantic alliance together was no longer sufficient to mask inevitable
political differences among its members. And once again, as the historical
details fade in significance, Partnership’s essential realism endures. A
principal theme contrasts the follies of naïve American idealism and the wisdom
of European realism. “The American historical experience,” Kissinger sighs,
“encourages the belief that all problems are soluble through goodwill and a
willingness to compromise,” and its leaders “envisage a world where all
conflict has ended.” In contrast, Europeans “live on a continent covered with
ruins testifying to the fallibility of human foresight.” They understand that
“an equilibrium can never be permanent but must be adjusted in constant
struggles.”
Ferguson’s flawed thesis
forces him to whip up increasingly implausible interpretations for Kissinger’s most shameful behavior in
the 1960s, most notably with regard to the Vietnam War. Like all realists, Kissinger knew, early, that the war could
not be won.
Kissinger made three trips to Vietnam in 1965 and
1966, and he observed firsthand that, in spite of its impressive military
might, the United States could not reach its political objective: a viable
South Vietnamese government that could survive after U.S. forces finally left
the county. In his first memoir, Kissinger recalls finding that “self-delusion
took the place of analysis,” and “our effort lacked political perspective.” In
October 1965 he wrote in his diary, “No one could really explain to me how even
on the most favorable assumptions about the war in Vietnam the war was going to
end.” Quietly, he told some of Johnson’s advisors “we couldn’t win.”
But in the corridors of power, and to the American
public, Kissinger sang a different tune. Ferguson and Grandin, in their sharply
contrasting takes, don’t agree on much. But they both detail the disingenuous
obsequiousness with which Kissinger supported the administration’s military
efforts in conversations with top government officials—and how he sought their
approval by initiating an energetic, high-profile campaign to build public
support for the war despite his private understanding of the plain truth.
Why did Kissinger lack the courage of his convictions
and fail to go public with opposition to the war? Many of his fellow realists
bravely stepped up. Morgenthau, with extraordinary prescience, had been
critical of the American effort from the late 1950s and remained an outspoken
critic; Kennan’s riveting Senate testimony in 1966 spelled out the coherent and
irrefutable logic of the antiwar case that Kissinger knew all too well.
Offering tortured logic and
no evidence, Ferguson attributes Kissinger’s posture to idealism: the belief
“that South Vietnam’s right to self-determination was worth American lives.” Nonsense.
Kissinger knew that was not going to happen. It was rank opportunism. In fact,
opportunism—a quality Kissinger praises in assessing the great statesmen of the
past—is a fitting descriptor of how Kissinger managed his entire career.
Whether at Harvard, within the Rockefeller circle, or in government, his
reputation as a climber and ruthless infighter was legendary.
The master opportunist’s best trick—surely Metternich
would have smiled—came in 1968. Once it was clear that Rockefeller would not
get the Republican nomination, Kissinger, who by all accounts despised Nixon
and thought him unfit to be president, threw his lot in with the Humphrey
campaign. Mostly. For
as Robert Dallek observes in Nixon and Kissinger: Partners in Power
(2007), “In his eagerness for a White House appointment, Kissinger was
cozying up to both Democrats and Republicans.” In particular, Kissinger
betrayed the trust of Humphrey’s men, passing on information to Nixon’s camp
about the Paris peace talks between Washington and Hanoi. Nixon was concerned
that a breakthrough at the talks might be an “October surprise” that would cost
him the close election, and evidence shows that Nixon indeed attempted to
undermine those talks. Ken
Hughes’s Chasing Shadows (2014) is the best account of this
sordid affair.
Ferguson addresses this
affair with a diversion, arguing vociferously that the information Kissinger
passed along didn’t amount to much. [Saved.] But these claims are
irrelevant in taking the measure of the man. Kissinger proved his value to
Nixon by taking such outrageous, and, it must be said, shameful risks: as
Ferguson concedes, “Kissinger went to impressive lengths to ‘protect his
secrecy.’” The president-elect was sold. He named Kissinger his national
security advisor, and Rocky handed him a $50,000 check (equivalent to $325,000
today) as a parting gift.
Was Kissinger an idealist? Or was he, as he described
one set of adversaries, “single-minded, unemotional, dedicated, and, above all,
motivated by an enormous desire for power”? In 2004, the historian Jeremi Suri, author of Henry
Kissinger and the American Century (2007), a warmly disposed though
level-headed biography with which Kissinger cooperated, asked Kissinger,
“What are your core moral principles—the principles you would not violate?”
Kissinger, then three decades removed from public service, responded, “I am not
prepared to share that yet.”
It may be, contrary to Ferguson’s thesis, that there
is nothing to share. Isaacson records that during the Holocaust, “at least
thirteen close relatives of Kissinger were sent to the gas chambers or died in
concentration camps,” including his father’s three sisters. Ferguson describes
in detail how as a young American GI, Kissinger arrived at the Ahlem
concentration camp: “Wherever they turned, the incredulous soldiers encountered
new horrors.” About thirty years later, discussing with
Nixon the treatment of Jews in the Soviet Union, Kissinger volunteered, “If
they put Jews into gas chambers in the Soviet Union, it is not an American
concern. Maybe a humanitarian concern.” Maybe.
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