Reimagining the Baltic

At four kilometres across, the strip of water between Helsinger in Zealand and Helsingborg in Scania is the narrowest part of the Oresund, the most important of the three straits by which the Baltic Sea drains into the Kattegat and the North Sea. I was in Helsinger at the heels of the Danish general election this year; from the grounds of the 16th Century castle of Kronborg, which Shakespeare called Elsinore, you can still see ship traffic on the Sound, which is among the world’s busiest waterways, ferrying trade goods and passengers in and out of the Baltic.

The prospect must have been similar when Fynes Moryson saw it in 1593; “most pleasant to all men,” he called it, “but most of all to the King, seeing so many ships whereof not one shall pass, without adding to his treasure.” (Denmark only forfeited her right to Sound Dues in the nineteenth century.)  The Danish election had been overshadowed by the humanitarian catastrophe on the Mediterranean, which still looms. But the whole history of the Baltic region has been defined by the movements of people, no less than by the flow of capital.

Brackish, shallow, and relatively small, the Baltic, septentrional cousin to the Mediterranean, has been called a frigid backwater by comparison; and until recently its history was neglected in English writing. Since the end of the Cold War, however – and this bookend is no coincidence – there has been more interest in studying the region. The prototype is Fernand Braudel’s mid-century study of the Mediterranean, whose influence historians of the Baltic protest rather too much. An excellent two-volume history by David Kirby has become a minor classic since its publication in the early nineties. Michael North’s “The Baltic: A History,” newly translated from German by Kenneth Kronenberg, is intended as an update for the twenty-first century, which accounts for a recent “spatial turn” in the conception of history. Dr. North is a professor and Chair of Modern History at the University of Greifswald, and it will come as no surprise that this volume’s major distinction is its engagement with recent scholarly literature – indeed in respect of erudition it will be difficult to surpass.

That “spatial turn” deserves attention. It has, North writes, “given rise to a new historical conception of the concept of regions and regionalism” (he proceeds to offer the obligatory renunciation of a history of the Baltic “a la Braudel,” which amounts to the observation that there are “many Baltics,” a point I suspect Braudel would concede.) You would be forgiven for failing to recognize the reference to a fashionable current in academia. The idea is basically that history does not take place on the head of a pin, but in “spaces.” Some are defined by climate and geography; others are more abstract, defined by tradition or imagination. But all these spaces can change and overlap, and relate to one another in different ways over time (in a simple example, the boundaries of the nations surrounding the Baltic have shifted dramatically since they were first drawn.) Part of the historian’s task is to sort this out and represent it, which often requires turning to tools from different disciplines. In “The Baltic,” the main constructs are economic and cultural (mainly architectural.) That each of these disciplines has experienced its own distinct “spatial turn” is a complication that goes unaddressed.

The Baltic Sea (the eleventh-century chronicler Adam of Bremen derived mare Balticum from the Latin word for belt, supposedly because it “stretched like a belt as far as the Scythian regions and Greece”) is completely enclosed within the Eurasian continent. Nine modern countries occupy its rim. Throughout its history, the Baltic has been a canvas for competing imperial designs – a complex interplay of nations, merchants, and military fraternities all vying for regional control (seventeenth-century Sweden probably came closest to a dominium maris baltici.) North begins his account in the ninth century and brings us to the present day, all in the course of a single volume. In terms of ambition this approaches the Canutian; in fact, the real King Canute makes an early appearance, in the context of his Christianizing mission, as if to reinforce the impression. Thus we learn that, at least since the Viking Age, the Baltic Sea has served as a space for “exchange and encounter;” that is a serviceable, if vague, thesis for the whole work. Understandably, North tends to dwell on the ports. Each new chapter therefore alights on a different port city, a local “focus,” beginning with Wolin, an ancient entrepot at the head of the Oder River.

At its best, “The Baltic” is a wonderful reference, and North manages copious data deftly. His economic analyses are especially trenchant (one of the unexpected rewards of the book is a thoroughly engaging take on the manorial system.) There are periodic, often illuminating forays into architectural history. Indeed, a visitor to the Baltic centres can’t help but be struck by their aesthetic similarities; “The Baltic” traces the flow of professional skills and sensibilities from port to port. Moreover, architecture, the built environment, is interesting ground for a proponent of the “spatial turn.”  You might wish for a meatier investigation of architectural history than is to be found in “the Baltic,” but these are spots where we see a return on the book’s philosophical promise.

Elsewhere, North seems to struggle for balance. A synopsis of the Protestant Reformation – “an event that revolutionized communication in the Baltic region and connected all neighbouring people with each other” – somewhat understates its impact. The Reformation also set off a chain of religious disputes, culminating in the cataclysm of the Thirty Years War, which also receives surprisingly scant attention in this volume. Later on, another remarkable claim: “the Baltic region was relatively peaceful during World War One.” It seems almost petty to interpose, for example, that the Eastern front bisected Latvia for most of the war, or that the Battle of Tannenberg, one of the most lethal military offences in history (the Germans nearly obliterated the Russian 2nd Army,) took place in Olsztyn, an hour-and-a-half drive from the port city of Elbing. The Bolshevik Revolution gets pared down to a single sentence. Meanwhile ABBA (yes, that ABBA) receives half a page.  
One wishes, often and fervently, for more generous visuals. In particular, the reader is advised to have a good map to hand. If it is in fact Dr. North’s intention “to bring [the Baltic region] and its history to the attention of a larger public,” I wonder at his tack; “The Baltic,” which assumes substantial prior knowledge and relies heavily on finicky data, is not an eminently approachable book. There are doubtlessly friendlier introductions to the region.

But it is a welcome and timely addition to the shelf. The iconic Oresund Bridge, the last regional focus in “The Baltic”, joins Copenhagen to Malmo by road and rail. As you cross it, the coast fades into the distance and the Lillgrund Wind Farm rises out of the water in front of you – a surreal landscape of gleaming, hundred-meter turbines – a reminder that the Baltic sea region is changing briskly. So is the way we think about its past. Dr North’s latest work represents a valiant effort to bring us up to speed. It is sure to be a touchstone.

“The Baltic” is published by Harvard University Press. Further information can be found at www.hup.harvard.edu