more problematical. For many years, the only systematic publication of relevant documents was undertaken abroad, particularly at the Polish Institute and the Underground Study Trust (SPP) in London. Much could also be found on the diplomatic and military front in the Public Record Office, the Imperial War Museum, the National Archives in Washington, or in the Bundesarchiv in Bonn. Yet many key collections have remained closed, or are, at best, half-open. The British intelligence archives, for instance, which will someday reveal numerous insights into the affairs of 1944, were still 95 per cent unavailable at the turn of the century. The records of the post-war Polish security services, which are vital to an understanding of Stalinist repressions, are being released only slowly. Worst of all, after a brief promise of more liberal policies, the ex-Soviet archives in Moscow are still not fully accessible. A small number of selected documents were published in the 1990s. And determined foreign researchers with local assistance can gain limited access to some collections. But by the start of the twenty-first century, the main documents relating to Stalin’s decisions in 1944 had still not been placed in the public domain. For this reason alone, I have no doubt that the definitive academic study of the Warsaw Rising still awaits its author.
As I have written on several occasions, historians inevitably form part of their own histories. And the times in which historians write, unavoidably influence what is written. In this regard, the history of an Allied coalition, which failed to live up to its obligations, may not be entirely unconnected to the present time.
Most people think of a good history book, as they think of a good novel, in linear terms. The readers start at the beginning, where they are pointed in a certain direction. They then plunge into a journey – through the jungle, up the mountain, along the road, or wherever – admiring the passing landscape, enjoying the adventures and surprises, but always heading unswervingly towards the chosen goal. At some point, better sooner than later, they reach the central drama of the story – the divorce of Henry VIII, the assassination of Abraham Lincoln, the encirclement of the German army before Stalingrad, or whatever – and they then move on to the denouement. It is a very satisfying intellectual experience.
At some point, however, I realized that the linear model is not the only design which may be followed to good effect. Different types of subject matter demand different types of treatment. In Heart of Europe , for instance, which was relating the memories of the past to the problems of the present, I decided that the story was best told in reverse chronological order. 3 Sometime later, when faced with the enormous task of writing ‘The Oxford History of Europe’, I again decided that radical measures had to be taken. Europe: a history (1996) was written on three levels simultaneously. The main text consisted, indeed, of a linear narrative. It proceeded in twelve giant strides across Europe’s past from prehistory to the late twentieth century. But each of the chapters was enhanced both by ‘Snapshots’ and by ‘Capsules’. The ‘Snapshots’, which were mini-chapters in themselves, treated a series of key moments, giving the reader a more detailed view of life and issues in a particular age. The three hundred ‘Capsules’ scattered through the text in discrete boxes touched on an array of highly eccentric and exotic topics, which contrasted sharply with the generalizations of the surrounding chapters and created an illusion of comprehensive coverage. 4
To my great relief, I found that this relatively complicated structure did not repel the readers. On the contrary, it gave them the opportunity of navigating their individual ways through the huge maze which is European history, of taking a change and a rest at numerous points in the long journey, and of
R. K. Ryals, Melanie Bruce