Thursday, June 1, 1961
Petsamo, Georgia, by the Black Sea
“For the life of me, I cannot grow carrots.”
He looked up through the sunlight at his son, poked again at the dirt.
“Sergei, it is good I am a leader, because I would be a failure as a farmer.”
Sergei laughed, stood tall above him, shielding the sun.
“Father, you are a marvelous success as a manager of agricultural programs. No one expects you to work the soil with your own hands. You command a nation and its programs, not its dirt.”
Khrushchev sat back on the hard ground, said, “In that I am fortunate. My celery withers, my potatoes are like small rocks. I would imagine Chairman Stalin never dirtied his hands either. But if Stalin could see what kind of progress I am making in managing his precious nation, he would no doubt shoot me where I sit. As much as I worked beside him, I never gave much regard to seeking prosperity through the mass execution of our own citizens. He stayed in power as long as he did because he executed anyone smart enough to defeat him. The generals, mostly. That was a problem when the Second World War began. The army had no one left who knew what he was doing. Stalin had purged them all.” He fingered a small shovel, tossed it aside. “Russia is a land where strength allows survival, but with strength must also come guile. Wits. As long as I remained close to Stalin, I was feared. Through it all, I learned to make friends; powerful, useful friends. There was much chaos, confusion, smoke spread over this country when Stalin died. The smoke cleared, and here I sit. Well, not just here, mind you. This dirt is cold.”
He knew Sergei had heard it all before, the son in his mid-twenties, accustomed to all the great tales his father delighted in recalling. The most prominent story of course was Khrushchev’s rise to power, the careful manipulation of the entire Soviet system, so that one man could find his way to the top, and, with good fortune, remain there.
Khrushchev reached out a hand, and Sergei grasped it, helped Khrushchev to his feet, both men with a low grunt.
“I would prefer you be careful, Father. It is too easy to make enemies these days. The world has become complicated.”
Khrushchev brushed dirt from the short stubs of his fingers.
“I am always careful, my son. It is another piece of the puzzle that is Russia. Someone always waits in the shadows. Weakness is never forgiven. Mistakes … well, one does not make mistakes. And, occasionally, there must be victories, great achievements that quiet the critics, when they dare to speak. If the people cheer you, the men in the shadows back away just a bit more. Of course, Stalin was a master at finding those people and putting a gun to their heads. I prefer to be more subtle. No matter. I would rather embrace our successes. Last month, we actually launched a rocket that carried a man into space. It’s an achievement for all time, for all mankind. And it was our achievement. Even better than that, we finally shot down a U-2 … the Americans’ infernal spy plane. They abused our sanctity by crisscrossing our country with cameras, too high for our guns to reach. But no more. Finally, another great victory for our people, for me.” It was a point he rarely failed to mention: the year before, an American spy plane brought down by a ground-to-air missile, the pilot, Francis Gary Powers surviving, paraded across the world’s media like a hunting trophy. “I have often wondered what we would have done if the Americans had shot down one of our planes, if we would have started a war. But the Americans are slow on the trigger. They ponder and analyze. Even Eisenhower, the great war hero, he did nothing to avenge the loss of their precious spy plane. The U-2 was shot down on his watch, and he showed embarrassment at their indiscretion, which is a weakness. In the great cold war, it was a battle I won decisively. There are no more spy planes flying over our territory.”
“They will build better planes, Father.”
“And we will build better missiles. And so, this cold war shall continue, until both sides exhaust themselves standing at attention. No, I am wrong. It will never end, unless one side loses patience, or makes a deadly mistake. In the meantime, both sides will push and shove, and play their games. And all the while, our scientists work in their laboratories, our generals remain ready, our newspapers and radios convince the people that all is well, that we are winning, that Russia must ultimately prevail.”
“Must there always be missiles, Father?”
“So, you are worried about my young grandson? It is the shadow we all live under, Sergei. It is the natural order of things. Technology advances for good and for evil. The evil must be balanced for the good to survive. When you and I are gone, your son will have that responsibility.”
“I’d rather not think of that, Father. He is an infant. I am more concerned for all the sons, all the children, and not just Russian. They know nothing of such things as guided missiles and nuclear bombs. Are they not entitled to grow up and live without the shadow of war?”
Khrushchev put his hands in his pockets, shook his head.
“I do not make the rules, Sergei. This is not a world I created. I have one task, one purpose in life, to ensure the survival and the prosperity of the people of the Soviet Union. And so, I must engage whenever I can to seek the advantage, to put our people in their best place.” He paused. “And now I must go to Vienna and meet with this young fellow Kennedy. So far, I am not impressed. It was different with Eisenhower. That man had earned his reputation, and even though he could sometimes show weakness, he carried himself with a strong back. You knew you could push, but not far, and he was not afraid to show me his human side, away from all the bluster and official policy statements. Our trip to his Camp David, to his farm in Gettysburg … most delightful. We could converse as grandfathers, more interested in playing with our children than rattling sabers. This Kennedy … I don’t know. He is too young, too untried. He has already made a catastrophic blunder in Cuba, and he grovels to the world with weak apologies.”
“He is surely not a simpleton, Father. He will learn from his mistakes.”
“Perhaps. But my task is to push him to make more. He will be cautious, he will hesitate. He must know that he has the upper hand when it comes to weapons, that we are working with a fever to catch up. He makes grand pronouncements in the newspapers how he will stand tall toward his adversaries, meaning, of course, me. He pretends to be arrogant, as though he will have the strong hand in any negotiation. But his caution will betray him. And so, we must take advantage. If the Soviet Union is to prosper, we must expand, and expand again. Cuba, Vietnam, Laos, and even Germany. As time passes, new opportunities will appear, new leaders will emerge in countries everywhere who will see value in our programs and the Soviet system. That is the great competition, that is the meaning of cold war. As our influence spreads, our strength will spread with it, to every corner of the world. I will not repeat Stalin’s mistake. He first saw Russia as his target, and he spent too much energy pursuing enemies within his own backyard, while the rest of the world grew stronger. Unlike Stalin, I do not fear Russians.”
“Just be cautious yourself, Father. Kennedy might be weak, but the Americans, their military, their economy are very strong. He could be replaced as well, with someone far more dangerous. It just takes their system a little longer than it might take here.”
Khrushchev laughed, rubbed one dirty hand across his round belly.
“I will go to Vienna and find just how much of a spine he has. I will be civil, certainly. But there will be a hard edge, a razor’s edge. He will have his hat in his hand, hoping for a benign friendship. Perhaps he will repeat his apologies for his Cuban debacle. I will shake his hand, give him a wide friendly smile. But I will hold the dagger hidden away.”
Sunday, June 4, 1961
Vienna, Austria
He was exhausted. He moved down the long corridor, past the luxurious hotel rooms belonging to his staff, others in his party. His steps were deliberate, and he tried not to show just how tired he truly was, not to the men around him now, the security guards who must never see weakness. They reached his room, another waiting guard standing tall, one man with a key, the door opening.
The word had spread that the summit had ended, others emerging from their rooms, easing closer to his suite, hoping to hear the details. The meetings themselves had consisted of six men, Khrushchev and Kennedy, Russian foreign minister Andrei Gromyko, the two interpreters and the American secretary of state, Dean Rusk. But Rusk had played little role, the words coming almost exclusively from Kennedy, and even now, Khrushchev was wondering at the arrogance of that, if it was a mock show of strength.
He moved to the plush sofa, sat heavily, heard the tumult in the hallway, motioned to his staff to let them in. Gromyko was there first, seemed as exhausted as Khrushchev, waited for a signal to sit. The others gathered around now, diplomats and officials, his own assistants, so many sponges, waiting for the information Khrushchev chose to give them. To one side, a table, with a silver champagne bucket, iced and filled with a glorious bottle, a gracious offering from his Austrian hosts. He pointed.
“Open that.”
An aide moved quickly, the sparkling gold filling a shallow glass. He took it gratefully, a glance at the bubbles, then downed it in a single swallow.
“Another.”
He looked at Gromyko, a silent offer, Gromyko shaking his head no.
“Pity, Andre. More for me.”
He downed the second glass, handed it again to the aide.
“Keep pouring.”
The door to the enormous room closed and he glanced around, all faces expectant, staring dutifully, waiting for his briefing. He sipped more slowly at the third glass, then said, “The president is as I suspected. He is a charming man, well spoken, intelligent. He is well-versed on all the issues, and does not rely on a team of advisors to prompt him on what he should say. But beneath it all, he is tentative, fearful, possibly a weakling. He is not an Eisenhower, and he seems not to know his own strengths, the strengths of his country or its military. He refuses to understand our needs, our goals, preaches only of what is best for the United States. He drained me of energy, wishing to debate the merits of Western philosophy, trying to convince me that we must hold back on any thoughts of spreading our revolution. I listened, politely. And I have already forgotten most of what he said.” He sat back, one hand on his stomach. He knew the men around him were waiting for more, and he gulped the champagne again. “We discussed so many topics, but my efforts to open his eyes to our way of thinking were clouded by his incessant need to debate, as though this entire summit was a contest, comparing our systems of government, our philosophies. I spoke of Berlin at great length. I told him of our need to settle that issue, why the presence of Western armies in the city posed a security threat to us. I told him of the objections of the Eastern German officials, who watch the flow of their citizens westward, along with their goods and their currency. I did not tell him, of course, that those same officials are pushing us hard to construct a barrier that will divide the city, the only way, apparently, to stop the flow of those goods and the refugees who carry them. For most of the afternoon, Kennedy seemed confused about Berlin, with no response other than to claim it is necessary for world peace to maintain a standoff there.” He drank a fourth glass of champagne, ignored the growing effects, felt a belch rising, allowed it to escape noisily. “Request more bottles of this. It is quite good. No, I do not fear the Americans, and I do not fear their leader. The world will soon understand that by giving us the upper hand, Mr. Kennedy will indeed find his world peace. It will simply be on our terms.”