Sunday, October 28, 1962, early morning
Khrushchev’s dacha, outside Moscow
He had slept well, but woke with a jolt, the events of the past few days driving him quickly out of bed. He slipped quietly into his robe, his slippers, shuffled softly from the bedroom, would not wake his wife, no reason to inflict upon her the inescapable anxieties that infected him every day.
His son, Sergei, was upstairs in the guest room, Sergei’s wife, Galina, insisting that Khrushchev’s grandson, Nikita, visit as often as Khrushchev would allow. The poorly kept secret was that Khrushchev preferred the company of his family to anyone who occupied a position in the Presidium, with the possible exception of his friend Malinovsky. But Malinovsky was too focused now on the business at hand, and any conversation between them involved the most pressing anxieties of the day. Once in a while, Khrushchev could still ease his own tension by making silly faces at his two-year-old grandson.
He crept into the kitchen, slippers on the stone floor, was relieved to see no sign of the housemaid, the overly efficient woman not yet at work. He stared briefly through the tall kitchen window, a thin blanket of snow covering the grounds. But the day was dawning clear and blue, a tease for what surely would come once winter settled upon Moscow.
He glanced at the cabinet that held the vodka, shook his head, no. I might be tempted, but not yet. I will need a clear head today. There is much to do, decisions that must be made.
He heard commotion out by the front entrance, voices, the door closing. Visitors, he thought, this early? He regretted the robe, thought of slipping back into his room, but it was not to be. An aide appeared, fully dressed, the young man efficient as always.
“Good morning, Premier. A messenger has just delivered this parcel. He was accompanied by armed guards, so I assume the contents of this are for your eyes only.”
Khrushchev recognized the pouch, knew it had come from the Kremlin, and if it was this time of day, he knew it could not wait. He looked out again at the snow, let out a breath, thought, so much for the peaceful time. He took the pouch, opened it slowly, slid a small handful of papers out, could see immediately it was a translation of a message from the president of the United States. He tossed the empty pouch on his kitchen table, said, “In Washington it is what time?”
“It is six here, so ten last evening in Washington. It is eight hours difference, Premier.”
“Yes, of course. This seems to be a response to my letters to President Kennedy. Obviously, someone in the Kremlin felt it could not wait. They’re probably right.”
“Yes, sir. We also received a call from Ambassador Dobrynin.”
“Yes, Dimitri, I know. I spoke with him earlier. I believe I already know what this letter will say.” He fingered the paper, still couldn’t avoid the nervousness. “I am wondering if I should summon the Presidium to meet with me here.”
“I can issue the summons, on your command, sir.”
“Dimitri, you are too efficient for your own good. Let them sleep a moment longer. Allow me to find some breakfast. I will grant myself the luxury of a brief time with my grandson. You are excused. Go back to your room. Enjoy a moment’s rest.”
“Of course, Premier. My apologies.”
The young man slid away, and Khrushchev sat at his round wooden breakfast table, read Kennedy’s response slowly. He felt a churning in his stomach, thought, he doesn’t mention Turkey. He does that only through his brother, to Dobrynin. Careful move. And clever. He avoids the most contentious of my points, those issues pushed upon me by the Presidium, by Kochov and the mindless militants. Clever again.
He reread the letter, thought of the Presidium. They will be expecting to hear something. I cannot keep them in the dark. Dimitri is correct, they can be summoned to meet with me here. At least there might be one more day before I must sleep again in my office.
He heard footsteps on the stairs, glanced up, a muffled whisper.
“Good morning, Father.”
His son padded into the room, and Khrushchev welcomed the interruption, responded with a whisper of his own.
“So, my grandson still sleeps?”
Sergei laughed.
“It is a precious time, these few minutes of quiet. He will command this house soon enough.”
Khrushchev tried to return the good humor, but there was no laughter, no smile. Sergei read him well, said, “Is it not going well, Father?”
Khrushchev laid the papers on the table.
“No, Sergei, it is not going well. Kennedy has responded to my last communication, and he is proving to be more of a rock than I would have thought. Of course, it could be those men behind him, who push hard keeping him upright. But the Americans are holding firm to their demands, and it is placing me in a position I have not yet experienced.” He paused. “I have never felt this way before, never truly felt the weight of this office, a weight others take for granted. I have within my hands the power to inflict the most deadly catastrophe that this world has ever endured. And I am face-to-face with another man who has exactly the same power. Some would say we are engaged in a negotiation, but you do not negotiate the end of the world. One of us must admit a mistake and back away before we come to the edge of the abyss. I believe I understand this young man Kennedy. What I do not know is how much pressure he is under from behind, pushed by those who seem not to care if they destroy the world, just so they can prove their point.”
“Father, why did you put missiles in Cuba? Was it not to prove a point?”
Khrushchev thought a moment.
“I suppose … of course. We must support our allies. We must create equal footing in the nuclear age by matching power for power. Mutually assured destruction, so some American general once said. It has to be that way. It is after all, what the Americans are doing with their manufacture of so many bombs. We sought merely to equal the balance, to stand up toe-to-toe and support a position that is in the best interests of the Soviet Union.”
“Father, you are speaking as though I am a reporter from Izvestia. Perhaps the balance is not meant to be equal. Perhaps the equity, the peace comes not from so many bombs, but from good relations, a clear understanding and respect for the other side. Father, do you know if Mr. Kennedy has children?”
Khrushchev was surprised by the question.
“Two. They’re young.”
“Do you believe Mr. Kennedy wishes to see his children grow older?”
It was a new thought, and he weighed the words, the concept. He was distracted by motion behind Sergei, his daughter-in-law, Galina, carrying a large squirming bundle. Khrushchev wanted to smile, to take the boy, but something stopped him, a strange paralysis. She handed the boy off to Sergei, who said, “Now the men have assembled properly. Perhaps some breakfast, Galina?”
She laughed, said, “Perhaps. The cook is stirring. I suspect she is not accustomed to the men of this house rising so early. But she should teach you how to cook for yourselves. Excuse me, I must get dressed.”
She disappeared up the stairs, and Khrushchev stared at his grandson, saw wide eyes, and a sleepy smile.
“I hope, Sergei, that you do not come to regret naming your son after me. Nikita might not be a name respected for much longer. I have decisions to make which might push me out of favor in the Kremlin. Such is the nature of the uncertainty we must live under.”
Sergei sat at the table, the young boy coming fully awake, a beaming smile toward his grandfather.
“Nonsense, Father. He will respect you always, no matter anyone else. Besides, he will make a path for himself.”
Words stuck in Khrushchev’s throat. If that path still exists. He stood abruptly, said, “Forgive me. I must withdraw to my office here. I have some things I must work on. It can’t be helped. I must carefully examine Mr. Kennedy’s letter. And I must prepare a different letter, to Fidel Castro. I must convince him to stop shooting at American airplanes.”
Sergei knew his father well, did not object. Khrushchev rose, secured his robe, padded his way through the house, to his private study. He closed the door behind him, moved to his desk, sat, the response from Kennedy still in his hand. He read it again, thought, yes, a very clever man. No matter how much we believe we have the upper hand, he remains on top. He is trusting that I do not want a war, and it is a wise wager. And yet that is the decision facing me. It has been so through this entire crisis, where either one of us could have said, all right, that’s all. No more talk, no more threats and bluster. That’s where I am right now. My generals, Kochov for one, would push me to tilt the table in our favor, fire off one or more of those missiles as a stark warning to the United States that we are not merely fooling around. Perhaps we would eliminate a small city, just to prove our resolve. And so, Kennedy would do the same, perhaps eliminate two of our cities … and there we have it. No one could stop that word … escalation. And so, history would record the two of us as mass murderers, responsible for the destruction of humanity. No, don’t be silly. There would be no history. It would simply end.
He stood, moved away from the desk, had to see the snow once more. We both understand with perfect clarity, he thought, that no matter the generals and their weapons, no matter how much we might strive to save face, no matter the agreements we make with foolish allies, in the end we must ask ourselves just what we value the most. Just how much do we love our children?