Expecting the official announcement, Kennan and Roberts accepted invitations to a gala performance at the Bolshoi Theater that evening, only to find that it celebrated Aleksandr Popov, the alleged Russian inventor of radio.44
When the authorities did finally announce the end of the war, on May 9, they and everyone else were unprepared for what happened. The first spontaneous demonstration anyone could remember in Moscow broke out in front of the Mokhovaya, where Soviet and American flags were flying, and it would not disperse. “We were naturally moved and pleased by this manifestation of public feeling,” Kennan recalled, “but were at a loss to know how to respond to it.” Anyone venturing into the street “was immediately seized, tossed enthusiastically into the air, and passed on friendly hands over the heads of the crowd, to be lost, eventually, in a confused orgy of good feelings somewhere on its outer fringes. Few of us were willing to court this experience, so we lined the balconies and waved back as bravely as we could.”
Sensing that more was expected, Kennan climbed precariously onto a pedestal at the base of a column in front of the building to make his first and last public speech in Russian before the walls of the Kremlin: “Congratulations on the day of victory. All honor to the Soviet allies.” This was about all, it seemed, that “I could suitably say.”45
VII.
Kennan could, however, write—and the essay he composed that month was neither contradictory nor self-indulgent nor impractical. Entitled “Russia’s International Position at the Close of the War with Germany,” it expressed the hope that peace would not resemble the Russian summer, “faint and fleeting, tinged with reminders of rigors that recently were and rigors that are soon to come.” Reality, though, was likely to be just that. The war was ending with the defeat of two totalitarian states, but a third was poised to dominate much of the postwar world.
This was hardly an original insight. Bullitt had made the same point in a long letter to Roosevelt as early as January 1943. Harriman had been worrying about the war’s outcome since the summer of 1944 and now had influential supporters in Washington: by May 1945, for example, the new secretary of the Navy, James V. Forrestal, had concluded that Soviet ideology was “as incompatible with democracy as was Nazism or Fascism.” That same month Winston Churchill used the phrase “iron curtain” for the first time in seeking to alert Truman to the risks inherent in the way the war was ending.46
What set Kennan’s essay apart was not the alarm it expressed but the optimism it reflected: the Soviet Union’s position, he argued, was more likely in the long run to weaken it than to strengthen it. The reasons went back yet again to Gibbon, ancient Rome, and “the unnatural task of holding in submission distant peoples.” The U.S.S.R. had taken over, or incorporated within its sphere of influence, territories that even the tsars had never controlled. The peoples affected would resent Russian rule. Successful revolts “might shake the entire structure of Soviet power.”
Much would depend, therefore, upon the skill with which Stalin’s agents managed their new empire. They had the advantages of geographical proximity, experience in running a police state, and the disorientation the war had left behind. No one could expect popularity, though, “who holds that national salvation can come only through bondage to a greater nation.” The “naked bluntness” with which the Red Army had occupied these territories would make the task of running them even more difficult: in this sense, the Kremlin had been better served by the revolutionaries of the interwar era than by the generals and commissars “whose girth is no less and subtlety no greater than those of the Tsarist satraps of a hundred years ago.”
Nor could Moscow provide economic assets to offset political liabilities. Land reform would not put more food on people’s tables. Trade with the capitalists would undermine self-sufficiency. Heavy industry would drain resources from consumers, forcing them to accept a Soviet standard of living. There would of course be claims of economic success: “Russians are a nation of stage managers; and the deepest of their convictions is that things are not what they are, but only what they seem.” Non-Russians to the west were not likely to buy such arguments.
The Kremlin’s greatest difficulty, however, would come in administering its new empire. None of its peoples spoke Russian, and only 60 percent used other Slavic languages; few Russians knew any tongue other than their own. If Moscow sought local assistance, it would risk “disaffection, intrigue, and loss of control.” If it tried to train Russians in the appropriate languages and customs, they were likely to be “corrupted by the amenities and temptations of a more comfortable existence and a more tolerant atmosphere.” If it kept its agents isolated, or sent them only for brief periods of time, then they could hardly be effective either.
Curiously, Soviet leaders expected help from the West through recognition of the “independence” of states within their sphere, as well as help in repairing the economic damage their own policies were inflicting. They knew how often the Americans and British had been told that the only alternative to cooperation was another world war, in which civilization would face “complete catastrophe.” As long as the West believed this, it would not challenge Soviet policy, and Soviet policy would not change.
Should the West, contrary to expectations, muster up “political manliness,” the U.S.S.R. would probably not be able to maintain its hold on “all the territory over which it has today staked out a claim.” Communist parties throughout Western Europe would bare their fangs, and Molotov would no doubt threaten withdrawal from the United Nations. But the Soviet Union “would have played its last real card.” Further military advances would only increase responsibilities already beyond its capacity to meet. And it had no naval or air forces capable of challenging any position outside of Europe. No one in the Kremlin, however, believed that the West, “confronted with the life-size wolf of Soviet displeasure standing at the door and threatening to blow the house in,” would stand firm. “And it is on this disbelief that Soviet global policy is based.”47
This essay, Kennan recalled, “set forth for the first time—indeed, the writing of it evoked for the first time—thoughts that were to be basic to my view of Russia and its problems in future years.” It laid out the key assumption of what later became the strategy of “containment”: that the Soviet Union’s self-generated problems would frustrate its ambitions if the West was patient enough to wait for this to happen and firm enough to resist making concessions. “I didn’t say war was inevitable. I said we had to stand up to them. Time will have its effect, and . . . this is going to affect the regime.”
Kennan gave the paper to Harriman, who returned it without comment. Harry Hopkins may have read it when he visited Moscow in late May and early June. Otherwise, as with Kennan’s earlier efforts to “pluck people’s sleeves, trying to make them understand the nature of the phenomenon with which we in the Moscow embassy were daily confronted,” there was no response: “So far as official Washington was concerned, it had been to all intents and purposes like talking to a stone.”48
VIII.
With the war over, George Kennan sent himself to Siberia. He had requested permission to go soon after arriving in Moscow the year before, and following months of delay the approval, to his surprise, came through. The ostensible reason for the trip was to visit the new industrial complex at Stalinsk-Kuznetsk (now Novokuznetsk), a massive steel production facility southeast of Novosibirsk where few if any foreigners had ever been. But there was also a personal motive, which was “the example of my distinguished nineteenth century namesake. I wanted, before leaving Russia again, to see at least a small portion of the vast Siberian territory where so many of his travels had taken place and with which his name was so widely associated.”49
The first George Kennan had crossed Siberia by horse-drawn carriages and sleighs because the railroad to Vladivostok would not become fully operational until 1905. Four decades later, on June 9, 1945, the second George Kennan boarded the Trans-Siberian Express in Moscow, relishing the oppo
rtunity to relax and to watch the country and its inhabitants go by. He had a compartment to himself but shared a washroom with two taciturn secret police agents, stationed next door. Two good-natured car attendants, Zinya and Marusya, kept a samovar going with scraps of wood collected at frequent station stops along the way, while shooing away anyone trying to hitch an unauthorized ride.
There, on the black cinder-track, hard-trodden and greasy with the oil and the droppings from the trains, under the feet of the milling crowds of passengers, train personnel and station hangers-on, without regard for the clouds of soot and dust, a thriving business was done: milk was cheerfully poured from old jugs into empty vodka flasks or army canteens; greasy cakes were fingered tentatively by hands black with train soot; arguments ran their course; bargains were struck; passengers pushed their way triumphantly back to the cars, clutching their acquisitions; and timid little girls with bare feet, who had not succeeded in selling their offerings, stood by in sad and tearless patience, awaiting with all the stoicism of their race the maternal wrath which would await them when the train had gone and they would return home with their tidbits unsold.
At one stop a soldier accused an old woman of cheating him. “‘You’d better be careful, little mother,’ he said gaily, ‘not to run across me in the other world. The archangels are all my friends.’ To the crowd’s delight, the old girl crossed herself anxiously; and the incident ended in general laughter.”
The trip took four days. Fellow passengers were pleasant but wary: “We didn’t talk much.” One evening, however, Kennan passed around copies of the American embassy’s Russian-language magazine, provoking a lively corridor discussion on the transition from Roosevelt to Truman. “Then everybody began to look guiltily over his shoulder and the meeting quickly dispersed.” With traffic on the line heavy,
we were only one link in the long chain of trains, tiny trains against the surrounding distances, crawling eastward like worms, haltingly and with innumerable interruptions. . . . We stopped more than we moved; and when we stopped, we could see the freight trains piling up behind us, and hear them whistling for the right of way with the deep throaty voice which only trains in Russia and America have, and which brings nostalgia to every American heart.
The waits were long enough for the passengers to get off and pick flowers: at one point, “when the train stopped among the swamps, we climbed down the embankment, took off our shirts, splashed off the yellow scum from the surface . . . , and washed our heads in the cool dark liquid from underneath.” Toward Novosibirsk, the prairie became “completely flat, treeless, shrouded in streaks of ground-mist; and the dome of the sky stretched out to tremendous distances, as though vainly trying to encompass the limits of the great plain.”
Kennan arrived weary, wilted, and without an appetite after ninety-eight hours on the train, to be greeted with the usual Russian dinner accorded visiting dignitaries. It included of course vodka, as well as “river fish, salmon, cold meat, radishes, cucumbers, cheese, hard boiled eggs, bread and butter, soup, beer, steak, fried potatoes, fried eggs, cake, and tea.” Each refusal was “an indication that the respective dish was not good enough,” which served only “to stimulate my host and the waitress to new feats of hospitality.” Upon recovering, Kennan felt well enough to inspect an airplane factory and an experimental farm, to attend a football match, the circus, and the Jewish theater—evacuated from Minsk early in the war, and “still playing on odd nights in Yiddish to a full house”—and to take in an opera in an enormous new theater, the largest in the Soviet Union, for which the funds had been raised locally, in wartime, with the streets surrounding it “still those of a Siberian village.” There could be “no more flamboyant a repudiation of the past, no more arrogant expression of confidence in the future, than the erection of this almost mystical structure on the remote banks of the Ob.”
After several days Kennan continued by train to Stalinsk-Kuznetsk, a city that fifteen years earlier had been a swamp. It now contained thousands of workers and their families, as well as one of the largest steel mills in the Soviet Union. Obviously it had required “a great feat of willpower and organization to build and put into operation at all an establishment of this size in a place so remote from the other industrial centers.” Perhaps the sacrifices had been worth it if the plant had helped to win the war, but it had clearly cost far more to build and to operate than a comparable facility in the United States. State-sanctioned “labor unions” placed production ahead of the safety, health, and welfare of the workers. A nearby collective farm provided the state with a reliable supply of agricultural commodities, but its peasants seemed “as effectively bound to their place of work as were the Russian serfs of the period before emancipation.”
Banquets continued to be a challenge. “I am having an extremely interesting and enjoyable trip,” George wrote Jeanette on a postcard he mailed from Stalinsk-Kuznetsk. “I am constantly reminded here of G. K. the elder and his travels. Fortunately for me, I have none of his physical hardships to cope with; but I face a culinary hospitality before which I think even he, in the end, would have wavered.” The police, if curious about the identity of “G. K.,” failed to pursue the matter, and the card made it safely to Highland Park.
Back in Novosibirsk on a hot day, Kennan suggested to one of his handlers that they take a swim. They chose the river, surely a site known to the first George Kennan, but now with the great railroad bridge and the gigantic opera house looming in the distance. Still, “[l]ittle naked boys poked along the shore in a leaky old row boat as boys will do everywhere.” The scene led Kennan to wonder whether Russian dreams of grandeur would not at some point “cut loose from all connection with reality and begin some fantastic colossus of a project, build part of it hastily and with bad materials, never to finish it, and then leave the beginnings to rot away or be used for utterly incongruous purposes.” If so, the Ob would remain, flowing quietly toward the Arctic Ocean. “And probably, regardless of what marvels had or had not been constructed on shore, for countless summers naked little boys would continue to find leaky old boats and to pole their way up and down the stream . . . , shouting and splashing, cutting their feet on the rocks, and making astounding discoveries about the nature of rivers and the contents of river bottoms.”
Kennan returned to Moscow by air, a trip that itself required three days, several stops, and considerable improvisation. On the flight to Omsk, an illiterate old woman regaled him with observations on life reflecting “all the pungency and charm of the mental world of those who had never known the printed word.” Kennan shared his lunch with her under the tail of the plane after they landed, began reading Tolstoy aloud, and soon had half of their fellow passengers as an audience. Stuck overnight in Sverdlovsk with no continuing flight scheduled, Kennan watched gratefully as the local party secretary, shouting loudly over the phone, commandeered one. In Kazan, the police for once lost track of him, allowing Kennan the “pleasant and homelike, if slightly vulgar” experience of “sauntering on the streets of a Volga River town of a summer evening,” philosophically eating sunflower seeds and spitting out their husks. It provided “the same sense of bovine calm and superiority as chewing gum. For a moment I could almost forget that I was a foreigner in a country governed by people suspicious and resentful of all foreigners. But not for long.”
Flying to Moscow the next day, Kennan sat on a crate, looked out the window, and tried “to gather together into some sort of pattern the mass of impressions which the past fortnight had left upon me.” The Russians, he concluded, were “a talented, responsive people, capable of absorbing and enriching all forms of human experience.” They were “strangely tolerant of cruelty and carelessness yet highly conscious of ethical values.” They had emerged from the war “profoundly confident that they are destined to play a progressive and beneficial role in the affairs of the world, and eager to begin to do so.” How could Americans not sympathize with them?
Their government, however, was “a regime o
f unparalleled ruthlessness and jealousy, . . . determined that no outside influence shall touch them.” As long as it was in place, outsiders could do little. Generosity would only strengthen it. Blows aimed at it would excuse further repression. The wise American, therefore, would try neither to help nor to harm but instead to “make plain to Soviet acquaintances the minimum conditions on which he can envisage polite neighborly relations with them, the character of his own aspirations and the limits of his own patience.” He would then “leave the Russian people—unencumbered by foreign sentimentality as by foreign antagonism—to work out their own destiny in their own peculiar way.”50
TEN
A Very Long Telegram: 1945–1946
SHORTLY BEFORE KENNAN LEFT ON HIS SIBERIAN TRIP, HE MOVED his family into a new Moscow apartment in the former Finnish legation, now empty because Finland and the Soviet Union had been on opposite sides during the war. The Finns had arranged, through the Swedes, to rent the building to the American embassy, which badly needed the space. The “Finnsky Dom,” George wrote Jeanette, was “vastly preferable” to the Mokhovaya, with its cacophonous street outside and an equally noisy elevator inside. “Here we have a garden, and a balcony, and peace and quiet at night, and a room for each of the children; and the servants are tucked away where you don’t stumble over them every day.” George’s career continued to prosper: on June 1, 1945, the Foreign Service promoted him to its Class I rank, at a salary of $9,000. He still worried, though, about the precariousness of his position: “You can easily imagine how delicate a job [this] is in these particular days, when the public eye is focused on Russian-American relations to an extent where one false step or unwise word could attract attention everywhere.”1
Some of the delicacy was Kennan’s own doing, given his repeated objections to his government’s policies. “I couldn’t be the sort of smooth, self-contained type of Foreign Service officer who advanced because he’d made no waves. It’s a wonder to me that I got along as well as I did.” It is indeed, but there were safeguards. One was the State Department’s respect for professional expertise. Having gone to the trouble to train Soviet specialists, it did what it could to protect them; Kennan, for all his prickliness, had long been regarded as the best of the group. Harriman too provided cover. He wanted a heretic working for him—although he rarely reassured the heretic—and Harriman usually got his way: “I was quite an arbitrary fellow in those days.” Finally, Kennan had a good track record. He had been right on the Azores bases and while serving on the European Advisory Commission. As the months passed in Moscow, Soviet behavior further enhanced his reputation by vindicating his pessimism about its future course.2
George F. Kennan : an American life Page 27
