I was glad to leave the oppressive drabness of Moscow behind as our limousines sped down deserted roads toward Khrushchev’s summer house. As I looked out on the night, I reflected on the colorless streets and facades of the Soviet capital. I thought to myself that the color we associated with communism should not be red but gray.
Khrushchev’s dacha was set deep in the woods that surround Moscow. Before the 1917 revolution it had been a summer home of the czars. It became Stalin’s a few years after the red czars took over and devolved to Khrushchev upon his ascension to the throne. The dacha was as luxurious an estate as I have ever visited. The mansion, which was larger than the White House, was surrounded by pristinely kept grounds and gardens. On one side a marble staircase descended to the banks of the Moscow River. I thought to myself that the Bolsheviks had come a long way since the ascetic days of the revolutionary underground.
At about noon Khrushchev and his wife drove up in their limousine. Khrushchev sported a dazzlingly embroidered shirt. Bubbling with the energy and enthusiasm of a cruise social director, he lined us up for pictures. He then ushered me off for the boat ride on the Moscow River. When we returned we joined the ladies for lunch, after which, I assumed, we would excuse ourselves and proceed with our official talks.
Khrushchev took us to a long table standing underneath a canopy of magnificent birches and pines, which were originally planted in the days of Catherine the Great. The table was laden with every manner of Russian delicacy and soft and hard drinks. Despite his well-deserved reputation for drinking heavily, Khrushchev only sampled the array of vodka and wine. He appreciated good food and drink. But just as his famed temper was always his servant and not his master, his drinking on this occasion was strictly for pleasure and was never permitted to interfere with business. He was cold sober throughout our long afternoon of talks.
The conversation at the beginning of the luncheon was lighthearted and cordial. While the first course was being served, Deputy Premier Mikoyan began to talk across the table to Mrs. Nixon, who was seated next to Khrushchev. The Soviet Premier interrupted Mikoyan and scolded him: “Now look here, you crafty Armenian. Mrs. Nixon belongs to me. You stay on your side of the table.” He then proceeded to trace a line down the middle of the table with his finger and proclaimed, “This is an iron curtain. And don’t you step over it.”
Meanwhile I had a pleasant conversation with Mrs. Khrushchev, over whom the Soviet leader did not try to exercise proprietary control. She had all her husband’s energy but none of his boorishness. Her outgoing warmth was a welcome contrast to Khrushchev’s often harsh demeanor. And unlike her more rough-hewn husband, she had refined interests—classical music, the ballet, French and Russian literature—and spoke of them knowledgeably.
One of the first courses was an unusual delicacy, a frozen white fish from Siberia. It was served raw, sliced into thin strips, and spiced with salt, pepper, and garlic. “It was Stalin’s favorite dish,” Khrushchev said, urging me to taste it. “He said it put steel in his backbone.” Khrushchev took a double portion and I made sure to do likewise.
Moments later, as the plates were cleared for the next course, Khrushchev swung the conversation dramatically from diplomatic small talk to military big talk. He began bragging about the potency and accuracy of Soviet missiles, citing statistics about their payloads and ranges. But then he added in a hushed voice, almost as an afterthought, that about a month earlier a malfunctioning Soviet ICBM overshot its course and headed toward Alaska. Though it carried no warhead and eventually fell in the ocean, Khrushchev said that he had feared a “fuss” if it had crashed on American territory.
Warming up to the conversation, Khrushchev displayed a repertoire of gestures that a conductor of a brass band would envy. He would give a quick flip of the hand to try to ward off a statement as he would a fly. If that failed, he swatted it away with a peasant’s saying. He would raise his eyes impatiently to the sky if he felt he had heard enough of an argument to anticipate the rest. When he spoke emphatically he cupped the hands of his outstretched arms as if they held self-evident truths for all to witness. When angered he would wave both arms over his head in unison, as if exhorting his band to play louder.
I asked him if he planned to replace his bombers with missiles because of their greater accuracy. He replied, “We almost stopped production of bombers, because missiles are much more accurate and not subject to human failure and human emotions. Humans are frequently incapable of dropping bombs on their assigned targets because of emotional revulsion. That is something you don’t have to worry about in missiles.”
He said that he felt sorry for the navies of the world. Except for submarines, their vessels were simply “sitting ducks” for missiles and could only provide “fodder for the sharks” in a future war. I asked him about his submarine program. “We are building as many submarines as we can,” Khrushchev answered. Mikoyan gave him a warning glance and said, “The Chairman means we are building as many submarines as we need for our defense.”
Khrushchev professed ignorance when I inquired about Soviet development of solid fuels for underwater missile launches. He said, “Well, that is a technical subject which I am not capable of discussing.” Mrs. Nixon expressed surprise that there was any topic that the head of a one-man government could not discuss. Once again Mikoyan came to the rescue of his boss, saying, “Even Chairman Khrushchev does not have enough hands for all he has to do, so that is why we are here to help him.”
I then told Khrushchev that his bombastic statements about his military might were making it impossible to reduce international tensions or to negotiate lasting agreements. He seemed to agree to curb this practice, but not ten seconds later proceeded to break his word. He said he had superiority in rocketry and that no defense against missiles was possible. He then laughingly referred to a quip about a pessimist and an optimist that he said was current in England. The pessimist said only six atomic bombs would be needed to wipe out the United Kingdom, while the optimist said nine or ten would be required.
I changed the topic to Soviet efforts to subvert the governments of non-Communist countries. I told him that I hoped he was not so naive as to think that the United States was unaware of the directives the Kremlin was sending to Communist movements in other countries. I then pointed out that in a speech in Poland he had declared support for Communist revolutions throughout the world.
“We are against terror against individuals,” he replied, “but if we go to the support of a Communist uprising in another country, that is a different question.” He added that if the “bourgeoisie” did not surrender peacefully, violent revolutions might become necessary.
“In other words, you consider that workers in capitalist states are ‘captives’ whose liberation is justified?” I asked.
He said captives was a vulgar term, not at all “scientific.” He added that it was not interference in another nation’s domestic affairs if the Soviets were supporting a genuine internal revolution.
I asked him why the Soviet press had approved of the attack against Mrs. Nixon and me by a Communist-led mob in Caracas, Venezuela, in 1958. Khrushchev was thrown off stride for a moment. Then he leaned over and said in a low, emotional voice, “We have a saying ‘You are my guest, but truth is my mother,’ so I will answer your very serious question. You were the target of the righteous indignation of the people there. Their acts were not directed against you personally, but against American policy—against the failure of your American policy.”
I pointed out that the military might of a superpower and the fervor of revolutionaries were a dangerous combination. If he did not exercise extreme caution, I added, events could spiral out of control.
I told him that Eisenhower and he should meet to address East-West differences on a basis of give and take, emphasizing that both sides would have to make concessions. “You say the United States is always wrong, and the Soviet Union is never wrong,” I said. “Peace cannot be made that way.”
> This fired him anew. He began a harangue on the Berlin and German questions that lasted for almost an hour. I could not get a word in edgewise. When he simmered down, I tried to find out whether there was any room for negotiation in his position. “Suppose I were the President of the United States sitting here across the table from you instead of the Vice President,” I asked. “Is your position so fixed that you would not even listen to the President?”
Khrushchev said that this was a “fair question,” but that he could only reply in terms of what the Soviet Union could not accept. He then said simply that with or without a summit conference he could never allow the perpetuation of the Occupation regime in West Berlin. He ominously implied that there would be a confrontation between the superpowers if his terms were not met.
I told him that he could not expect President Eisenhower to go to a summit conference merely to sign his name to Soviet proposals. He seemed to agree, yielding only slightly for the first time all afternoon. But he added that he could not attend a summit simply to ratify American proposals, saying, “I would much rather go hunting and shoot ducks.” At this point he was obviously not interested in further debate. Everyone seemed a little dazed. He soon rose to indicate the luncheon was over—well over five hours after it had begun.
Khrushchev left me with the impression of a man of exceptional energy, discipline, and stamina. Like a strong but unartistic boxer, he stood his ground resolutely, ready to take the verbal blows as well as he gave them. His tempo never slackened. He bobbed and weaved as he probed my defenses in search of an opening for a jab, a combination, an uppercut—anything that might score a point, lower my guard, or set me up for a knockout. If one line of argument did not work, he tried another. If it failed, he tried a third and fourth. If I backed him into a corner, he would either come out swinging or squirt out along the ropes with a change of topics. He was a master at fighting his own fight, never letting me set the grounds of debate and always reinterpreting my questions to his advantage. Ambassador Thompson was overly generous when he later observed, “They had a heavyweight in their corner, and we had a heavyweight in ours. They fought to a draw.”
• • •
I felt a deep sense of depression as our plane took off from Moscow and headed for Warsaw, because I realized that the Soviet people, most of whom had welcomed us so warmly, almost certainly would never escape from under the blanket of oppression that smothered them. But even so, I was soon to see why Khrushchev exhibited such sensitivity about the Captive Nations Resolution.
I had an inkling that things might be different in Warsaw as our motorcade left Babice Airport. The Polish honor guard, which had used the Russian goosestep in its marching review, applauded and cheered as we drove past them. I could not help thinking that Khrushchev would have to think twice before relying on these men in a war with the West. The Polish government, sensitive about the comparison that would be drawn between my welcome and Khrushchev’s cool reception only a few days before, did not publish our motorcade route. But Radio Free Europe broadcast it, and word of mouth spread like wildfire.
Mrs. Nixon and I have received some warm welcomes in our many years of world travel—in Tokyo in 1953, Bucharest in 1969, Madrid in 1971, Cairo in 1974—but none approached in intensity the spontaneous greetings we received in Warsaw that day. An estimated 250,000 people overflowed the sidewalks and pressed into the street, stopping the motorcade time after time. Some were shouting, others were singing, and many were crying.
Hundreds of bouquets of flowers were thrown into my car, into Mrs. Nixon’s car, and even into the press vehicles that followed. Some newspapermen who ventured into the crowd were told, “This time we bought our own flowers.” The Polish government had declared a holiday when Khrushchev had visited, transporting children and government workers to the motorcade route, and had bought the flowers for the people to throw in their “spontaneous” welcome. Many had saved the flowers from that day to use when we arrived. As we inched through Warsaw streets, the crowd shouted “Niech zyje America”—“Long live America”—and sang “Sto lat”—“May you live a thousand years.”
In light of this experience, it came as no surprise to me when millions of Poles rose up en masse against communism in 1980. Never has there been a system of government that has had greater success in extending its domination over other nations and less success in winning the approval of the people of those nations.
Our overwhelmingly moving reception in Warsaw that day reinforced the convictions I have long had with regard to the Communist-controlled countries of Eastern Europe. However, no matter how much compassion we feel for them, we must be careful not to encourage the people of the oppressed nations into provoking the kind of armed repression that Khrushchev inflicted upon the Hungarian people in 1956. At the same time we must constantly work to keep the lines of communication open with the peoples of Eastern Europe and the Soviet Union and must be careful that we do nothing to snuff out their flickering hope of one day lifting the deadly weight of Communist oppression from their backs. As John Foster Dulles said a few months before his death, “Communism is stubborn for the wrong; let us be steadfast for the right.”
• • •
After the luncheon at the dacha I took Khrushchev aside for some private words. We discussed the invitation he had just received from President Eisenhower to visit the United States. I told him we wanted him to receive a courteous welcome and that he could assure this if there was some progress in the deadlocked talks on Berlin at Geneva. Khrushchev was coldly noncommittal, and Gromyko remained as intransigent as ever in Geneva.
Eisenhower’s decision to invite the leader of the Communist world to the United States had provoked a storm of controversy. Hard-line conservatives and Americans of East European ancestry vehemently opposed it. They believed the visit would confer on the Soviet Union the illusion of moral equality and thus erode the will of the American people to fight communism. I disagreed with this view. While Americans were naturally trusting and friendly, they were not about to collapse in their opposition to communism merely because its leader waved to them from an open car in a motorcade.
I believed the visit was a sound idea, provided it did not lead to euphoria. Many, for example, believed that if only we repeatedly assured Khrushchev of our peaceful intentions, the Soviet leader would soften his rigid stance and settle the outstanding East-West issues. Some in the media, and even a few in the administration, were so naive as to think that if Eisenhower treated Khrushchev with respect, lavished courtesies on him, and plied him with his famous charm, real progress could be made on resolving our fundamental differences.
I disagreed with this approach. Based on my experience, I felt that Khrushchev might misinterpret excessive geniality for softness. I did not expect any significant progress on resolving basic differences. What was vitally important was for Eisenhower to impress him both as a courteous and reasonable host and also as a strong leader who could not be pushed around.
In my mind the Khrushchev visit was primarily important for the educational effect it would have on him. He knew that the United States was militarily and economically powerful. But his ideology told him that injustices plagued capitalist society and sapped its strength. The secondhand descriptions Khrushchev received from his aides tended to reinforce this view, telling him what he wanted to hear instead of what he needed to know. In effect Khrushchev relied on the hopelessly outdated picture of capitalism that Karl Marx had painted over a hundred years ago and that was fundamentally wrong even then. Khrushchev had repeated the lies about the evils and weaknesses of free societies so often that he actually believed them. I felt that a tour through the United States would thoroughly disabuse Khrushchev of these illusions. He would come to appreciate the basic strength of the country and the will of its people.
When Khrushchev arrived in Washington in September 1959, he became the first Russian leader in history to set foot on American soil. He was highly aware of the significance of th
is event. But he was also more obsessed with any slight deviation from protocol than any other visiting dignitary I ever met. He interpreted any deviation from the official schedule as an attack on his country’s honor. He was a man who constantly carried a huge chip on his shoulder. And if someone else did not knock it off, he would do so himself.
Several days before his arrival I made an off-the-cuff remark to the effect that the Soviets had launched three Lunik moonshots, not one, as they claimed, because they kept missing the moon and had to try again. Khrushchev heard about this comment and chose to regard it as an insult to Soviet prestige and an indication that I wanted to see his trip to the United States fail. During his visit, he proclaimed that he would “swear on the Bible” that this was not so and challenged me to take a similar oath if I truly thought that my account was correct. He also attacked the statements I made about Soviet-American relations in a speech to the convention of the American Dental Association. He ignored the addresses I delivered at the conventions of the American Legion and the Veterans of Foreign Wars. Both organizations were on the verge of issuing condemnations of the Khrushchev visit. They reconsidered only after I had strongly impressed upon them the importance of a courteous welcome for Khrushchev.
When Eisenhower invited me into the Oval Office to sit in on the summit’s first preliminary meeting, Khrushchev did not smile as he shook hands with me. He referred to our debate in Moscow with bitter sarcasm. Eisenhower tried to mollify him by saying that he had seen the footage carried on television from Moscow and thought that each of us had handled himself well and had treated the other courteously.
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