The best that can be said of most of the Russian Orthodox leaders was that they probably had little choice other than to collaborate so closely with the communists. The worst that can be said was that they were active KGB agents. Certainly, the speech which was given by the Deputy Patriarch over lunch could have been drafted by Agitprop: it concentrated heavily on the need to get rid of all nuclear weapons. Discarding my own prepared text, I answered by stressing instead the need to release prisoners of conscience. In the car, on the way back to Moscow, I asked the Minister for Religious Affairs whether there were still people in gaol for their religious beliefs. He said, ‘No, unless they are in for something else.’ Such as possessing a Bible, I thought.
That afternoon it had been arranged, at my suggestion, that I should do a ‘walkabout’ of the sort which comes so easily to western politicians but which the Soviets typically — and perhaps for good reason — avoided. (Mr Gorbachev, though, was in this, as in other matters, a western-style politician.) As I walked around a large housing estate in a bleak suburb of Moscow in the slushy snow and bitter wind, more and more people gathered to meet me. Soon they poured in from everywhere, a huge crowd cheering, smiling, wanting to shake hands. As in Hungary I was being received rapturously as an anti-communist by those who knew the system even better than I did.
That evening I attended a performance of Swan Lake at the Bolshoi Theatre with the Gorbachevs. We shared a box. Like all good Russians, they were both clearly enthusiasts for the ballet. I too enjoy the ballet, almost as much as the opera, so we found this in common. During the interval the Gorbachevs held a small supper party for me in a private room. It was a relaxed occasion. For some reason the conversation turned from the story of Swan Lake to the subject of bread-making in the Soviet Union. Mr Gorbachev said that, partly as a result of help which the Soviet Union had received from ICI, the quality of Soviet bread was now much better than it had been. But it was difficult to please people. When the quality had been lower, it had been necessary to add salt. Now that the quality had improved, so that salt was no longer necessary for the bread, the people still preferred salty bread. He had told the Soviet minister responsible for bread-making to go on television to explain to the people that they were now getting better bread, even though it was not what they were familiar with. Ironically, a similar point had recently been made by the great dissident Vladimir Bukovsky. He remarked that whenever the Soviet media reported that scientists had found that some food — sausage, say — was bad for your health, the ordinary Russians reacted immediately by telling each other: ‘So they’re running out of sausage.’ Such are the unanticipated consequences of collectivism.
We drank some excellent Georgian wine. I was encouraged to have another glass when Mr Gorbachev assured me that it helped some Georgians to live to be a hundred. He was very conscious of the unpopularity of the action he had taken against alcoholism. This had already resulted in a decline in deaths at work and road accidents. But it was an uphill struggle. He had read that people in the West thought that perestroika was doomed because he had taken away alcohol from the people and privileges from party officials. We lingered rather too long over supper and the audience had been sitting in semi-darkness for some time when we returned. When we bade farewell Mr Gorbachev was still in a jovial mood and said that he looked forward to our meeting tomorrow.
Monday began for me with a meeting of what it would be perhaps impolite but only accurate to describe as impeccably distinguished Soviet stooges. This group of tame artists, academics and scientists took up again the themes which had been prominent in the Deputy Patriarch’s speech. They knew, presumably, that I was to have lunch with Dr Sakharov and other dissidents and wanted to extol the merits of communism first. Then I left for my discussions with Mr Gorbachev in the Kremlin.
I sat across the table from him, a long flower vase between us. I was accompanied by just one member of my staff and an interpreter. It was soon clear that he, glancing from time to time at the notes in front of him, intended to take me to task for my Central Council speech. He said that when the Soviet leaders had studied it they had felt the breeze of the 1940s and ‘50s. It reminded them of Winston Churchill’s speech at Fulton, Missouri (about the ‘Iron Curtain’) and the Truman doctrine. They had even considered whether they might have to cancel the visit.
I did not apologize. I said that there was one point which I did not make in my Central Council speech but which I would make now. This was that I knew of no evidence that the Soviet Union had given up the Brezhnev doctrine or the goal of securing world domination for communism. We were ready to fight the battle of ideas: indeed this was the right way to fight. But instead we in the West saw Soviet subversion in South Yemen, in Ethiopia, in Mozambique, in Angola and in Nicaragua. We saw Vietnam being supported by the Soviet Union in its conquest of Cambodia. We saw Afghanistan occupied by Soviet troops. We naturally drew the conclusion that the goal of worldwide communism was still being pursued. This was a crucial consideration for the West. We recognized that Mr Gorbachev was committed to internal reforms in the Soviet Union. But we had to ask ourselves whether this would lead to changes in external policies.
I went on to show that I had read Mr Gorbachev’s speeches with as much care as he seemed to have read mine. I told him that I had found his January Central Committee speech fascinating. But I wanted to know whether the internal changes he was making would lead to changes in the Soviet Union’s foreign policies as well. I added that I had not expected that we would have generated quite so much heat so early in the discussion. Mr Gorbachev replied with a roar of laughter that he welcomed ‘acceleration’ and was pleased we were speaking frankly.
The conversation went back and forth, not just covering regional conflicts (with me placing much of the blame on the Soviet Union and Mr Gorbachev blaming the West), but going right to the heart of what differentiated the western and communist systems. This I described as being a distinction between societies in which power was dispersed and societies based on central control and coercion.
Mr Gorbachev was as critical of Conservatism as I was of communism. But he was a good deal less well informed about it. His view was that the British Conservative Party was the party of the ‘haves’ in Britain and that our system of what he called ‘bourgeois democracy’ was designed to fool people about who really controlled the levers of power. I explained that what I was trying to do was to create a society of ‘haves’, not a class of them.
We then turned to arms control. As at our meeting at Chequers, he showed that he was well versed in all that was being written about the Soviet Union in the West. He knew that it was being openly said that the Soviet Union would need to reduce its military budget to finance the development of the civil economy and that the Soviets were desperate for arms agreements. He was clearly extremely sensitive and worried about being humiliated by the West. In particular, he blamed me for frustrating the moves towards the elimination of nuclear weapons which had been discussed at Reykjavik. (So the Camp David statement had indeed been noticed.) I found myself arguing, yet again, the case for the retention of the nuclear deterrent. I also said that it was quite clear to me that the Soviet Union’s objective was to bring about the denuclearization of Europe, leaving the USSR with a preponderance of conventional and chemical weapons. But I welcomed the fact that Mr Gorbachev had now broken the link, to which the Soviets had previously held, between an INF Agreement and other arms control issues, such as SDI. At this point I returned — rather late because our animated argument had overrun the scheduled time limit — to lunch with the Sakharovs and other former dissidents who were now supporting the Gorbachev reforms. I was impressed by what they told me of the changes being made. But I told them that it was not enough to support Mr Gorbachev now; they should be prepared to support him in five to ten years’ time when the going got really tough. I said that the costs of reform would be apparent long before the benefits.
I then returned to the Kremlin to continue my t
alks with Mr Gorbachev. St Katherine’s Hall, where we had met that morning, was now being rearranged for the plenary session which was due to follow. So we were moved to the ‘Red Room’ of the Kremlin, which Mr Gorbachev said he hoped might improve my views. The afternoon discussion was less contentious and more informative. He explained to me the economic reforms he was making and the problems still to be faced. This led on to technology. He claimed to be confident about the Soviet Union’s capacity for developing computers in competition with the United States. But I was not convinced. And that led back to SDI which Mr Gorbachev promised the Soviets would match — in some way that he would not disclose. I tried to interest him in my proposal for greater ‘predictability’ as regards the progress of the American SDI programme, but apparently to no avail.
Then I pressed Mr Gorbachev on human rights in general and the treatment of the Jews in particular. I also raised the question of Afghanistan, where I had the impression that he was searching for some way out. Finally, I listed the points which I thought we could agree on for a public account of our discussion which, he agreed, had contributed to better relations and greater confidence between us. But it was now very late. Guests were already assembling for the formal banquet at which I was to speak. The plenary session was abandoned. Putting diplomacy ahead of fashion, I abandoned my plans to return to the embassy and change: I attended the banquet in the short wool dress I had been wearing all day. I felt rather like Ninotchka in reverse.
Tuesday began with a rather dull meeting with Prime Minister Ryzhkov — apparently a pleasant, competent man, who, alas, could never quite escape from the armour of his communist training — and other Soviet ministers. I had hoped to learn more about the Soviet economic reforms, but we got bogged down once again in arms control and then in bilateral trade issues.
Far more exciting and worthwhile for all concerned was the interview which I gave to three journalists from Soviet Television. I learnt afterwards that this had an enormous impact on Soviet opinion. Most of the questions related to nuclear weapons. I defended the West’s line and indeed the retention of the nuclear deterrent. I went on to point out that there were more nuclear weapons in the Soviet Union than in any other country and that the Soviets had led the way on deploying short- and intermediate-range weapons as well. I reminded them of their huge superiority in conventional and chemical weapons. I pointed out that the Soviet Union was ahead of the United States in ABM defences. Nobody had ever told ordinary Russians these facts. They learned them from my interview for the first time. The interview was allowed to go out uncut from Soviet television, which I afterwards regarded as proof that my confidence in Mr Gorbachev’s basic integrity was not misplaced.
That evening the Gorbachevs gave me dinner in an old mansion, converted many years before for entertaining foreign guests. The atmosphere was, perhaps deliberately, as close to that of Chequers as I ever found in the Soviet Union. In the rooms around which Mr Gorbachev showed us, Churchill, Eden, Stalin and Molotov had smoked, drunk, and argued. We were a small group, the Gorbachevs being joined by just the Ryzhkovs, who did not take a very active part in the conversation. A brightly burning log fire — again like Chequers — illumined the room to which we later withdrew to put right the world’s problems over coffee and liqueurs. I saw two interesting examples of the way in which old Marxist certainties were being challenged. There was a lively argument between the Gorbachevs, which I provoked, about the definition of the ‘working class’ about which we heard so much in Soviet propaganda. I wanted to know how they defined this in the Soviet Union — a point of some substance in a system in which, as the old Polish saying goes, ‘we pretend to work and they pretend to pay us.’ Mrs Gorbachev thought that anyone who worked, whatever his job or profession, was a worker. Her husband argued initially that only the blue-collar workers counted. But he then reconsidered and said that this was largely an historical or ‘scientific’ (that is Marxist) term which did not do justice to the diversity of today’s society.
The second indication of a break with old socialist certainties was when he told me — with tantalizingly little detail — of plans which were being discussed for increasing people’s incomes and then having them make some payment for public services like health and education. Not surprisingly, such plans, whatever they were, came to nothing.
The following morning I had breakfast with refuseniks at the British Embassy. Theirs was a disturbing tale of heroism under mainly petty but continual persecution. Every obstacle, short of total prohibition, was put in the way of their worship and expression of cultural identity. They were discriminated against at work — if they found work. They told me that giving private tuition was the easiest way to earn a living: for these were educated people whose talents the Soviet state should have been able to draw upon. One of their leaders, Iosif Begun, brought me a tiny Star of David, which he had carved out of horn while he was in prison and which I have always kept.
Later that morning I left Moscow for Tbilisi in Georgia. I had wanted to see a Soviet republic other than Russia and I knew that Georgia would present a great cultural and geographical contrast. This certainly proved to be the case. From all that I saw — and from the excellent and exotic food and Georgian wine — it was clear to me that given the right political and economic conditions this was an area where the tourist industry could flourish. But, as in the detective story, perhaps the most important feature of my admittedly brief visit was the ‘dog which did not bark’. Although I was presented with all the evidence of a vigorous folklore and although I knew how ancient and distinctive Georgia was — only coming under the control of Russia at the beginning of the nineteenth century — there was still no evidence of that desire for national self-assertion and independence which was to come.
That night I left Tbilisi Airport for London. It had been, quite simply, the most fascinating and most important foreign visit I had made. I could sense in the four days I spent in the Soviet Union that the ground was shifting underneath the communist system. De Tocqueville’s insight that ‘experience shows that the most dangerous moment for a bad government is generally that in which it sets about reform’ sprang to my mind. The welcome I had received — both the warm affection from the Russian crowds, and the respect of the Soviet authorities in long hours of negotiations — suggested that something fundamental was happening under the surface. The West’s system of liberty which Ronald Reagan and I personified in the eastern bloc (thanks, ironically, to the effects of communist propaganda) was increasingly in the ascendant: the Soviet system was showing its cracks. I sensed that great changes were at hand — but I could never have guessed how quickly they would come.
* In February 1993 former senior Soviet officials confirmed precisely this point at a conference at Princeton University on the end of the Cold War.
CHAPTER XVII
Putting the World to Rights
Diplomacy towards and visits to the Far East, the Middle East and Africa — 1984–1990
When I was in Opposition I was very doubtful of the value of high-profile public diplomacy. To some extent I remain so. My political philosophy in domestic affairs is founded on a deep scepticism about the ability of politicians to change the fundamentals of the economy or society: the best they can do is to create a framework in which people’s talents and virtues are mobilized not crushed. Similarly, in foreign affairs, the underlying realities of power are not transformed by meetings and understandings between heads of government. A country with a weak economy, an unstable social base or an ineffective administration cannot compensate for these — at least for long — with an ambitious diplomatic programme. That said, my experience as Prime Minister did convince me that a skilfully conducted foreign policy based on strength can magnify a country’s influence and allow progess to be made in dealing with thorny problems around the world. As the years went by, I put increasing effort into international diplomacy.
But it is still necessary to have a clear idea of the potential and the
limits of statesmanship. The twin, opposing, temptations of the statesman are hubris and timidity. It is easy to subscribe to ringing declarations and ambitious global plans. It is a great deal harder to balance vision with practical measures and persistence. Under some circumstances, to try definitively to ‘solve’ a long-standing problem will be to make it worse. Under others, even a brief delay will mean an opportunity lost. The statesman has to be able to distinguish between the two, always knowing the destination; never presuming that the path is open; then, when it is, pressing ahead with every means available.
And in all this one should never lose sight of the importance of the personal chemistry which exists between those who conduct their nation’s affairs. I found myself liking and respecting — and sometimes heartily disliking and distrusting — heads of government not just as politicians but as people. I did so irrespective of colour, creed or political opinion. Personal relations must never become a substitute for hard-headed pursuit of national interests. But nor should any statesman ignore their importance. Foreign visits allowed me to meet, talk to and seek to influence heads of government on their own ground. These visits gave me insights into the way those I dealt with in the clinical atmosphere of great international conferences actually lived and felt. Moreover, it gave others a chance to know me. Longevity has its drawbacks and difficulties in domestic politics, where the media are always longing for a new face. But in foreign affairs there is a huge and cumulative advantage in simply being known both by politicians and by ordinary people around the world.
The Downing Street Years Page 64
