Marvin Kalb - The Year I Was Peter the Great - 1956 - Khrushchev, Stalin's Ghost, and a Young American in Russia

Isaac Stern, a guest at the party who was preparing to leave Moscow after a very successful tour, asked Khrushchev why he was holding up the American tour of the famed Moiseyev Ballet. Khrushchev responded sharply. “No Russian will submit to fingerprinting,” he said. “That is only for criminals.” An American diplomat, overhearing the exchange, volunteered that the fingerprinting of foreigners coming into the United States was the law of the land, and just as he observed Soviet law while working in Moscow, the dancers would have to observe American law while working there. Khrushchev snapped, “Well then, change the law.” Bulganin, standing nearby, parroted, “Yes, change the law,” at which point Khrushchev burst into laughter, prompting all of the other Russians near or around him to burst into laughter.

Khrushchev, enjoying the moment, then told a story that reflected his disdain for Congress and, it seemed, all other legislative assemblies, even the prerevolutionary Russian parliament, the Duma. “A young Duma official,” he began, “leaped from a government building into his droshky [a horse-drawn carriage] and suffered a terrible accident. His head hit the road, and his brains fell out of his head and spilled out on the road.” Khrushchev looked around for approval, and from the Russians got it. They all laughed. Khrushchev continued, “The young official thought nothing of it, left his brains on the road, and marched off. An old woman, seeing the accident, ran after him, and said, ‘Sir, you left your brains on the road.’ ‘That’s all right,’ he replied, ‘I can still do my job. I’m a member of the Duma.’” Khrushchev could barely muffle the sneer in his voice, but he laughed and the other Russians laughed and even a few diplomats, who apparently wanted to be on good terms with the Soviet government, laughed, too—though his story was not funny.

At this moment CBS’s Dan Schorr, who did tell funny stories and had a wonderful sense of humor, grabbed me by the arm as he approached the Soviet leader. “You’re going to be my interpreter,” he said.

“Chairman Khrushchev,” Schorr began. “I have a serious problem, a personal problem, and I hope you can help me.”

Khrushchev looked at Schorr, and smiled. “Of course, how can I help?”

Schorr was smiling, too. “You see, there is a rumor in Moscow. You’ve undoubtedly heard of it—that there is going to be a very important meeting of the Central Committee at the end of June. Probably big announcements, big changes. And I really wanted to go on vacation at that time.”

“Yes?” Khrushchev said, still playing the game.

“Now this is not for a news story,” Schorr insisted, as he tried to keep a straight face. “This concerns only my vacation. You see, my office in New York says if there is going to be a meeting of the Central Committee, I have to stay here to cover it. So, and please understand, this is not for a news story. But, sir, do you think I can go on vacation?”

Khrushchev nodded slowly and seriously. “I understand,” he said. He waited a few pregnant seconds before adding, “Mr. Schorr, go on vacation.” Schorr, thinking he had just got confirmation that there would be no meeting of the Central Committee, began backing away from Khrushchev, almost as one would royalty. “Thank you, sir,” Schorr said. “Thank you very much. I’m so grateful for your help.” At which point Khrushchev added, with a grin that spread from one ear to the other, “And Mr. Schorr, If we decide to have a meeting of the Central Committee, we’ll have it… without you.”

Khrushchev had the last laugh, but Schorr had a joke that he would tell again and again. He always got a laugh.

June 2. Bernie was visiting. He was on his way to a Southeast Asia assignment for the Times , and a stopover in Moscow was a twofer: time with his kid brother and a look at Russia at an interesting time.

The day started with a discussion of an announcement in Pravda : Vyacheslav Molotov, an old Bolshevik for more than thirty years, a close protégé of Stalin, the foreign minister who signed the historic Nazi-Soviet pact in 1939 and the Kremlin order in 1948 expelling Yugoslavia’s Tito from the Soviet orbit for “revisionism,” was “relieved” of his official duties. Molotov was out.

At the JPRS and later at the embassy lunch counter, the questions were obvious. Why? Why now? The answers were, as usual, complicated, involving important policy differences between Molotov and Khrushchev. They argued at a July 1955 Central Committee meeting about the “virgin lands” project, which Khrushchev considered crucial for expanding grain production and Molotov described as not only “premature” but “absurd.” They also argued over housing construction, Molotov favoring more of Stalin’s ugly “wedding cake” skyscrapers and Khrushchev wanting to help ordinary Muscovites who lived in what he called “overcrowded, vermin-infested, intolerable conditions, often two families to a room.” But the disagreement that led ultimately to Molotov’s downfall focused on Kremlin policy toward Marshal Tito of Yugoslavia. Molotov had pressed for Tito’s expulsion from the Soviet orbit because he and Stalin believed that Yugoslavia, under Tito, was “no socialist country.” Khrushchev believed, just as strongly, that Tito’s expulsion was one of Stalin’s gravest errors and that Tito should be brought back into the socialist fold. For one thing, Khrushchev felt, it would strengthen the communist world, and for another, a rapprochement with Tito would allow him finally to get Molotov out of his sight. Every time Khrushchev saw Molotov he saw Stalin, and he wanted desperately to turn the page.

Khrushchev’s moment came after the 20th Party Congress. If he was to abolish Stalin and his policies, which he was in the process of doing, he could at the same time correct the late dictator’s decision to expel Tito. He could also get rid of Molotov, who was a drag on his new post-Stalinist policy. Khrushchev arranged for Tito to visit Moscow in early June and for Molotov to be officially demoted on the same day—hardly a coincidence.

Tito arrived by train. Bernie and I rushed to the Kievsky Station, buttoned down by heavy security, to observe this special moment in communist reconciliation. We joined a bursting contingent of foreign diplomats and journalists. The railroad station, like Moscow, was dressed for the occasion, and Soviet and Yugoslav flags crisscrossed on the top of flagpoles. Senior Soviet officials, led by Khrushchev and, remarkably, including the just ousted Molotov, stood waiting on a red-bunting-decorated reviewing stand. Tito, looking vigorous and ramrod straight, alighted from his compartment as the railroad clock struck 5:00 p.m. Khrushchev greeted Tito with a warm handshake but no hugs. Both leaders watched the honor guard march by with brisk, almost Teutonic, precision and then listened respectfully to the playing by a military band of their national anthems. I suspected that everyone on the platform noticed that one large flag bore a face strongly resembling Stalin’s. As it was carried past Tito, a brisk wind suddenly snapped it to show its full expanse, and the Yugoslav leader as well as Khrushchev must have seen it and realized that the late dictator’s ghost was also present to observe this repudiation of one of his major policy moves. De-Stalinization was comparatively easy to proclaim, but much more difficult to implement.

Khrushchev always knew that his decision to dethrone Stalin was a huge risk—to himself, to his party, and to his country. Yet he took it. He was convinced that without meaningful change the communist system would slowly rot. Stalin’s legacy had to be uprooted and destroyed: fear had to be replaced by hope, economic stagnation had to give way to genuine reform, and the pervasive paralysis of Kremlin politics had to yield to new ideas and new leaders. Unfortunately, the speech accomplished only half the job—it demolished the Stalinist legacy, triggering a tidal wave of popular confusion and relief. But it did not initiate a program of political and economic reform, without which nothing much could be changed. The system survived the speech.