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

“How tall are you?” Khrushchev asked, changing the subject.

“Very tall, but still six centimeters shorter than Peter the Great,” I replied, reaching back into Russian history for an interesting but unimportant fact. Peter stood six feet, eight inches tall—204 centimeters. He was a giant of a czar who tried mightily to modernize his backward empire by importing Western engineers and craftsmen and exporting Russian noblemen to study at Western universities. Why show off my familiarity not only with Peter’s height but also with Russian history? And why do this with Russia’s supreme leader? To this day, I have no sensible answer. Maybe it was because Zhukov and I had spent part of our “happy hour” discussing Russian military victories, and on one occasion I had mentioned Peter the Great’s victory at Poltava, when he defeated Charles XII of Sweden.

Khrushchev apparently liked my answer. “Peter the Great,” he grinned. “Wonderful, absolutely wonderful.” Then a cheerful thought entered his mind. “You must play basketball.” Khrushchev was not a man of few words; it was clear he wanted to talk.

“Yes, I play basketball,” I said. “I love the game.”

“Then,” Khrushchev continued, “you must know that last night, our best team, from Lithuania, won the national championship.” I had actually followed Soviet basketball while reading through my morning newspapers. I even saw a game, and I was left less than impressed by the quality of Soviet basketball. I often thought about City College’s remarkable twin championships—how could I not? In my mind I compared the Beavers with the Soviet teams. No doubt they were better and could beat the Russians!

Khrushchev then struck a theme common those days in Soviet propaganda—that Russia (or the Soviet Union) was better than anything non-Russian. Not only better, but the best ever. “The Lithuanian team is the best team in the entire world,” he boasted, emphasizing each word. “I’m sure there is no team in the United States that could possibly beat our national champion.” In the oddest ways, I thought, Russians would disclose chronic feelings of inferiority, in this case by boasting wildly about basketball. They had made major contributions to literature, music, and science, and much else. There was no need for Russians to feel inferior, and yet they did.

It was clear that Khrushchev did not really understand the beauty of basketball, but in my answer I tried to be diplomatic. “Well, maybe one or two on an especially good night might be able to provide some competition. Just one or two.”

“No.” Khrushchev shook his head. “No team could beat our Lithuanian team. It is the best team in the world.” Bulganin and the other Russians nodded in predictable agreement. For them it was the thing to do. As for me, I felt a strong urge welling within me to speak truth to power, even though it made no diplomatic sense and ran a risk of creating unnecessary trouble.

“With all due respect, Sir, I believe that any really good college team, like Kentucky or Bradley, could beat your Lithuanian team.” I do not know what possessed me. Who was I to challenge Khrushchev on an issue that was truly of no significance? Maybe I had mistaken Tang’s vodka for water.

For a very brief moment Khrushchev’s peasant eyes flashed with anger—I cringed, expecting a storm, wondering how I could explain my comment to Bohlen; it was, I knew, totally uncalled for—but then, as quickly as the clouds had gathered, they vanished. Khrushchev again smiled, and his smile had the instantaneous effect of a sunburst of reassurance to anyone, American or Russian, listening to our exchange. “Let’s start an international basketball competition,” he proposed with both hands making strange motions of excitement. “You against us. I know we’ll beat you.” In Khrushchev I found in one man two Russians raised under communism: one a brutal party apparatchik, capable of both pride and shame in his work; the other a tough politician with a striking blend of humanity and humor.

The diplomat in Bohlen seized the moment. He leaped into the conversation and blessed Khrushchev’s proposal. “Superb idea,” he said with a smile. “I shall discuss it with the president immediately.” Everyone laughed, and the crisis, such as it was, subsided into relieved chatter about how difficult it would be to get tickets.

In short order Khrushchev gathered his flock and proceeded to the door. Everyone followed him. The Americans quickly formed a line to wish him a proper farewell. As the Soviet leader passed me, he paused and tossed a comment to his buddies: “Here is Peter the Great,” he said, “and Zhukov says he can drink.” I never told Khrushchev the truth, but I did tell the whole story to Bohlen later in the evening.

“You had me worried there for a moment,” he admitted. “I didn’t know where you were going.”

“Neither did I,” I replied.

Bohlen continued, “Khrushchev is a remarkable politician, and he is learning to be a good diplomat.”

The following morning, when I shared this story with Holdcroft and my other JPRS colleagues, we all agreed that Khrushchev was indeed a “remarkable politician.” But we all wondered whether he would have delivered his secret speech, demolishing Stalin’s legacy, if he had known in advance that it would eventually lead to destabilizing unrest throughout the communist empire. I didn’t think so then, and I don’t now.

Now, as I look back upon the year of the thaw, I can be detached, analytical, cool, but in 1956 events “left me breathless,” as I unashamedly noted in my diary in late June. “Russia these days is like a hurricane of change. One change tumbles down upon another, and the spectator [I guess I meant myself] is left dazzled, bewildered, and dizzy.” I was trying especially to understand the impact of the Lenin Testament on ordinary communists, and I was eager to get more information about the recent bloody riots in Poznan, Poland, and the deepening party upheavals in Budapest, Hungary, and other Eastern European capitals. “It is difficult to grasp the full significance of the change which has taken place in Russia and the satellites since the 20th Party Congress,” I wrote. “We are too close to the source to draw back… and contemplate the events. They pile up day after day.”

I did notice, though, that the Chinese reaction to the Khrushchev speech was exceptionally cautious, suggesting that the ideological split between the two communist giants, which became apparent four or five years later, was already opening. Whereas the rest of the communist world bubbled with change and uncertainty, China was officially mute for the better part of three months; and when it did react, it spoke only of Stalin’s “mistakes,” not his “crimes.” The Chinese did not want to run the risk of encouraging any possible comparison with Mao Zedong’s rigid rule, his own “cult of personality.”

One day, while driving along the Moscow Embankment toward American House, I was talking to the cabdriver about the Lenin Testament, specifically about Lenin’s recommendation that Stalin be removed from power. The driver, surprisingly well informed, preferred another topic, but I insisted on hearing his opinion about the many changes in Russia since Stalin’s death in 1953. “It is surprising what is going on here,” he answered finally. “It is amazing, even funny to us, because we were here three years ago. You weren’t. It is like a peaceful revolution. A quiet major change is taking place.”