George F. Kennan: An American Life (74 page)

Farming would be the only salvation. He would finish his work at the Institute “for consistency’s sake” and to get Joan through school. He would retire from the Foreign Service as soon as his pension was earned “or forfeited”—here he had in mind the plight of his colleague Davies, whose loyalty investigation was still under way. But all of these plans were problematic because war would probably break out within two years: “Except for the little boy, the best thing that could happen would be that I should go with the services and get myself killed.”
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Kennan never said, explicitly, what lay behind all of this, but diary fragments provide hints:

Given Kennan’s tendency to blame himself for so much, the offense could have been almost anything: a covetous glance, a casual dalliance, a full-blown affair. Did Annelise know? Nothing in George’s diary confirms that she did, but she didn’t miss much. If she suspected something, or even if she knew a lot, she would not have let whatever it was imperil the marriage or hurt the family. That was the way of a wife who saw no contradiction in simultaneously loving her husband and anchoring him.

George, at this point, badly needed anchoring, for the upheavals of April 1951 had come close to overwhelming him. He was lecturing on history in Chicago, having been told, by historians, that he was not yet one. He was carrying the weight of a personal crisis as wrenching as the ones he had gone through in Vienna in 1935 and at Bad Nauheim in 1942. His audiences were expanding as his texts were diminishing. He spoke at a moment when the part of the country from which he came seemed to be sinking into dementia. And he was filling his diary with despair: perhaps his ability to do that, together with Annelise’s anchoring, was what got him through this bad month—although never beyond the bad dreams.

One of Kennan’s better dreams had been the possibility that he might represent the United States—alone, on a top-secret basis, using his knowledge of the Russian language and of the Soviet system—in some form of direct negotiations with the U.S.S.R. looking toward a relaxation of Cold War tensions. Stalin’s sabotage of the Smith-Molotov initiative killed any chance of this while Kennan was on the Policy Planning Staff, and he himself opposed approaching Moscow after the Chinese intervened in Korea at the end of 1950. By May 1951, however, the situation had changed. Truman had sacked MacArthur. The new U.N. commander, General Matthew B. Ridgway, had halted Mao’s offensive in the vicinity of the 38th parallel. And an opportunity for diplomacy had arisen—strangely—from a high-level hitchhike.

With the permanent headquarters of the United Nations still under construction alongside New York’s East River, the Security Council had been meeting in temporary quarters at Lake Success, on Long Island. The drive into Manhattan could take almost an hour, and at the end of a session on May 2, two American diplomats, Thomas J. Cory and Frank P. Corrigan, found themselves without transportation. A large Chrysler drove up, stopped, and its occupants offered a ride. They turned out to be Jacob Malik, the chief Soviet representative at the United Nations, and Semyon K. Tsarapkin, his deputy. The Russians were in an unusually good humor, and after pleasant exchanges about American automobiles, military bases, imperialist ambitions, capitalist profiteers, and warmongers, the conversation turned to how the Korean War might be settled. The four men agreed that some sort of Soviet-American consultation would have to take place, whereupon Malik, returning to the theme of warmongers, asked what had become of George Kennan.

Cory explained that Kennan was “engaged in advanced study at Princeton.” Kennan had had “a great and unfortunate influence,” Malik observed: no doubt his voice was still heard in Washington. When Cory protested that Kennan admired the Russian people and hoped to write Chekhov’s biography, Malik was unimpressed. But by the normal standards of Soviet diplomacy, the two Americans reported to their superiors, he had been “a charming and cordial host.”
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Their account set off speculation within the State Department as to whether the pickup had been deliberate. Cory thought not but added that he had suggested dinner sometime and that Malik had agreed. “The question,” Davies wrote Nitze, “is whether we should follow up on Malik’s evident willingness to talk about American-Soviet relations. I think we should.” Stalin might be planning another trick, but the risks would be minimal “if our representative is someone [who] . . . although not a high American official, is in a position to speak with authority and in confidence for the Government. That person is Kennan.”
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As Davies probably knew, Kennan was thinking similarly. He had advised Acheson in March that as the military front stabilized in Korea, the time would come to deal with the Russians. The talks should take place “through informal channels” and in “complete secrecy,” using “some intermediary who could be denied in case of necessity.” They would acknowledge a simple reality: that the situation in Korea was unsatisfactory to both the Soviet Union and the United States. There should be, then, “a mutuality of interest” that might make a settlement possible.
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That made sense to Acheson, who had come through the difficult winter of 1950–51 with renewed admiration for Kennan. And so, when the Malik report came in, the secretary of state accepted Davies’s suggestion. “On Friday, May 18,” Kennan wrote in his own report of the events that followed,

P
was Doc Matthews, then serving as deputy under secretary of state.
O
was Acheson.
E
was Malik’s passenger, Tom Cory.
E
agreed to suggest to
X
—not Kennan, who had given up pseudonyms, but Tsarapkin—that it might be useful for him to talk with the former Mr. X, but there was no reply. Whereupon Kennan wrote to Tsarapkin on the twenty-sixth, asking him to tell Malik that it might be useful “if he and I could meet and have a quiet talk some time in the near future. I think that my diplomatic experience and long acquaintance with problems of American-Soviet relations should suffice to assure you that I would not make such a proposal unless I had serious reasons to do so.”
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Three days later Kennan’s secretary at the Institute received a cryptic telephone message informing her that the “gentleman Mr. Kennan had asked to see” could receive him on the afternoon of the thirty-first at a Long Island address. This turned out to be the Soviet U.N. delegation’s dacha, an estate in Glen Cove, to which Kennan drove himself alone. Malik began the conversation nervously, upsetting a tray of fruit and wine. After each man had expressed regret about the isolation of diplomats in the other’s country, Kennan explained that he had come to explore the possibility of a Korean cease-fire, roughly along the current line of military operations, to be supervised by some international authority. Malik said he would think about it, which Kennan took to mean consulting Moscow. When asked if it would be useful to meet again, Malik replied “that it was a good thing in general for people to talk things over and that he would always be happy to receive me and to pass the time of day.”
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They did meet again, at Glen Cove on June 5, and Malik was ready with an answer: the Soviet Union wanted to end the Korean War at the earliest possible moment, but because its forces were not involved it could take no direct part in any cease-fire negotiations. The United States should contact the North Koreans and the Chinese Communists. Kennan promised to pass this message to Washington, noting however that it would be difficult to rely on anything those adversaries might say. The Soviets, in contrast, “took a serious and responsible attitude toward what they conceived to be their own interests.” Malik deflected this compliment with the complaint that a Wall Street conspiracy dominated American life. “You see our country as in a dream,” Kennan replied. “No, this is not [a] dream,” Malik insisted, “this is the deepest reality.”

Kennan concluded from these meetings that the Soviet leadership did indeed want a cease-fire, that it had instructed the North Koreans and the Chinese Communists to accept an American proposal for one, and that it was willing to see the talks proceed without bringing in such wider issues as the future of Japan or Taiwan. “I hope that we will not hesitate to grasp at once the nettle of action.... We may not succeed; but I have the feeling we are moving much closer to the edge of the precipice than most of us are aware, and that this is one of the times when the dangers of inaction far exceed those of action.”
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The precipice he had in mind, Kennan wrote Acheson in a personal letter on June 20, was the possibility of war with the U.S.S.R. While Stalin had no appetite for such a conflict, he would view with “mortal apprehension” any U.S. military presence along the Soviet or the Chinese border with North Korea. That was why he had encouraged Mao to cross the Yalu and hurl MacArthur’s forces back. Now that the Chinese offensive had stalled, the Russians feared another American drive north. If that happened, they would have no choice but to intervene themselves, and a catastrophe would result. The whole Korean experience had been, for the Kremlin leaders, “a nerve-wracking and excruciating experience, straining to the limit their self-control and patience.” That explained Malik’s response, which the United States should not reject. For even though it might not seem so at the moment, “our action in Korea, so often denounced as futile, may prove to have . . . laid the foundation for the renewal of some sort of stability in the Far East.”
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Three days later, as if on cue, Malik made his cease-fire suggestion public. Talks began in July between the opposing military commanders in Korea, even as the fighting continued. It would take two years to achieve an armistice, partly because of disagreements over repatriating prisoners of war, partly because Stalin, reassured now that the war would be limited, was in less of a hurry to see it end. When it did finally in July 1953, shortly after his death, the terms were close to what Kennan had suggested.

His role in the Korean War, Kennan wrote later, had been “relatively minor,” but that was an understatement. For on several issues—his recommendation to deploy the Seventh Fleet in the Taiwan Strait, his concerns about crossing the 38th parallel, his warnings about MacArthur, his advice against negotiating after the Chinese had intervened, his reversal of that advice after the Chinese had been contained, and his delicate conversations with Malik—he won a degree of respect within the government that he had not enjoyed since 1947.
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Which is probably why Acheson asked Kennan, on July 23, 1951, if he would like to become the next U.S. ambassador to the Soviet Union.

“I did not turn it down cold,” George wrote Annelise from Washington—she and the family were in Kristiansand. “I said I would not be available, in any case, before completion of the next Institute term.” He would write Acheson a fuller response, “but [I] want to talk to you first.” The Kennans had sailed to Norway on the SS
Oslofjord
in late June, with George traveling on Ford funds since, as he had explained to Hoffman, “I would otherwise not be able to go at all.” He would use the opportunity to make contacts useful to the foundation. He had remained depressed through most of the voyage, despite his recent diplomatic achievements. “My children would laugh at me,” he wrote in his diary while still at sea, “but it is true. The adult world is a broken-hearted world, . . . because there is no leadership in it, and no inspiration.”
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As the ship neared the Norwegian coast, however, George’s mood brightened. On the Fourth of July, he watched children parading around the deck waving American flags, listened as the ship’s orchestra played “The Star Spangled Banner,” and at the captain’s invitation made a speech, linking what had happened in his country 175 years earlier with what Annelise’s had experienced at the hands of the Nazis: who could really appreciate the value of freedom “who hasn’t seen it attacked by a foreign invader and occupier on his own soil”? He even praised NATO—Norway had been a founding member. The alliance’s commitment to interdependence, he reminded the ship’s passengers and crew, meant that there was “really no such thing as a purely
national
independence day any more in this area.”
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