George F. Kennan: An American Life (77 page)

His task, Kennan told guests at a dinner given by Paul Hoffman early in February, would be exploit possibilities for “continuing to exist in the same world with Soviet power and yet avoid the calamities of a third world conflict.” Americans must not conclude that war was inevitable “just because we find the absence of it to be unpleasant and difficult.” Diplomacy was not disloyalty: “It is tragic that in the course of recent events we have permitted not only valuable people, but also valuable words to be deprived of their usefulness.” Harriman, Smith, and most recently Kirk had all served with self-effacement in Moscow under difficult circumstances. “[I]f I can meet the requirements of the job with as much competence and dignity as they did, and make no more mistakes, I will be pleased enough.”
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Meanwhile, Kennan was winding up his affairs at the Institute. The study group he had hoped to make a Policy Planning Staff in exile became the first casualty: after “considerable anguish,” he told the assistants whom he had recruited to work on the project that he would have to drop it. He could not resist, however, sending a long letter to Acheson—at some three thousand words, it could have been a paper from the original planning staff—complaining about the indulgence of emerging nationalism in Asia and the Middle East. There was little to be gained, Kennan insisted, from trying to win the goodwill of its leaders, “on whose bizarre frames the trappings of statesmanship rest like an old dress suit on a wooden scarecrow.” But Washington policy making, he cautioned himself in his diary, was now beyond the control of any individual: people were spending most of their time in “a dream-like futile battle against the folds of [their] own bureaucratic clothing.” He “shuddered inwardly at the prospect of going into the lion’s den” as the representative of such a place.
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Few forebodings were apparent, however, when Kennan appeared before the Senate Foreign Relations Committee for his confirmation hearing on March 12. Moscow was “a hard city to live in,” he acknowledged. “You are surrounded with hostility and hatred and meanness on every side.” But war was unlikely, and relations with the Soviet Union deserved “to be handled with the greatest of circumspection and care and self-control.” The senators treated Kennan respectfully, if ramblingly. The only reference to ongoing loyalty investigations came when Theodore Francis Green, Democrat of Rhode Island, asked facetiously whether previous associations with Kremlin leaders might be taken as evidence that Kennan was a communist. “I assume, Senator,” the ambassador-designate responded, “that I must have been investigated quite a number of times.” The Senate confirmed the nomination unanimously on the next day.
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Would attacks by Soviet propagandists affect his ability to do his job? He didn’t think so, he told reporters in an off-the-record press conference at the State Department on April 1. Totalitarian regimes “always enlist hatred against individuals.” After the “X” article came out, he and Forrestal had been called “cannibalistic hyenas.” But being insulted “does not necessarily mean that you’re not respected. It may mean almost the contrary.” He would be happy simply “to see the diplomatic amenities observed and not too closely connected with emotions.”
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The new ambassador met that same day with the president of the United States, who had just announced that he would not be running for reelection. Truman agreed that Stalin did not want war, and asked Kennan to write from time to time, saying that he liked getting personal reports from overseas representatives. “Beyond this, he gave me no instructions of any kind.” The same thing happened when Kennan lunched with Acheson the next day: “He, too, was cordial but very reserved; and he said nothing that could give me any clue to the basic line of policy I was to follow in my new capacity.”

Courtesy calls on Soviet officials in Washington and New York were no more instructive. Ambassador Aleksandr Panyushkin and his staff seemed worn down by the hostility they had encountered in the United States. Jacob Malik, with whom Kennan had had useful conversations about a Korean War cease-fire a year earlier, was now “much more bitter and sour.” The Soviet Union was being threatened, he complained, at the end of their talk. “Are you sure,” Kennan asked, “that your Government does not prefer to be threatened?” “Positively,” Malik answered.

Soviet attitudes were no surprise, but Kennan did find the State Department’s silence unsettling. So he arranged, through Bohlen, another meeting with Acheson on April 18: “It was left entirely to me to set the trend of the discussion.” His reputation and the publicity surrounding his appointment, Kennan tried to point out, meant that

Should he not have, then, a clear understanding of policy on such issues as Germany—did the United States really want reunification? Or Korea—what kind of a settlement should follow a cease-fire? Or disarmament—did this not require, first, a reduction of tensions? Kennan got no answers to any of these questions: “Our position seemed to me to be comparable to the policy of unconditional surrender in the recent war.”

A private conversation with Bohlen was even more disturbing. He appeared to have embraced “the flat and inflexible thinking of the Pentagon,” which privileged “the false mathematics of relative effectiveness” regarding weapons of mass destruction over all other considerations that might attend their use.

Kennan returned to Princeton “feeling extremely lonely.” No one in Washington sympathized with his views, and no one in Moscow was likely to. It seemed “that I was being sent on a mission to play a game at which I could not possibly win and that part of my obligation consisted of . . . taking upon myself the onus of whatever overt failures were involved .”
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What Kennan expected remains unclear. Exhausted from constant crises and furious criticism, Acheson knew that his term would soon end. This was no time for new initiatives, and Kennan had disagreed, over the past several years, with most of the old ones. He still harbored hopes of redesigning the Soviet-American relationship: the fact that “a friend of the Russian tradition” would be representing the United States “might not be lost” among Moscow’s artists and intellectuals, Kennan explained, a bit forlornly, to Richard Rovere of
The New Yorker
on the eve of his departure. Even Stalin was not “irretrievably provincial, doctrinaire, and inflexible in his outlook on the rest of the world.” But with Truman leaving office, the Korean War still raging, and the old dictator’s rule not likely to last much longer—he had just turned seventy-three when he agreed to Kennan’s appointment—breakthroughs seemed less than likely.
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On April 24, 1952, the
New York Herald Tribune
ran a picture of a smiling Ambassador Kennan, departing for Europe the day before with Annelise and Christopher on the
Queen Elizabeth
—Grace and Joan, still in school, were to follow later. He shared the page, for they shared the ship, with the comedian Jimmy Durante and the Indian film star Sabu, known for playing characters from Rudyard Kipling novels. Kennan’s mood, however, was darker than the photograph suggested. A few nights earlier, at the farm, he had written out on the back of an envelope this valedictory:

The words were Kennan’s, but the tone, as he knew well, was that of Chekhov’s Madame Ranyevskaya, standing surrounded by suitcases in the final act of
The Cherry Orchard,
listening to the sound of it being cut down.
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After an uneventful voyage, the Kennans spent a few days in London before meeting their own Air Force plane, which came equipped with a colonel—Annelise, “highly pregnant,” would have preferred a midwife. It flew them to Wiesbaden, where she was impressed to see George get the military honors of a five-star general. They then drove to Bad Godesberg, where she was to have the baby, while John and Patricia Davies, recently posted to Bonn, would help take care of Christopher. George proceeded to Berlin and after that Moscow, arriving there on the afternoon of May 6, having arranged to avoid the May Day celebrations with their inevitably anti-American character.
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It was his first trip back since 1946. A building boom was under way: massive wedding-cake structures were rising around the city, each thirty to forty stories high, all to be topped off with spires supporting garishly illuminated red stars. In contrast to what Kennan remembered from the war, urban transit was working: “They have traffic regulated within an inch of its life.” Off the main streets, there were still log cabins with no indoor plumbing, “but they are making progress.” At Spaso House, a few servants he remembered were there to greet him, including two elderly Chinese, who retained “a concept of their calling somewhat higher than that by which the Russians were animated.” All appeared to be under orders to show no pleasure at his arrival, however, and to do as little as possible to help him move in. Setting out for a walk the next day, he found his “angels”—the plainclothesmen assigned to follow him everywhere—waiting at the gate. Hugh Cumming and Elim O’Shaughnessy, the embassy’s second- and third-ranking officers, gave him lunch in the Kennans’ old apartment at the Mokhovaya. Dinner that evening was on a tray, “and here I am,” George wrote Annelise, “alone at night in the vast recesses of an empty Spaso.”

Recently redecorated, the house looked good on the inside, but the servant problem was serious: “I wish you were here to help, for I think you are the only person who can do anything.” He was already missing his family: “It seems like years, instead of just four days, since I said goodby to you.” Finding a bag filled with Christopher’s clothes had almost caused him to weep. But the little park in front of Spaso was full of children, “and I have hopes that if he is not too conspicuously dressed he will be able to play there normally.” There were hundreds of things to say, but it was hard to know where to begin, “and I am sleepy, so I will close now.”

“So you have had your baby!” he wrote on the eleventh, after the communications officer awakened him at three A.M. with the news. Because there were no direct telephone connections between Moscow and Bonn, he knew nothing other than that Annelise and her daughter were well, and that she was to be called Wendy. He was “mad with curiosity. What a feeling of frustration.” Nevertheless, “three girls and a boy now. . . . Just like my own mother’s family.”
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The new American ambassador presented his credentials to the figurehead Soviet president, Nikolay Shvernik, in a carefully scripted Kremlin ceremony on May 14. Speaking in Russian from a memorized text, Kennan expressed hope that his actions in Moscow would “meet with the understanding and collaboration of the Soviet Government.” Shvernik promised “collaboration” in his reply but said nothing about “understanding.” The event took place in the same ballroom where eighteen and a half years earlier a younger Kennan—having learned the night before of his father’s death—had stood behind a self-confident Bullitt, trying very hard not to faint. It had all gone like clockwork this time, George wrote Annelise: at least “what little potential value the position might have has not been diminished by anything that has happened so far.” Meanwhile “[w]e have gotten a vegetable garden worked up—lettuce, radishes, and dill already planted—tomatoes and beans to go in, with luck, this weekend.”
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Annelise’s first letter, written two days before the baby’s birth, reached Moscow via diplomatic pouch only on the fifteenth. By that time George was deeply into the round of calls he was expected to make on Soviet officials and members of the diplomatic corps. There would be, he estimated, fifty or sixty of these: he, in turn, would host return calls at Spaso House, a process that would go on for weeks. The mood, he warned her, “has become grim in a way it never was before.” Reinforcing it was a propaganda campaign that exceeded “in viciousness, shamelessness, mendacity and intensity” anything he had experienced before in the Soviet Union, or even in Nazi Germany. The purpose, he reported to the State Department on the twenty-second, appeared to be “to arouse hatred, revulsion and indignation with regard to Americans,” who were said to be using bacteriological weapons in Korea while torturing prisoners “with red hot irons, hanging them upside down, pouring water into their noses, forcibly tattooing them, forcing them to sign treasonable statements in blood, etc.” The vilification was “on a scale hardly excelled in human history.”
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