George F. Kennan: An American Life (80 page)

Was the Yakovlev intrusion a test Stalin devised? Salisbury thought so at the time, and there is some evidence to support this possibility. It emerges, circuitously, from an interview the Kremlin boss granted to the Italian socialist Pietro Nenni, a recent recipient of the Stalin Peace Prize, on July 17, 1952. Such meetings were rare enough to send embassies all over Moscow scrambling for information, and in a report to Acheson on the twenty-fifth, Kennan summarized what he had learned about this one. His source was the Italian ambassador, Mario Di Stefano, an old friend from earlier service together in the U.S.S.R. Stalin had been in good health, Nenni told Di Stefano, had shown a keen interest in Italian politics, and had reconciled himself to the indefinite division of Germany. Nenni then asked about Kennan: “whether I really entertained friendly feelings toward Russia.” Di Stefano replied “that I had come here in the hopes of bettering the situation and of getting some idea of the thinking of the Kremlin on present international problems.”
³⁵

Kennan made no immediate effort to assess this query, although it would not have struck him as an idle one: had Stalin asked Nenni to make it? Salisbury, who also talked with Di Stefano, concluded that he had: “I wish Kennan and I had known each other better in those times and had been able to talk more freely.” Salisbury had something else to regret, which was that the indefatigable Alsops scooped him. It was “at least conceivable,” they wrote in their syndicated column on August 8, that “Nenni’s questions about Ambassador Kennan . . . might mean that the men in the Kremlin are considering some sort of approach to the American Government through Kennan.” Combined with the information about Germany, the Nenni interview “seems to hold out two rather small and quite possibly deceptive crumbs of comfort.”
³⁶

The next day the Milan newspaper
Corriere della Sera
ran a front-page story with the headline: “Stalin Tries an Oblique Maneuver Aimed at a Relaxation of Tension With America: A Report of the American Ambassador in Moscow.” He and Di Stefano were distressed by the leaks, Kennan cabled Acheson: “Suppose it quixotic to wish means could be found to make Alsop[s] understand how difficult they make my task here by reckless and needless references to personalities, particularly myself in their column.” It turned out, though, that the French too had the story—probably provided by the garrulous Nenni—which strengthens the likelihood that Stalin had instructed him to mention Kennan’s name.
³⁷

Then, on August 23, Stalin received the new French ambassador, Louis Joxe, for a twenty-minute visit. Kennan was furious. Joxe had not informed him that he was seeking the meeting: he had been “ill-advised” to proceed without receiving any indication that Stalin wished to see him. The “obvious purpose” was to drive a wedge between the French, the British, and the Americans, since neither Kennan nor Gascoigne had received an invitation. (Someone in Washington, on reading this telegram, scribbled in the margin: “Did GFK ever ask?”) Joxe’s reception “may have been . . . intended as a reproach to me or as a means of embarrassing me,” Kennan wrote Doc Matthews, “by conveying the implication that had I made a similar request I also would have been received.” But he professed to be content:

After reading a similar complaint from Gascoigne, however, Sir Pierson Dixon of the British Foreign Office put a different spin on the situation: “There is a certain puckishness about Stalin, and I dare say he could not resist the temptation of setting the Chancelleries buzzing by seeing the new French ambassador on the eve of the latest Soviet note on Germany.”
³⁸

The note on Germany restated a surprising proposal Stalin had first put forward on March 10, 1952: that the four occupying powers agree to hold free elections throughout Germany, looking toward the establishment of an independent, reunified, rearmed, but neutral state. This seemed to confirm Bohlen’s sense, from the previous summer, that Stalin was ready to talk; it also echoed, remarkably closely, Kennan’s Program A. Yet few historians today believe that Stalin was sincere, and Kennan at the time was skeptical. The Soviet initiative appeared to be a last-minute effort to split West Germany from its European and American allies on the eve of its integration into a European Defense Community closely linked to NATO. When it failed, as Stalin seems to have expected it would, he at last reconciled himself to the prospect that the Soviet Union would never control any more than the eastern third of its former adversary: short of war, Germany and Europe would remain divided. The Nenni interview gave Western diplomats their first hint of this shift in Stalin’s thinking.
³⁹
There is irony, nonetheless, in the fact that Stalin’s ideas appear to have come closest to Kennan’s—if only briefly—during a period in which Kennan was just a phone call, and a few minutes’ walk, away. But neither picked up the phone: each may have been waiting for the other to do so.

Kennan, of course, had no instructions from Acheson to explore Stalin’s intentions. The March 1952 note had initially intrigued the secretary of state—as had Program A—but he backed off when the British, the French, and the West Germans made it clear that they did not wish to pursue the idea. By late May, Kennan was dismissing the most recent version of Stalin’s suggestion as having been prepared “by hacks supplied only with grudging, cryptic, and guarded instructions and told to make the best of it.”
⁴⁰
And by the end of August—after the Nenni leak and the Joxe interview—he was insisting that the Soviet leader must come to him, not the other way around, a tone more appropriate for a head of state than for an ambassador.

Stalin’s behavior is more difficult to explain. He certainly knew who Kennan was, having read both the “long telegram” and the “X” article—as well as, through espionage, an unknown number of other Kennan dispatches and policy papers. He had made no effort to call off Soviet propagandists, who had been attacking Kennan for several years: Parker’s 1949 book, for example, had denounced him as “the first and in some ways the most influential agent of America’s warmongers,” a man “of violent hatred not only of the Soviet Union but of all democratic mankind.” The Foreign Ministry briefing prepared for Shvernik when Kennan presented his credentials in May 1952 claimed that he had shared the views of Nazi diplomats prior to World War II, called for the criminal prosecution of Soviet sympathizers in the United States, headed a foundation financing “reactionary organizations and political émigrés” from Eastern Europe, and was plotting war against the U.S.S.R. and the other “people’s democracies.” It concluded, as if this were an offense also, that Kennan “knows the Russian language well.”
⁴¹

And yet—Stalin did agree to accept Kennan as the new U.S. ambassador. It’s possible that he was playing a game all along, first by delaying the
agrément
to the appointment, then by greeting Kennan with an intensified anti-American propaganda campaign, then by trying to compromise him within his own embassy, then by planting a tantalizing question about him with Nenni, then by snubbing him while receiving Joxe—all the while plaguing him with bad service in Spaso House. That’s how it looked to Kennan, and that possibility would parallel the view most historians have of Stalin’s March 1952 note on Germany: that the old man was trying to keep his enemies off balance.

Another explanation, though, is that he was simply an old man. It’s at least as likely that Stalin had no coherent strategy, that his attention wandered from day to day, and that his subordinates were too terrified to point out the contradictions. It was during this period, after all, that Stalin unwisely launched a purge against his own doctors. Joxe, in contrast to Nenni, had found him showing his age. The French had the impression, Kennan reported, that Stalin “moved his left arm only with difficulty and that his bodily movements were in general labored and jerky.” There had been a revealing moment, also, during the Nenni interview: Stalin suddenly informed his guest that the staunchly anticommunist American Francis Cardinal Spellman had been present at the 1945 Yalta conference—he had not—and that it had been he who had turned Roosevelt against the Soviet Union, thereby confirming the Vatican’s hand behind every development unfavorable to Moscow.
⁴²
Perhaps it was just as well that Stalin didn’t know of Kennan’s letter to the pope, if it ever existed. Or maybe, even if it didn’t, he thought it did.

“You should have seen us arrive in great style,” Annelise wrote Cousin Grace and Frieda Por in mid-July, two weeks after all six Kennans had landed in Moscow on their four-engine U.S. Air Force plane: “I almost felt important.” Accompanying them were a Danish couple to take over the Spaso House responsibilities of butler and cook, their three-year-old daughter who would be a playmate for Christopher, and a Danish nurse to manage all of the younger children—plus what seemed to Annelise a fortune in frozen meat, canned goods, whiskeys, and wines. Grace, on vacation from Radcliffe, took several embassy jobs, was pleased to get paid for them, but was not getting much sleep because “young girls are at a premium in the foreign colony.” Joan, who had stayed briefly in Moscow, was now in Kristiansand, not a bad thing since “there was nothing for her to do and she would have been very bored.” Full of energy but not as tractable as he used to be, “Tiffer Tennan” made sure that he was the center of attention: Wendy would “have to wait until she gets bigger.” It was just as well that she had turned out to be a girl.

Unlike George, Annelise did not find Moscow to be as oppressive as it had been in the late 1930s. There were goods, albeit expensive, in the stores, and people were better dressed than during the war: “They seem pretty friendly in spite of the anti-American campaign that [is] going on. They don’t dare have anything to do with us, but I am sure they would if the taboo was lifted.” With Spaso’s staff and her Danish helpers, Annelise could imagine spending a lot of time in bed, “but somehow it doesn’t work out quite that way. The house is really big and I would like to put a speedometer on myself to see how much ground I cover [in] a day.” Nevertheless, it seemed natural to be back in Moscow: “I’d been in Russia more than any other place since I’d been married.”
⁴³

Things did get better, George acknowledged, after his family arrived. Under Annelise’s supervision and with the assistance of the Danes—whom the police could not easily intimidate—Spaso became more hospitable. There was even an opportunity for George, with Grace, to revisit Tolstoy’s home Yasnaya Polyana, where he had last been in 1935, sick, during a snowstorm, being nursed by the GPU. His ambassadorial angels again respected his privacy, allowing him a long talk with the great writer’s last secretary, Valentin Fedorovich Bulgakov, whose Russian carried “the authentic accent—rich, polished, elegant and musical—of the educated circles of those earlier times. So, I thought to myself, must Tolstoi himself have spoken.”
⁴⁴

But running the embassy continued to frustrate Kennan. It was, he believed, “absurdly overstaffed.” The Soviet authorities were pressing for its relocation to a site more distant from the Kremlin. Meanwhile the younger Foreign Service officers were treating him, he complained to Bohlen, “with the same weary correctness which we reserved in our youth for chiefs whom we thought were hopelessly behind in their mental processes.” Two in particular provoked Kennan’s ire. They were Malcolm Toon and Richard Davies, later themselves ambassadors, respectively, to the Soviet Union and Poland, who after studying Russian at Columbia had been assigned to Moscow prior to Kennan’s appointment. They had the reputation, Cumming remembered, of being brilliant but troublesome: this the new ambassador certainly found them to be.
⁴⁵

Toon and Davies had made the mistake, while still at Columbia, of entering an essay contest sponsored by the
Foreign Service Journal.
Without knowing that they would be working for Kennan, they decided to try their hand at a new “X” article, entitled “After Containment, What?” That strategy had been all right as far as it went, they argued, but it had done nothing to bring about “the destruction of Stalinism.” This would require a sustained effort to detach the Eastern European satellites from Soviet control, beginning right away with East Germany. Admittedly this might risk a third world war, but they concluded—rather too grandly—that such an outcome was unlikely. It “may not have been,” Davies later admitted, “the most judicious proposal” to have put forward at that particular time. “I may have been brash,” Toon added, “but I wasn’t stupid. I certainly would never have written this paper had I known [Kennan] was going to be our ambassador.” He and Davies were “quaking in our boots as to what would happen to us.”

“Friends” of the two arranged for Kennan to read their essay: soon thereafter the journal editors dropped it from consideration for a prize, indeed from publication in any form. Meanwhile the ambassador set about getting the miscreants out of Moscow. He requested early transfers—a cumbersome process—and approved unfavorable fitness reports that would plague the two for years to come. Three years earlier, however, Kennan himself had approved covert operations meant to bring about much of what Toon and Davies advocated. Some of his exasperation with them grew out of their open discussion of what should have been kept secret. Some of it may also have reflected concern over the 1952 presidential campaign: John Foster Dulles, no fan of Kennan’s, had condemned “containment” publicly in May and was calling for “liberation” as an alternative.
⁴⁶