“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.”
That night I bounced the idea of a “peaceful revolution” off a young woman I had met at the Lenin Library. She offered her own refreshing definition. “Now we are not afraid to think or ask questions,” she said, but there were “limits.”
Troubles in Poznan, Poland, were big news in most parts of the world, but in the Soviet Union there was just a short item on the back page of Pravda. It was also symptomatic of Khrushchev’s growing concern that the anti-party agitation spreading through Russia was now beginning to spread through Eastern Europe as well. The news, as portrayed by Pravda, was that “a broad and carefully prepared provocative, diversionary action” had disrupted an international fair in Poland, leading to its “destruction.” The message, in Pravda-ese, was clear. Anti-communists were behind the destruction; they were on a reckless rampage against state authority, and they had to be crushed. Fortunately I did not have to depend on Pravda. In addition I had access to the Voice of America, the International Herald Tribune, embassy reports, and diplomatic chatter that I was able to pick up at JPRS.
What I learned at the time was that the trouble started early Thursday morning, June 28, when angry workers (no one was sure of exact numbers) converged on Poznan’s City Square, demanding better living conditions. The demonstration began peacefully but soon turned violent. I noted in my diary, “Workers attacked Communist Party headquarters. The prison was torched. Trams were overturned. Soon, shooting was heard, and tanks were seen lumbering through the streets of Poznan. Armed soldiers appeared on the streets shortly thereafter. All communications to the town were cut, and aircraft diverted to other points.”
What I learned at the U.S. embassy was that many thousands of workers had demonstrated, at first calmly but then, after a while, going on the attack. One foreign observer recalled, “As the sound of their steps intensified, so did the temperature of emotions. Such a mood is like dynamite. Any spark becomes dangerous.” Soon the demonstrating workers, demanding “bread and freedom,” began to shout anti-communist and anti-Soviet slogans.
“We want a Free Poland.”
“Down with Bolshevism.”
“Down with the Russians.”
“We demand free elections under the UN.”
“We want God.”
“We demand religious classes in schools.”
Hearing the slogans, seeing the chaos, fearful of the proletarian workers they claimed to represent, Polish communist leaders, encouraged by the Russians, ordered two infantry divisions and two armored divisions, totaling more than 360 tanks and 10,000 troops, into the City Square, where they smashed the uprising, killing more than 70 workers and residents and wounding hundreds of others.
Was it an “uprising,” a “revolt,” or a “rebellion”? Poles argued about a proper term for many years. Russians at the time preferred the word “provocation.” A Russian professor, probably a member of the party but one deeply disturbed by the revelations flowing from Khrushchev’s speech, told me that “there are really two histories. One is ours—what we read in our papers. The other is yours, the kind we cannot read. I think I like yours better. Our history gives us only our side, our course. But we know from the story of our own country that many things can happen in history, and usually do.”
Here was a Russian in transition, caught between two definitions of history. He, like millions of other Russians, probably did believe, before Khrushchev’s speech, that Stalin was a genius, that he alone transformed the Soviet Union into a modern nuclear power. But a day or two after the speech, told that Stalin was actually an evil coward who had killed millions, he changed his mind not only about Stalin but about communism itself. He has become a bewildered agnostic. Cut loose from Stalinism, he has begun to look for a more satisfying port. But he has not yet found one.
By summertime Khrushchev could see clear signs that his secret speech had unleashed not only hope for a better future but also strong currents of impatience and anger, not only in the Soviet Union but also throughout the communist world. Would he be able to contain the rising demands for change? My sense at the time was that Khrushchev would eventually lose power, but in the meantime, when challenged, he would crush his political opponents. The Russians had done so in East Germany in 1953 and they had just staged a repeat performance in Poznan in 1956. Because they believed they were in the catbird seat, riding the crest of history, they saw no reason to change their position: once in power, they had a right that bordered on an obligation to retain that power. The use of force, then, was only a minor consideration in the flow of communist history.
CHAPTER NINE
Into the Heartland