Murrow was especially interested in Khrushchev. “What sort of person is he? Does he have a sense of humor?” he asked. I decided to tell him the Peter the Great story. Murrow burst into laughter. “Did he really call you Peter the Great?” Apparently, he loved the story as much as I loved telling it. Then, rather abruptly, Murrow turned from Khrushchev to CBS News. “Ever think about working for CBS?” he asked, lighting another cigarette. I was flabbergasted. It had been one of my not-so-secret dreams for years, discussed with my brother and close friends. Maybe, with hard work and lots of luck, I could become the CBS equivalent of Harry Schwartz, the Times’s expert on Soviet affairs, or even the CBS correspondent in Moscow. I remembered Dan Schorr’s offer months before. Had Schorr spoken to Murrow about my rejection?
“Yes, yes of course,” I said, uncertain about what I should say or how I should say it. “It would be an honor, truly an honor.”
“Delighted,” Murrow smiled. He reached down to open a large drawer on the right side of his desk. Casually, he pulled out two large glasses and a bottle of Johnny Walker Black Label scotch. As he started to pour, I glanced at a wall clock, which noted unmistakably that it was only a few minutes after ten. My face must have reflected both surprise and shock.
“Oh, dear,” Murrow made a face. “You don’t drink.”
“No,” I replied. “Does that mean there’s no job?”
“No, no, no,” he answered with a wave of his hand. “But it does make things that much more difficult.”
Murrow finished his drink and we quickly returned to the safer terrain of Russian history. Murrow was especially interested in the tumultuous eighteenth-century reigns of Peter the Great and Catherine the Great, which absorbed us for much of the next two hours. At noon, Campbell knocked at the door, opened it, and in a loud whisper reminded her boss that he had a lunch date. She shot me a look of distinct disapproval, as though I had violated a treaty we had both secretly negotiated. For an instant Murrow paused, as if he might cancel his lunch date, but then he quickly straightened his tie and put on his jacket. “Come with me,” he said.
Outside the office he introduced me to Jesse Zousmer and Johnny Aaron, two of his producers. “This is Marvin Kalb. He’s Bernie’s brother. Knows a lot about Russia. Call Sig or John. Let’s see what we can do about setting him up for a job here.” Sig Mickelson was president of CBS News, and John F. Day was his vice president. I met both the following day. Upshot: I was offered, and accepted, a job at CBS, starting as a writer on the overnight shift for the local WCBS radio station. Pay was $137 per week. I was ecstatic.
By accepting Murrow’s offer, I knew I would probably not be finishing my Uvarov dissertation and certainly I would be disappointing my mother. But it was an offer I felt I could not refuse. Seven months earlier I had turned down a similar offer from Dan Schorr. But in the interim, especially during my trip to Southeast Asia, where the guerrilla war in Vietnam was spreading, I found that my passion for daily journalism had deepened. Moreover, this offer had come from Murrow, who was my idol. How could I say no to Murrow? As I was soon to learn, his offer opened the door to a dream job. A world of opportunity beckoned.
In less than three months, I went from writing hourly newscasts for WCBS to writing commentaries on global communism for Murrow’s nightly news program; working on a TV documentary, The Red Sell, with Walter Cronkite, who was then the rising star at CBS; soon thereafter promoting my first book about Russia, called Eastern Exposure; and appearing on a CBS television special on the Russian writer Boris Pasternak’s Nobel Prize. I then applied for, and got, a CBS Foundation Fellowship, which I used to travel around the world and write a book at Columbia University about the splintering Sino-Soviet alliance. It was called Dragon in the Kremlin. In the spring of 1960 I was appointed CBS’s Moscow bureau chief and correspondent. Larry LeSueur, a Murrow colleague from World War II, had been slated for the assignment, but for some reason the Russians refused to give him a visa.
During my time in Moscow as a correspondent I covered the U-2 incident in 1960, the Berlin crisis in 1961, and the Cuban Missile Crisis in 1962. I was also the first American network correspondent to visit Mongolia, in August 1962. Six months later I was transferred to Washington, D.C., where I was named chief diplomatic correspondent, the first such post at any network. Over the next thirty years I covered the many faces of the Cold War: the ups and downs of U.S.-Soviet relations, the costly, tragic Vietnam War, Henry Kissinger’s shuttle diplomacy in the Middle East, and the attempted assassination of Pope John Paul II. Most of the time I loved my assignment. When my reporting passion ebbed in the late 1980s, however, I switched to teaching and writing more books.
Not too long ago a TV producer posed an innocent question: “What’s your hobby?” I think he was expecting a short, inconsequential response, like “golf.” His question, though, threw me into speechless embarrassment. I suddenly realized I had no real hobby. I didn’t play golf or tennis, nor did I go on cruises. I could only think of one activity that could possibly be construed as a hobby.
“I write books,” I replied. “I really like to write books.”
Acknowledgments
A memoir emerges from many interrelationships. Family members, friends, teachers, even strangers play a role. I thank them all.
This book focuses on my time in the Soviet Union in 1956, a very special year in modern Russian history, each day a seminar in the awkward dismantling of Joseph Stalin’s dictatorship. I was a translator/interpreter/press officer at the U.S. embassy in Moscow. For a budding scholar it was, without doubt, an extraordinary experience.
While I was in Moscow, few colleagues were more helpful to me than Anna Holdcroft, a British expert on Soviet politics, and U.S. ambassador Charles Bohlen, the model diplomat at a challenging time in East-West relations. Unbeknownst to him, Soviet leader Nikita Khrushchev also helped me to understand how Kremlin politics worked, to the degree that it did.
Before reaching Moscow, I studied Russian history and language at City College of New York and Harvard University. Among my professors were Hans Kohn, Michael Karpovich, and Richard Pipes. Each was an inspiration, opening the door to a fresh appreciation of a very complicated country.
Many Russians shared their life stories with me, and I also learned much about the differences between Soviet theory and practice from the many diplomats and journalists I met in Moscow. CBS’s Dan Schorr was at the top of my list, becoming my first mentor in broadcast news.
This is the first book in a projected three-part memoir. I have many to thank, but I start with Valentina Kalk, the former director of the Brookings Institution Press, who encouraged this ambitious project. I am grateful for her friendship and wise counsel. Others, also helpful, were William Finan, Janet Walker, Carrie Engel, Adam Juskewitch, Elliott Beard, and Yelba Quinn. They composed a friendly, cooperative team of professionals.
Jon Sawyer, executive director of the Pulitzer Center, where I hang my hat, was always encouraging, as was his wife, the incomparable Kem Sawyer, who read the manuscript and offered important editorial advice. I also extend my heartfelt gratitude to Nathalie Applewhite, Tom Hundley, Ann Peters, Akela Lacy, Jin Ding, and everyone else at the Center for their help and support, which came in many ways and was always appreciated.