Six Crises (45 page)

And here we had our famous “kitchen conference” or, as some reporters put it, the “Sokolniki Summit.” This conversation, incidentally, was not carried on television in the United States but was reported in the newspapers.

The conversation began innocently enough. We discussed the relative merits of washing machines. Then I decided that this was as good a place as any to answer the charges that had been made in the Soviet press, that only “the rich” in the United States could afford such a house as this.

I made the point that this was a typical house in the United States, costing $14,000, which could be paid over twenty-five or thirty years. Most U. S. veterans of World War II have bought houses like this, in the $10,000 to $15,000 range, I told him, adding that most any steelworker could buy one.

“We too can find steelworkers and peasants who can pay $14,000 cash for a flat,” he retorted. Then he went into a harangue on how American capitalists build houses to last only twenty years and the Soviets build for their children and grandchildren. He went on and on, obviously determined to deny the American know-how he saw so plainly in front of him:

“You think the Russians will be dumbfounded by this exhibit. But the fact is that all newly built Russian houses will have this equipment. You need dollars in the United States to get this house, but here all you need is to be born a citizen. If an American citizen does not have dollars he has the right to buy this house or sleep on the pavement at night. And you say we are slaves of Communism!”

I finally interrupted him. “In our Senate we would call you a filibusterer,” I said. “You do all the talking and you do not let anyone else talk. I want to make one point. We don't think this fair will astound the Russian people, but it will interest them just as yours interested us. To us, diversity, the right to choose, the fact that we have a thousand different builders, that's the spice of life. We don't want to have a decision made at the top by one government official saying that we will have one type of house. That's the difference . . .”

“On political differences, we will never agree,” Khrushchev said, again cutting in on me. “If I follow you, I will be led astray from Mikoyan. He likes spicy soups and I don't. But that doesn't mean we differ.”

I tried again to point up our belief in freedom of choice, and I put in a plea for more exchanges between our two countries to bring about a better understanding. But Khrushchev did not want to debate me on my grounds. He changed the subject back to washing machines, arguing that it was better to have one model than many. I listened to his long harangue on washing machines, realizing full well that he was not switching arguments by chance or accident; he was trying to throw me off balance.

“Isn't it better to be talking about the relative merits of our washing machines than the relative strength of our rockets?” I said at the end of his long speech. “Isn't this the kind of competition you want?”

At this he gave the appearance of turning angry and, jamming his thumb into my chest, he shouted: “Yes, that's the kind of competition we want, but your generals say we must compete in rockets. Your generals say they are so powerful they can destroy us. We can also show you something so that you will know the Russian spirit. We are strong, we can beat you. But in this respect we can also show you something.”

As Akalovsky translated what he was saying into my ear, I knew that now was the time to strike back. Otherwise I would leave the impression to the press and through them to the world that I, the second-highest official of the United States, and the government I represented
were dealing with Khrushchev from a position of weakness—militarily, economically, and ideologically. I had to be firm without being belligerent, a most difficult posture to preserve. With this in mind, I pointed my finger at him and said:

“To me, you are strong and we are strong. In some ways, you are stronger than we are. In others, we are stronger. But to me it seems that in this day and age to argue who is the stronger completely misses the point. . . . No one should ever use his strength to put another in the position where he in effect has an ultimatum. For us to argue who is the stronger misses the point. If war comes we both lose.”

Now Khrushchev changed the pace. He tried to laugh off what I had said by exclaiming: “For the fourth time I have to say I cannot recognize my friend Mr. Nixon. If all Americans agree with you, then who don't we agree with? That is what we want.”

This time I was determined not to let him get off the hook. I pressed on: “I hope the Prime Minister understands all the implications of what I have just said. When you place either one of our powerful nations in such a position that it has no choice but to accept dictation or fight, then you are playing with the most destructive thing in the world. This is very important in the present world context,” I went on before he could interrupt. “It is very dangerous. When we sit down at a conference table it cannot all be one way. One side cannot put an ultimatum to another. It is impossible.”

Now we were going at it toe-to-toe. To some, it may have looked as though we had both lost our tempers. But exactly the opposite was true. I had full and complete control of my temper and was aware of it. I knew the value of keeping cool in a crisis, and what I said and how I said it was done with as much calm deliberation as I could muster in a running, impromptu debate with an expert. I never doubted, either, whether Khrushchev had lost control of his emotions. In situations before the kitchen debate and after it, according to my observations, Khrushchev never loses his temper—he uses it.

Now, using his temper, Khrushchev struck back. He accused me of issuing an ultimatum, he vehemently denied that the Soviet Union ever used dictation, and he warned me not to threaten him. “It sounds to me like a threat,” he declared, poking his finger at me. “We, too, are giants. You want to threaten—we will answer threats with threats.”

“That's not my point,” I retorted. “We will never engage in threats.”

“You wanted indirectly to threaten me,” he shouted back. “But we have the means to threaten, too.”

“Who wants to threaten?” I asked.

“You are talking about implications,” he went on, apparently getting more and more excited. “I have not been. We have the means at our disposal. Ours are better than yours. It is you who want to compete. Da, da, da . . .”

“We are well aware that you have the means. To me, who is best is not material.”

“You raised the point,” he went on. “We want peace and friendship with all nations, especially with America.”

I could sense now that he wanted to call an end to the argument. And I certainly did not want to take the responsibility for continuing it publicly. We both had had enough. I said, “We want peace too.”

He answered, “Yes, I believe that.”

And so we ended our discussion on the underlying question of the whole debate—the possibility of easing Cold War tensions at the then current Four Power Conference in Geneva.

“It would be a great mistake and a blow to peace if that conference should fail,” I said.

“That is our understanding as well,” he said.

Then, returning to my responsibilities as his host, I put my hand on his shoulder and said with a smile, “I'm afraid I haven't been a good host.” Khrushchev turned to the American guide in the model kitchen and said, “Thank the housewife for letting us use her kitchen for our argument.”

As we walked away from the model house, to view the rest of the exhibition, I began to feel the effects of the tremendous tension of the past two hours. Holding back when you have something you want to say is far more wearing on the system than letting yourself go. I felt like a fighter wearing sixteen-ounce gloves and bound by Marquis of Queensberry rules, up against a bare-knuckle slugger who had gouged, kneed, and kicked. I was not sure whether I had held my own. But two widely differing sources of opinion buoyed me up on this score. Ernie Barcella, the correspondent for United Press International, came alongside and whispered in my ear, “Good going, Mr. Vice President.” A moment or so later, Mikoyan took me aside and through my interpreter paid me an unexpected compliment. “I reported to Mr. Khrushchev when I came back from Washington that you were very skillful in debate and you proved it again today . . .”
¹

Khrushchev now engaged in a bit of personal public relations. He shook hands with Soviet workmen, and then, spotting one old woman who had been cheering him, he gave her a tremendous hug in which they both rocked back and forth for several seconds while photographers took pictures.

As we approached one exhibit I saw Bill Hearst in the crowd and beckoned to him. Khrushchev recognized him immediately, for Hearst had interviewed the Soviet Premier on several occasions. He grabbed both of Hearst's hands and shook them emphatically, shouting good-naturedly, “Hello, my capitalistic, monopolist, journalist friend. Do you ever publish anything in your papers that you disagree with?”

“Oh, boy, do I!” said the publisher of the Hearst chain.

“You should see what some papers print about me,” I remarked. Khrushchev looked surprised, as though he didn't believe either of us. A moment later, I saw Westbrook Pegler and called him over. As I introduced them, I thought that probably never before had two men who thought less of each other shaken hands.

That evening I officially opened the American National Exhibition and delivered a major speech which I had prepared before I left Washington. The Soviet authorities had promised the speech would be carried in
Pravda
and
Izvestia,
a pledge they honored, so that it reached millions of Russian people.
Time
magazine characterized the speech as “a ringing retort to Soviet internal propaganda that the exhibition was not typical of U. S. life.” More than that, however, I used the exhibition as a means of describing our way of life, our standard of living, and our aspirations to the Russian people. It was my chance, a unique one in Soviet-American relations, to tell the Russian people that “the 67 million American wage earners are not the downtrodden masses depicted by the critics of capitalism in the latter part of the nineteenth and early part of the twentieth centuries.” That caricature of capitalism was as out-of-date as a “wooden plow,” I said.

I cited figures to show that the 44 million families in America own 56 million cars, 50 million television sets, 143 million radio sets, and that 31 million of those families own their own homes. Then I made the point that so many people overlook. “What these statistics dramatically demonstrate is this: that the United States, the world's largest capitalist country, has from the standpoint of distribution of wealth
come closest to the ideal of prosperity for all in a classless society.”

At this point, Khrushchev, who had spoken just before me and was sitting on the stage next to me, tried to interrupt, rising and shouting “nyet, nyet.” I stopped him firmly but pleasantly by saying, “I have the floor now, it's my turn to speak.” He was easy to handle compared with some of the Senate sessions over which I had presided!

I described the personal and political freedoms we enjoy and take for granted in the United States, over and above our material progress. “There is nothing we want from any other people except the right to live in peace and friendship with them. The peace we want and the peace the world needs is not the peace of surrender but the peace of justice; not peace by ultimatum but peace by negotiation.” And finally, warning of the grave risk of nuclear war, I concluded, “The last half of the twentieth century can be the darkest or the brightest page in the history of civilization. The decision is in our hands to make.”

After the official opening of the exhibition, I led Khrushchev to a table of California wines (which he praised) and he proposed a toast. I understood his first Russian word to mean “peace,” but I waited until the translation was completed before raising my glass. Khrushchev, up to one of his usual tricks, had proposed that I drink “To peace and the elimination of all military bases on foreign lands.”

Without raising my glass to his toast I countered by proposing, “Let us just drink a toast to peace.”

Then Khrushchev began an argument about foreign bases until a bystander interrupted by proposing another toast: “One hundred years to Premier Khrushchev!”

“I will drink to that,” I said. “We may disagree with your policy, but we want you to be of good health. May you live to be a hundred years old.”

Khrushchev accepted the toast, and after we had drunk, he quipped, “At ninety-nine years of age we shall discuss these questions further. Why should we be in haste?” To that, I responded, “You mean that at ninety-nine, you will still be in power with no free elections?”

I then escorted him to his limousine. Following his usual custom he got into the front seat with the driver and drove off to the Kremlin, where we had first met just eight hours before.

•  •  •

That evening Ambassador and Mrs. Thompson gave a reception for the Americans who were visiting the exhibition and the American
members of the press. The opinion was unanimous that the day, after a shaky start, had turned into a smashing success.

“No matter what happens now,” one American businessman told me, “your trip to the Soviet Union will go down as a major diplomatic triumph.”

It had been a long, tense day and I would have welcomed the chance to relax and enjoy some of the sense of accomplishment which comes from a degree of success after so many hard months of preparation. But one thing I had learned through my years of conflict with Communism, going clear back to the Hiss case, is that there is never a period when it is safe to let up in the battle with our Communist opponents. They are out to win, and one of the tactics they use is to keep the pressure on. They try to wear us out. To keep them from winning and to win ourselves, we must have more stamina and more determination than they have.