The Downing Street Years (82 page)

I prepared myself very thoroughly. On Friday 27 February 1987 I held an all-day seminar on the Soviet Union at Chequers. The two opposing tendencies among Sovietologists, which I have mentioned earlier, were apparent on this occasion. The enthusiasts stressed the scope and energy of Mr Gorbachev’s reforms. The sceptics emphasized the orthodox communist objectives which Mr Gorbachev was pursuing and the limited effect even these modest measures of reform were having. On balance, the sceptics probably had the better of the argument. The view was that fundamental change was not on the agenda, only limited change which fully preserved the powers and guiding role of the Communist Party. Although Mr Gorbachev might want to enjoy the fruits of the incentive system, he could not take the risk of adopting it. Reform would, therefore, be conducted firmly within the bounds of the socialist system. In retrospect, it is possible to see that this analysis was flawed by a confusion between the
intentions
of Mr Gorbachev, which at any particular time were limited both by his communist way of thinking and by the circumstances of the moment, and the
effects
of his reforms, which unleashed forces that would sweep away the Soviet system and the Soviet state.

The seminar was only one aspect of my preparations. I also read through in detail the — usually long and indigestible — speeches which Mr Gorbachev had been making. Even though the political language was so different from that which I would have used, I felt that something
new was emerging from them. Of these, by far the most important to date was that which he delivered to the Central Committee of the Communist Party towards the end of January 1987. In this he placed a new emphasis on democratizing the Party and, at the local level, the Soviet body politic itself: the forthcoming Soviet local elections would allow the nomination of more candidates than seats available in a small number of multi-member constituencies. This would prove to be the beginning — though only the beginning — of the replacement of democratic centralism by real democracy in the Soviet Union.

Soviet politics worked on the basis of slogans. These could not be taken at face value nor given a western interpretation. But, equally, they had to be taken seriously. The slogans under Mr Gorbachev were definitely changing.
Perestroika
(restructuring) had taken over from
uskorenie
(acceleration), reflecting his understanding that the fundamental problems of the Soviet economy required not just more of the same — central controls, discipline, efficiency drives — but real radical change. Similarly, the new talk of
glasnost
(openness) was based on an understanding that, unless the facts were known and at least some of the truth told about what was going on, conditions could never improve.

In the two years since Mr Gorbachev had become Soviet leader, the political reforms were already more evident than the economic benefits. Although there was precious little evidence of the Soviet economy working better, there was far more discussion of the need for political freedom and democracy. Mr Gorbachev had gone to great lengths to win over some of the leading dissidents, particularly Professor Sakharov, to support his programme. The truth about the horrors of Stalin — though not yet of Lenin — began to be published. The Soviets started to show greater sensitivity on matters of human rights, allowing more — though by no means all — Soviet Jews who wished to emigrate to do so. Whatever Mr Gorbachev’s long-term goals, there was no doubt in my mind that he was making the Soviet Union something better than a ‘prison house of nations’ and we ought to support him in his efforts.

Such support was certainly needed. Although there was a freer political atmosphere and the improvements in political conditions endeared him to some of the intellectuals, ordinary Soviet citizens saw no real material progress. And though many members of the Politburo and the Central Committee had been replaced, it did not follow that all these replacements necessarily supported Mr Gorbachev and reform. There were worries too about the attitude of the army and the KGB.
All this posed the Soviet leader with a dilemma — and created a dilemma for us too.

Above all, the West had to ensure that Mr Gorbachev’s reforms led to practical improvements in our own security. Were the Soviets prepared to reduce their military threat? Were they prepared to withdraw from Afghanistan? Would they end their policy of international subversion? We must press them on all these matters, but not in such as way that Mr Gorbachev’s reform programme was discredited and so reversed, either by him or a hardline successor.

In the course of March I welcomed a stream of visitors to No. 10 and Chequers to brief me before my visit. The Chief Rabbi came to see me about the plight of the
refuseniks.
Peter Walker gave me his own impressions of the Soviet Union, gained on a recent visit. I discussed arrangements for the trip with the Soviet Ambassador. General Abrahamson, the Pentagon’s Director of the SDI programme, came to Chequers to give me an up-to-date account of the state of research and the strategic issues. Oleg Gordievsky gave me the benefit of his analysis. So did the human rights activist, Yuri Orlov.

I was not going to Moscow as the representative of the West, let alone as a ‘broker’ between the USSR and the United States, but it was clearly very important that other western leaders should know the line I intended to take and that I should gauge their sentiments beforehand. I knew President Reagan’s mind and had, I knew, his confidence. I therefore limited myself to sending him a lengthy message. There was only one specific policy point at issue which I felt it necessary to raise. This was a proposal, which I had made to the Americans and which they were studying but were not so far prepared to accept, that the United States should give the Soviets an assurance about the shape and time-scale of SDI — what was known in the jargon as ‘predictability’. My argument was that since it would take a number of years before the decision about the deployment of SDI need be reached there was no point in alarming the Soviets unnecessarily now.

I also arranged to meet President Mitterrand and then Chancellor Kohl on Monday 23 March. The French President — socialist or not — has the use of a number of delightful châ teaux. He also seems to have access to the best chefs in the French Republic. Lunch with him at the Châ teau de Benouville in Normandy was no exception. And of course each dish had to have a traditional Norman flavour, with sauces of cider or calvados and some of that aromatic Camembert against which the health-conscious bureaucrats of the European Community were to labour in vain. President Mitterrand’s attitude to the Soviets was very like my own. He believed, as I did, that Mr Gorbachev was
prepared to go a long way to change the system. One of his shrewdest and most perceptive observations was that the Soviet leader would find that ‘when you change the form, you are on the way to changing the substance.’ But the French President knew too that the Soviets respected toughness. He said that we must resist the attempt to denuclearize Europe. I warmly agreed.

Nor did I find any disagreement with Chancellor Kohl. The division of Germany, past history and the existence of large numbers of Germans living as minorities throughout the Soviet bloc gave this very German leader a clear insight into the USSR. Moreover, as he reminded me, West Germany had for many years been the main target of Soviet propaganda. He had doubts about whether Mr Gorbachev would survive: he was running a high-risk policy. Nor should we assume that his reforms — which Chancellor Kohl saw as intended to modernize a communist system, not create a democratic system — could be carried through without suffering. Helmut Kohl always had a strong sense of history and he reminded me that from the time of Peter the Great the reforms of Russian leaders had not been without their victims.

My last public pronouncement about the Soviet Union before I left had been my speech to the Conservative Central Council in Torquay on Saturday 21 March. It would have been easy to tone down my criticism of the Soviet regime. But I was not prepared to do so. Too often in the past western leaders had placed the search for trouble-free relations with foreign autocrats above plain speaking of the truth. I said:

I left Heathrow for Moscow just after midday on Saturday 28 March. I always used a special VC10 for these flights. A dozen of these aircraft were permanently based at Brize Norton and two or three of them had been adapted for ministerial overseas visits. The VC10 was not a modern aircraft and was rather noisy. But it was pleasant to fly in and had two big advantages. One was that there was plenty of space for me and my staff. There were tables to work at. There was a separate compartment for me to get an hour or two’s sleep when allowed respite from writing speeches and reading papers. There was even room for journalists towards the rear of the aircraft. The other advantage was the RAF staff who provided us with delicious food, drink and friendly service.

When I landed, there was an official welcoming ceremony which began at Moscow Airport, where I was presented with a large bouquet of red roses which proved remarkably photogenic against my plain black coat and fox-fur hat. We then sped down the centre of the road, reserved for high officials and their guests, to the Kremlin. There I had to make my way down the length of St George’s Hall, under its glittering crystal chandeliers, to meet Mr and Mrs Gorbachev and to exchange formal pleasantries. I cannot deny that I enjoyed the splendour of these occasions, but I sometimes reflected that the traditional formalities were intended to clothe in the trappings of legitimacy regimes that had neither historic nor democratic credentials.

On Sunday morning I was driven fifty miles out from Moscow to the Russian Orthodox Monastery at Zagorsk. I knew that this was a very important time for Orthodox Christians in Russia who, the following year, would be celebrating the millennium of their Church. The Soviet authorities had allowed some churches to reopen and the numbers of seminarians to increase a little. There was also a slight increase in the amount of religious literature allowed. As the
Khrushchev years showed — when religious persecution sharply increased, even though in other areas liberalization occurred — there was no guarantee that the pressure on Christians would be removed just because of
glasnost
and
perestroika.
I felt it important that I should show solidarity.

Crowds were waiting outside the gates of the monastery when I arrived. Against the wishes of the communist Minister for Religious Affairs (sic) who accompanied me, I insisted on getting out of the car to speak to them. Then I got back in and we were taken into the grounds of the monastery itself. I had never attended an Orthodox liturgy. I was struck by the richness of the singing, the clouds of incense, the gorgeous vestments, the sensuousness of the total experience. It was a far cry from the Sunday service at Finkin Street Methodist Church in Grantham. I was also moved by the devotion of the worshippers — it would be too much to say ‘the congregation’, for so much of what was going on was evidently a matter of private prayer, with people coming in and out to attend a part of the apparently endless ritual. I stayed for forty minutes or so and then lit one of the long, thin unbleached Orthodox candles, placing it in the sandbox which contained so many others. I reflected that it would take more than limited reforms of the communist system to contain the power of this Christian revival.

The best that can be said of most of the Russian Orthodox leaders was that they probably had little choice other than to collaborate so closely with the communists. The worst that can be said was that they were active KGB agents. Certainly, the speech which was given by the Deputy Patriarch over lunch could have been drafted by Agitprop: it concentrated heavily on the need to get rid of all nuclear weapons. Discarding my own prepared text, I answered by stressing instead the need to release prisoners of conscience. In the car, on the way back to Moscow, I asked the Minister for Religious Affairs whether there were still people in gaol for their religious beliefs. He said, ‘No, unless they are in for something else.’ Such as possessing a Bible, I thought.

That afternoon it had been arranged, at my suggestion, that I should do a ‘walkabout’ of the sort which comes so easily to western politicians but which the Soviets typically — and perhaps for good reason — avoided. (Mr Gorbachev, though, was in this, as in other matters, a western-style politician.) As I walked around a large housing estate in a bleak suburb of Moscow in the slushy snow and bitter wind, more and more people gathered to meet me. Soon they poured in from everywhere, a huge crowd cheering, smiling, wanting to shake hands. As in Hungary I was being received rapturously as an anti-communist
by those who knew the system even better than I did.

That evening I attended a performance of
Swan Lake
at the Bolshoi Theatre with the Gorbachevs. We shared a box. Like all good Russians, they were both clearly enthusiasts for the ballet. I too enjoy the ballet, almost as much as the opera, so we found this in common. During the interval the Gorbachevs held a small supper party for me in a private room. It was a relaxed occasion. For some reason the conversation turned from the story of
Swan Lake
to the subject of bread-making in the Soviet Union. Mr Gorbachev said that, partly as a result of help which the Soviet Union had received from ICI, the quality of Soviet bread was now much better than it had been. But it was difficult to please people. When the quality had been lower, it had been necessary to add salt. Now that the quality had improved, so that salt was no longer necessary for the bread, the people still preferred salty bread. He had told the Soviet minister responsible for bread-making to go on television to explain to the people that they were now getting better bread, even though it was not what they were familiar with. Ironically, a similar point had recently been made by the great dissident Vladimir Bukovsky. He remarked that whenever the Soviet media reported that scientists had found that some food — sausage, say — was bad for your health, the ordinary Russians reacted immediately by telling each other: ‘So they’re running out of sausage.’ Such are the unanticipated consequences of collectivism.