Moscow Nights

by Nigel Cliff

  It was sentimentally impossible for Van to open anywhere but the Great Hall of the conservatory. Awkwardly, though, his fellow American pianist Byron Janis was already booked to play there with Kondrashin as part of a State Department–sponsored tour of the Soviet Union. Even more awkwardly, Janis was also a client of Sol Hurok, who happened to be in Moscow at the time. Hurok professed astonishment at Van’s presence, since he was supposed to be concertizing elsewhere, and Janis, who was of Russian ancestry and spoke the language, put in a call to the Ministry of Culture. In a syrupy voice, a Mr. Belotserkovney deeply regretted to inform him that Van Cliburn would be performing in the Great Hall with Kondrashin, that Janis would be moving to Tchaikovsky Hall, and that it was all a simple misunderstanding.

  American reporters scented a story and asked Janis for a quote. “No comment,” he replied sourly. The Stalin-era Tchaikovsky Hall, which was kitty-corner to the Peking Hotel, had famously poor acoustics, and Janis was slated to make a recording with Kondrashin that night. He irritably refused to budge. The last time he had played in Moscow, the U-2 row was raging and he walked onstage to hostile chants of “Kleeburn! Kleeburn!” This time round, he was finally feeling loved by his ancestors when Van had unexpectedly arrived to spoil things again.

  Belotserkovney of the Culture Ministry called Kondrashin, who called the sulking pianist. “Janis, the recordings are in jeopardy. You must play in Tchaikovsky Hall or there will be no recordings,” he said, and hung up. Janis devised a plan. He got Belotserkovney drunk, draped two girls on his knees, and threatened to back out entirely. A compromise was hastily arranged whereby Janis played a recital in Tchaikovsky Hall and moved to the Great Hall for a midnight recording session after Van had vacated it.

  Once again Moscow welcomed Van as its own. After his first concert, on June 13, he sent his mother onstage to play two encores, to tumultuous applause. The next evening, Khrushchev sat beaming in the government box by the stage. At the end, he stood up applauding and gestured to Van to come back to the private reception room. The premier was already on his way when an aide ran after him and reported that Van had announced he was going to play Nikita Sergeyevich’s favorite Chopin piece, the F Minor Fantaisie. Khrushchev reappeared, grinning and clapping. Afterward, Van soothingly told a journalist that he ascribed the plaudits “not to my humble person but to the American people as a whole, as a sign of respect for my people from the Soviet people and their wish to live in peace and honest cooperation with the United States.” Peoples who respected each other’s culture, he added, would never want to fight. Despite the glow of friendship, Van did have a minor falling-out with Kondrashin, who recommended a more academic approach to Brahms and Schumann, going even so far as to suggest that Van return to studying, and discovered that his young friend had a temper after all. Meanwhile, Janis received some compensation for his humiliation when Milan’s Teatro alla Scala called and asked him to take over a concert canceled by Van at five days’ notice. He thought it over and quickly decided the crumbs were too tasty to refuse.

  Van had extended his stay to play at Khrushchev’s vast Kremlin Palace of Congresses on June 19, and Khrushchev granted him the rare favor of an invitation to spend Sunday with his family at his dacha outside Moscow.

  Stalin’s villa at Kuntsevo had stayed shuttered since his death, and Khrushchev’s new compound, which the KGB drably named Dacha no. 9, had been rebuilt for him at Usovo, on the Moscow River. Passing between lines of tall birch and pine, the car stopped before a twelve-foot concrete wall with two small guardhouses. Gray iron gates swung open onto a long drive leading to a handsome neoclassical structure of cream stone with a two-story portico, not unlike a scaled-down White House. Surrounding it were rose gardens, fountains, clipped lawns with yellow benches, and a pagoda overlooking the river. A green carpet ran up to the door between potted plants. Inside were forty rooms with old-fashioned furnishings, including a mahogany-paneled living room, a dining room with bright blue draperies, and a cozy billiard room.

  It was a warm, sunny day. With Viktor Sukhodrev interpreting, Khrushchev took Van on a tour of his vegetable garden and prized cornfield before leading him down to the river. A public beach packed with local bathers could be seen a hundred yards away, but the dacha had its own beach and a dock where pleasure boats were moored. Khrushchev ushered Van into a rowboat and took the oars, giving Van the tiller.

  “We’ve been watching you for two years,” the Soviet premier said, heaving away. “You’re very wise. You don’t engage in politics.”

  “If I did,” Van answered, “my grandfather would come back from the grave and kill me. He told me: ‘Politics is a great art, but it is divisive. Great classical music is for everyone all over the world.’”

  Khrushchev grunted agreement. “I’m proud of you because you love classical music,” he said.

  When they returned to shore, Van briefly played the piano and the party ate a late lunch under the trees. Khrushchev was keen to fatten Van up: “Because you are too skinny, Vanya,” he said, grinning expansively. His son, Sergei, who was working on guidance systems for Soviet cruise missiles, whirred away with his cine camera. In summer the Khrushchevs always served okroshka, a cold soup made with kvass mixed with chopped meat or vegetables. Van asked what it was, sampled it, and requested more details of how it was made. Khrushchev started in on a long explanation of kvass (a fermented drink made from dark bread) that baffled his guest, which only made the premier more determined to make Van understand. Van politely pushed the bowl away none the wiser, and for the rest of the meal he studiously ignored the jugs of kvass in the middle of the table.

  After lunch the party sped along the river in motorboats, Van in his suit and tie seated next to the premier in his loose shirt and homburg. They stopped for a shooting party, one of Khrushchev’s favorite pastimes, which Van sat out with Nina Khrushchev and the other ladies. Afterward they went bathing. Viktor Sukhodrev stood stiffly on the bank while Khrushchev’s youngest daughter, Elena, called him a Foreign Ministry fuddy-duddy and ordered him to jump in. He politely refused on the grounds that he was working, until Khrushchev needled him as well, whereupon the interpreter stripped off and splashed round with Van and the extended Khrushchev clan. Finally, Van and Khrushchev hugged and said their good-byes. “Wouldn’t you like to take along a glass of kvass for the road?” Khrushchev asked. “Kvass, never!” Van replied in Russian, and the unlikely pair burst out laughing.

  The premier and his family were deeply fond of the American pianist, and Van went on his way with indissoluble memories. But it is also possible that Khrushchev had engineered Van’s entire visit and showered him with favors to give himself useful political cover for the greatest of all his foreign policy adventures.

  Between Van’s invitation to Gorky and his trip to the dacha, the Soviets had earmarked sixty one-megaton missiles for Cuba, and a military delegation had visited the island in disguise. Fidel Castro had needed no convincing about a proposal to combat “insolent American imperialism,” but finding locations where the missiles could be concealed had proved trickier. After driving round for a while, the ranking Soviet marshal had decided that coconut palms looked uncannily like rockets, and back in Moscow he convinced Khrushchev that the missiles could be disguised by the simple expedient of attaching a crown of leaves to their nose cones. Missiles also needed launchers, trailers, and fueling trucks, which resembled vegetation even less. Yet the proposal had the merit of being extremely cheap, which was important because the cost of Khrushchev’s scheme had already swollen alarmingly. Military advisers pointed out that troops were essential to defend the missiles against a possible American invasion: at least fifty thousand, with artillery and tanks. An air defense system had to be created, with antiaircraft guns and MiG-21 supersonic fighters. Shore defenses would need to include missile batteries, high-speed patrol boats armed with homing missiles, and bombers. Soviet submarines would have to be based in Cuba to patrol the U.S. coast. The biggest problem of all was how
to transport and deliver so much military cargo undetected. The minister for the merchant navy reported that it could be done if the shipping plan for the entire year were scrapped. Khrushchev gave the order.

  BACK AT the National, the Soviet newspapers were hard on Van’s trail. A reporter for Komsomolskaya Pravda kept ringing the switchboard, but the receptionist explained that their star guest was too busy preparing for concerts and television appearances, holding official meetings, and taking walks round the city. The journalist cornered Henrietta Belayeva and enlisted her help, and the reporter climbed the staircase as if she were on her way to a royal audience:

  The door is opened and I enter the room. Cliburn is in front of me. He’s tall and slim, with a somewhat tired, pale face. His eyes are expressive and thoughtful and his hands are the hands of a magician, hands that touch the keys and make you fly away into the world of incredible heightened beauty and deep reflections.

  Van introduced Rildia Bee, who was sitting in an armchair beside him. “We feel at home in the Soviet Union, we feel well here,” she said. “Da da, ochen khorosho,” said Van. “Ya lyublyu Moskvu.” He continued in English: “It is a city that has given me wings.” The reporter posed her most pressing question: “Van, can you tell me what you think about the forthcoming Eighth World Festival of Youth and Students in Helsinki?” He went red and apologized that he had had almost no chance to follow the young people of the world preparing for this exciting meeting, and then made some airy comments about there being nothing nobler than fighting for peace, which made flowers and music blossom. She solemnly reported these bons mots, adding that millions of Soviet citizens loved Van, were inspired by his brilliant art, and waited impatiently for his performances. In the same rapturous vein, Van told Pravda Ukrainy that he hoped to bring peoples together through his music. “I think the cultural exchange between our countries is the greatest achievement of our time,” he declared. “They should develop it. It’s through art that people come to friendship, that’s my deepest conviction. Isn’t it thanks to art that I found so many friends in your country? I would so like to see them all and hug them. But, unfortunately”—he stretched out his arms—“even my long arms won’t be enough for that.”

  Van went on to Israel, where his press conference was the first in Israeli history to be attended by representatives of both the American and the Soviet embassies. The Israelis received him almost as warmly as the Russians. “Whenever he appeared on the teeming boulevards,” a reporter noted, “he was swamped by admirers and autograph seekers and charmed them as well as the press by his Texan courtesy and boyish naiveté.” To all appearances Van had become a supranational institution, floating above the political troposphere as a celestial messenger of love and peace, while the dirty business of superpower rivalry carried on far beneath.

  THAT SUMMER, unprecedented numbers of Soviet ships sailed into the North Sea and the Mediterranean, catching the attention of European security services. Surveillance planes buzzed the decks but saw only agricultural machinery, while the ships’ passengers appeared to be technicians, tourists, and bearded Cuban revolutionaries. In September the CIA calculated that triple the number of Soviet ships had arrived in Cuba compared to the previous summer, and overflights soon revealed why. Columns of tanks, armored personnel carriers, launchers, and trucks piled with khaki crates of missiles were crawling inland from every port. Cruise missiles resembling small planes emerged from crates and were installed along the coast under camouflage, near antiaircraft batteries. MiG-21 fighters and Ilyushin Il-28 jet bombers were unpacked and assembled, and Soviet Komar missile boats entered the ports under cover of darkness.

  At the White House, President Kennedy received the troubling reports. He warned the Soviets that installing offensive weapons in Cuba would bring serious consequences but publicly refused to countenance an invasion. Secretly he had already given the CIA the go-ahead for Operation Mongoose, an aggressive covert operation designed to help Cubans overthrow the Castro regime. The operation allegedly stretched to getting into Castro’s hands exploding cigars and depilatories to make the dictator’s beard fall off. By a remarkable coincidence the Cuban revolt was intended to occur that October, the same month the Soviet warheads were due to arrive.

  ON SEPTEMBER 24 the first Van Cliburn International Piano Competition took over Fort Worth, Texas. Four students from the Moscow Conservatory took part, bringing photographs and gifts for Van. With them were interpreters who were less interested in the scores than in the bomber assembly lines at the nearby Lockheed Martin plant, a fact duly noted by the FBI, which amid the heightened tensions filled up a large file with intelligence about the Soviet visitors.

  Out-of-town reporters delighted in telling readers that Cowtown, famous for its fat cats, fat cattle, and monster honky-tonk, had discovered there was more to music than “Willy, Waylon or Garth at Billy Bob’s saloon” singing about “whiskey rivers, lyin’ eyes or achy breaky hearts.” Yet with well-heeled residents vying to host the fifty-four competitors, Rildia Bee and Harvey glad-handing at every event, and cowboy hats and ranch parties galore, the contest had a definite flavor of Texan hospitality. Otherwise it was blatantly modeled on the Tchaikovsky Competition, which, depending on how you read it, was either a compliment or a challenge to the Soviets. There were three rounds, with lots of compulsory Russian music. The judges used the same twenty-five-point system, though their habit of stopping performers in mid-phrase and telling them to move on disconcerted many, as did the decision, urged by Van, to re-audition three second-round losers at the end of the finals. At first he had hoped the contest would never happen, and when it was clear that it would, he briefly considered disassociating himself from it. Still, he came round, and it was his charm, elegance, and high standards that the thousand volunteers aspired to uphold.

  Rosina was there as a guest, but Bill Schuman and Mark Schubert had evaded and finally refused entreaties that they join the advisory board, presumably not wanting to attach the Juilliard name to something untested, nearly provoking Van into backing out of a major Juilliard fund-raiser. On October 7, Rosina’s student Ralph Votapek of Milwaukee, Wisconsin, won first prize, which undoubtedly caused Van mixed feelings. Soviet competitors Nikolai Petrov and Mikhail Voskresensky came second and third; in sixth place was a Portuguese pianist, Sérgio Varela Cid, who had gone up against Van in the original Tchaikovsky Competition. The prizes, some donated by Van, were generous, and the award included a Carnegie Hall debut and management by Sol Hurok. Van greeted each contestant, discreetly watched many performances, and announced the winners. He seemed to have been around for so long that it was strange to think that, at twenty-eight, he was barely older than many of them.

  It was a busy time for cultural exchange. That September, Sol Hurok had brought the Bolshoi Ballet back to America for a thirteen-week tour. “For three hours,” the Times reported, “East-West tension—the threat of nuclear warfare, missile shots and planetary probes—was forgotten.” Meanwhile in Moscow, the New York City Ballet opened on October 9 at the Bolshoi Theatre, sharing the stage with the Bolshoi Opera, whose production of Boris Godunov with American bass Jerome Hines was rapturously received, with Khrushchev leading the applause. A week later Vladimir Ashkenazy began his second American tour in Washington, DC, his travel ban revoked after his victory in the Tchaikovsky Competition. Khrushchev was no doubt satisfied that the exchanges helped maintain the fiction of business as usual; perhaps he even hoped that the enthusiasm generated by ballet dancers, pianists, and singers might temper Americans’ response to the appearance of Caribbean-based missiles that flew at four miles a second and could hit Miami in less than a minute.

  ON OCTOBER 14, 1962, a U-2 flying over Cuba snapped several pictures that revealed clumsy attempts to camouflage launch sites for ballistic nuclear missiles. After processing, the photos were shown to the president the next morning. JFK assembled a circle of his closest advisers, including Tommy Thompson, newly returned from Moscow as Secretary of State D
ean Rusk’s adviser on Soviet affairs. The Joint Chiefs of Staff unanimously called for air strikes to wipe out the missile sites, followed by a full-scale invasion. Thompson argued for a strong warning. After fierce debate, Kennedy instead ordered a naval “quarantine” of Cuba; the term was deliberately chosen instead of “blockade,” which under international law connoted an act of war. At the same time, he wrote to Khrushchev demanding the removal of the missile bases and all offensive weapons. On October 22 the president addressed the American public on television to explain his action, warning that a global crisis beckoned if the Soviets refused to heed his call. “It shall be the policy of this nation,” he unequivocally stated, “to regard any nuclear missile launched from Cuba against any nation in the Western Hemisphere as an attack by the Soviet Union on the United States, requiring a full retaliatory response upon the Soviet Union.” The readiness level of U.S. forces rose to DEFCON 3, and a naval force headed for the Caribbean.

  Khrushchev ordered some vessels carrying weapons to turn back and the rest to sail on, including four diesel submarines armed with nuclear-tipped torpedoes and one ship carrying nuclear warheads that was close enough to reach port before the exclusion zone went into effect. Two days later he cabled the White House insisting that the nonblockade clearly amounted to an act of aggression and the Soviet ships would ignore the attempted “piracy.” As the ships reached the five-hundred-mile line, U.S. naval forces intercepted them, searched them, and allowed them to continue when only food, fuel, and non-offensive equipment were found on board.