George F. Kennan : an American life

by John Lewis Gaddis

  The American diplomatic community was still small and closely knit. Dorothy Hessman, who became Kennan’s secretary in Moscow and remained with him for almost two decades, recalled little consciousness of rank: “Everybody came to all the parties, and we had a good time together.” There was even an embassy orchestra in which George played the guitar and the double bass: it called itself “The Kremlin Krows” until Soviet officials grumbled about the name, after which it became “The Purged Pigeons.” The American dacha was still in use, there was swimming in the river that ran nearby, and in the winter even a tame form of skiing in the low hills outside of Moscow. “[W]e all saw each other too much,” Patricia Davies remembered. “We didn’t have any choice.” There were feuds and rivalries, “but by and large, people seemed to get along pretty well.” “It was something like a cruise ship,” her husband, John Paton Davies, added, “a rather macabre cruise ship.”16

  Parties, under such circumstances, could become legendary. With Harriman out of town in November 1944, it fell to George and Annelise to organize a Thanksgiving dinner and dance at Spaso House for, as she put it, “the lonely souls in town.” One was Lillian Hellman, the stridently left-wing playwright who with Roosevelt’s support—but to the alarm of the FBI—had recently shown up in Moscow, ill after a harrowing two-week air trip across Siberia. Worried about her health, George arranged accommodations at Spaso, and she had recovered sufficiently by Thanksgiving to join the festivities. That evening Hellman fell dramatically and decisively in love with the embassy third secretary, John Melby. “Whatever might have happened that first night was postponed,” their biographer has written, because Annelise insisted that Melby come back downstairs and dance with her. “But the next morning, at breakfast, they found the magic still held.” The affair, a famous Cold War romance, would continue off and on for the next three decades.17

  A few days before Christmas that year, two American journalists in Moscow, William Lawrence of The New York Times and John Hersey of Time, decided that they would like to have the holiday dinner with, as Hersey wrote his wife, the “Kennons.” But “we couldn’t think of any reason in the world why they should want us.” So why not invite them to dine at the Metropole? “But then we decided that they’d want to have Christmas with their girls and we’d better not do that. We dropped the whole Kennon idea—until about five that afternoon. Then, without any prompting except what she must have gotten by mental telepathy, Mrs. Kennon called me first, and then Bill, and invited us to Christmas dinner! Both of us practically sang into the phone when we accepted.”18

  “There is no telling how long I’ll remain here,” George had written Jeanette that fall. “Presumably at least until both wars are over. But one never knows.... A single wrong word—a single mistake—can only too easily ruin a person’s usefulness in any atmosphere as delicate as this, and among people so hyper-sensitive.” Harriman, however, was “a truly exceptional man, of great courage and competence. I genuinely admire him and have learned a good deal, working for him.” George’s own job was important, “[t]o the extent that Russia’s relations with the United States are important.... That might mean anything, depending on how you look at it.”19

  III.

  “Our new minister has arrived so Ave’s thrilled,” Harriman’s daughter Kathleen, who served as his official hostess in Moscow, wrote on July 3, 1944. “The new counselor speaks in Russian perfectly freely,” an aide reported to Molotov a few days later, “quite willingly entering conversation, although in his manner he seems at first reserved and dry.” By then Kennan had already spent hours talking with his new boss: as Harriman’s aide Robert Meiklejohn noted, “[t]he Ambassador put him to work at once.” The topic was probably Poland, for Kennan followed up with the first of many memoranda on that subject.20

  History had shown, he wrote, that Germany and Russia tolerated a strong and independent Poland only when they themselves were weak. “Otherwise, Poland inevitably becomes a pawn in their century-old rivalry.” With the Red Army nearing Warsaw, independence looked extremely unlikely. The alternative would not necessarily be communism, but it would involve “extensive control of foreign affairs, military matters, public opinion, and economic relations with the outside world.” As a consequence, the United States should be very careful not to promise the Poles “a prosperous and happy future under Russian influence. Prosperity and happiness have always been, like warm summer days, fleeting exceptions in the cruel climate of Eastern Europe.”21

  “All interesting,” Harriman commented, “especially last para[graph].” It was indeed, because Great Britain had gone to war in 1939 on Poland’s behalf, and Roosevelt and Churchill had publicly pledged, two years later in the Atlantic Charter, to restore “sovereign rights and self-government . . . to those who have been forcibly deprived of them.” Stalin, however, had paved the way for the German invasion of Poland with the Nazi-Soviet Pact, and the Red Army had occupied the eastern third of the country shortly thereafter. Hitler’s attack in 1941 placed the Soviet Union nominally on the side of the Polish government-in-exile in London, but the relationship remained wary because Stalin was determined to keep the territorial gains the U.S.S.R. had made, as Germany’s ally, at Poland’s expense.22

  Then in 1943 the Germans revealed that they had found the graves of some fifteen thousand Polish prisoners of war, allegedly shot by the Russians three years earlier, at Katyn Forest, near Smolensk. When the London Poles called for an investigation, Stalin broke diplomatic relations with them and began preparations to set up a Polish government of his own design. At Harriman’s request, Kathleen and John Melby inspected the site early in 1944, after the Russians had recaptured it. They reported that the Germans had killed the Poles, and Harriman accepted their findings. Kennan, still in London, had his doubts—correctly as it turned out—but with no evidence of his own, he fell in “with the tacit rule of silence which was being applied at that time to the unpleasant subject in question.”23

  Meanwhile Roosevelt was running for reelection. With a large, politically active Polish American community in the United States, the last thing he wanted was controversy over Katyn or anything else that had to do with Poland. On his instructions, Harriman told Soviet Foreign Minister Molotov, a month before Kennan’s arrival in Moscow, that “the Polish-Soviet question must not become an issue in the forthcoming presidential campaign.” The president was doing what he could to restrain the London Poles and hoped that “whatever the Soviet Government publicly stated would be on a constructive side.... It was time to keep the barking dogs quiet.”24

  With that objective in mind, Roosevelt arranged for Stanisław Mikołajczyk, the prime minister of the London Polish government, to visit Moscow at the end of July. He was coming, Kennan warned Harriman, at a moment when pride and elation over Soviet victories had “almost reached the point of hysteria.” The Russians were less worried than ever before about controlling Eastern Europe and would not go out of their way to meet the wishes of émigré Poles. But Harriman refused to pass this depressing conclusion on to Washington. “The Russians have a long-term consistent policy,” Kennan complained in his diary. “We have—and they know we have—a fluctuating policy reflecting only the momentary fancies of public opinion in the United States.” Given this disparity, Americans should stop “mumbling words of official optimism” and instead “bow our heads in silence before the tragedy of a people who have been our allies, whom we have saved from our enemies, and whom we cannot save from our friends.”25

  On August 1, 1944, the day Kennan wrote those words, resistance fighters linked to the London Poles seized large portions of Warsaw, in the expectation that the Red Army, which had reached the eastern suburbs of the city, would come to their assistance. But, as he noted on the sixth, “there is some suspicion that the Russians are deliberately withholding support, finding it by no means inconvenient that the Germans and the members of Mikołajczyk’s underground should destroy each other.” These fears seemed confirmed on the fifteenth
when Harriman and Clark Kerr asked that British and American planes dropping supplies to the Warsaw insurgents be allowed to refuel at Soviet bases. Deputy Foreign Minister Andrey Vyshinsky turned them down flat, denouncing the uprising as “ill-advised, . . . not worthy of assistance.” Harriman returned from this conversation, Kennan recalled, “shattered by the experience.” The ambassador informed Roosevelt later that evening that “[f]or the first time since coming to Moscow, I am gravely concerned by the attitude of the Soviet government.”26

  Years afterward Kennan claimed to have concluded that this was the moment for an Anglo-American showdown with the Soviet leadership. They should have been given the choice “between changing their policy completely and agreeing to collaborate in the establishment of truly independent countries in Eastern Europe or forfeiting Western-Allied support and sponsorship for the remaining phases of the war.” The second front had been established. Soviet territory had been liberated. The West had the perfect right to divest itself of responsibility for what their “ally” would now do. The time had come to “hold fast and be ready to drive a real bargain with them when the hostilities [were] over.”27

  Kennan’s recommendations at the time, however, were less drastic. Stalin and his subordinates, he reminded Harriman, had “never ceased to think in terms of spheres of influence.” They expected support in such regions, “regardless of whether that action seems to us or to the rest of the world to be right or wrong.” This was not, he admitted, an unreasonable position, because they would surely have respected Washington’s predominance in the Caribbean. The problem was that the American people, “for reasons which we do not need to go into,” had not been prepared for such a postwar settlement, but instead had been led to believe that the Soviet Union was eager to join an international security organization with the power to prevent aggression: “We are now faced with the prospect of having our people disabused of this illusion.” The United States should therefore warn the Kremlin leaders that their actions were making it difficult “for this or any other American administration to do for the Russian people the things which all of us would like to be able to do.” The choice would then lie with Moscow: “If this position is adhered to and if repercussions in American public opinion are unfavorable, Russia has only herself to blame.”28

  Roosevelt quickly made it clear, though, that he did not wish to alter his Soviet policy in the light of the Warsaw Uprising, and Harriman followed his lead: “We had to fight the war. Hitler was our main enemy. We shouldn’t let divergence interfere with that.” Kennan, angrier now, suggested that an international force administer postwar Poland. If that were not possible, then the United States should abandon its interests there altogether rather than “to try to defend them in circumstances over which we will have no real influence.” Harriman wrote back bluntly: “George—These are two extremes, and much ‘too extreme.’ ”

  “I didn’t blame Averell for it,” Kennan recalled. “Averell was the President’s personal representative, and he couldn’t join me in these criticisms.” Isaiah Berlin, who knew both men well, explained that Harriman believed in negotiation, “whereas George believed in principle. Those two things could never quite be reconciled. There was no open hostility or tension between them that I know of. But they were very different.” Harriman remembered respecting Kennan’s judgments: “They were accurate but sometimes too impractical to be acted upon.” When he disagreed with Kennan, though, “I simply didn’t bother to waste the time to argue. It didn’t amuse me to do so.”29

  IV.

  While the Polish crisis was developing that summer, Kennan composed a long essay—the final version came to about twelve thousand words—in which he sought to compress what he knew about Russia generally, and Stalin’s Russia in particular. He submitted it, with some diffidence, to Harriman’s aide: “The Ambassador may want to glance over it. I doubt that he would care to read the whole thing. It is just what he would call ‘batting out flies.’” But Kennan’s hopes for the paper were higher than that: “Conscience forced me . . . to make this statement at least available to whose who had responsibility for the formulation of American policy. It would be up to them, then, to draw the logical conclusions, if by chance they should be interested.”30

  Entitled “Russia—Seven Years Later,” the essay began by pointing out that the residents of a country, like sailors at sea, had little perception of the currents upon which they were floating. “This is why it is sometimes easier for someone who leaves and returns to estimate the speed and direction of movement, to seize and fix the subtleties of trend.” Kennan had used this argument to justify writing about the United States after visiting it—even if briefly—from abroad. It was also why “no foreign observer should ever be asked to spend more than a year in Russia without going out into the outside world for the recovery of perspective.”

  The war, Kennan acknowledged, had left the Soviet Union weakened, with some twenty million of its people killed and the destruction of perhaps 25 percent of its fixed capital.31 Those losses would be offset, however, by the absorption of new populations to the west—the territorial gains Stalin had demanded and his allies had tacitly granted—together with the relocation and massive expansion of heavy industry required to repel Hitler’s invasion. When set against the coming collapse of Nazi Germany, these would make the U.S.S.R., whether for good or ill, “a single force greater than any other that will be left on the European continent when this war is over.”

  That gave its internal configuration international significance. In seeking to map this, Kennan considered first “the spiritual life of the Russian people,” at once “the most important and the most mysterious of all the things that are happening in the Soviet state.” No shepherd ever guarded a flock more carefully than the Kremlin watched “the souls of its human charges,” and they responded with amiable acquiescence: “Bade to admire, they applaud generously and cheerfully. Bade to abhor, they strike a respectful attitude of hatred and indignation.” There was nothing new in such dissembling: Russians had long considered it “a national virtue.” It meant, though, that Soviet leaders could never really know what their people were thinking. “The strength of the Kremlin lies largely in the fact that it knows how to wait. But the strength of the Russian people lies in the fact that they know how to wait longer.”

  Culture, in the meantime, was stagnating. The Bolsheviks’ triumph had stimulated creative minds, especially those of Jewish intellectuals: “It was their restless genius which contributed most to the keen and analytical quality of Soviet thought and Soviet feeling in the years immediately following the revolution.” But the Jews suffered disproportionately from Stalin’s purges, and now their influence was almost gone. In its place was a chauvinistic “cult of the past” that smothered innovations connected with the freedom of the spirit, the dignity of the individual, and the critical approach to human society. Only when Soviet power waned would Russian culture again give off those “effervescences of artistic genius” with which it had once “astounded the world.”

  Politics, in such a society, could hardly exist: as in most authoritarian states, there was only a struggle to reach the ruler and to control his sources of information. Yet Stalin’s advisers knew little more than he about the outside world. Their judgments might occasionally correspond with reality, but these people were as often as not “the victims of their own slogans, the slaves of their own propaganda.... God knows what conclusions they draw from all this, and what recommendations they make on the basis of those conclusions.”

  For this reason, Western concepts of collective security could only seem “naïve and unreal” in Moscow. Soviet leaders paid lip service to these principles when they wanted military assistance from the United States and Great Britain, but with the second front in place, they no longer needed to observe “excessive delicacy.” Their own priorities now took precedence, and these amounted simply to power. The form it took and the methods by which it was achieved were secondary issues:
Moscow didn’t care whether a given area was “communistic” or not. The main thing was that it should be subject to Moscow’s control. The U.S.S.R. was thus committed to becoming “the dominant power of Eastern and Central Europe” and only then to cooperation with its Anglo-American allies. “The first of these programs implies taking. The second implies giving. No one can stop Russia from doing the taking, if she is determined to go through with it. No one can force Russia to do the giving, if she is determined not to go through with it.”

  Understanding the Soviet Union, Kennan insisted, would require living with contradictions. Russians were used to “extreme cold and extreme heat, prolonged sloth and sudden feats of energy, exaggerated cruelty and exaggerated kindness, ostentatious wealth and dismal squalor, violent xenophobia and uncontrollable yearning for contact with the foreign world, vast power and the most abject slavery, simultaneous love and hate for the same objects.” Their life, hence, was not one of harmonious, integrated elements but an ever-shifting equilibrium between conflicting forces. No proposition about the U.S.S.R. could make sense “without seeking, and placing in apposition, its opposite.” It would also be necessary to realize that for the Soviet regime there were no objective criteria of right and wrong, or even of reality and unreality. Bolshevism had shown the possibility of making people “feel and believe practically anything.” Even an outsider, thrust into such a system, could easily become “the tool, rather than the master, of the material he is seeking to understand.”