My Turn

by Nancy Reagan

  The following night, Ronnie and I hosted a return dinner at Spaso House. Boy, that was a challenge. It took months to plan, and Linda Faulkner, my social secretary, did a heroic job. Every part of that dinner was brought over from Washington. The china and the silverware came from the State Department, and Linda rented and shipped over everything else, from tablecloths and flowers to sugar tongs, salt dishes, and ashtrays. It was by far the most complicated project I have ever been involved with.

  Even the food was flown in from Washington, and prepared by the embassy chef. We hired Soviet waiters because Spaso House didn’t have enough staff, and our people trained the serving staff in the American style of serving. As much as possible, we tried to organize this event as if it were a state dinner at the White House. And so, for example, there was an American host at each table, with an appropriate Soviet official to his right. Between them, but not actually at the table, sat a translator. Although wives are not generally invited to Soviet state dinners, we followed the American practice of inviting spouses. As in Washington, husbands and wives were seated at separate tables.

  The guest list was far more complicated than usual, and the spelling of the names was enough to drive Linda crazy. The invitations were done in calligraphy and printed (in English) at the White House, and delivered personally by the embassy staff. The response cards were in Russian, and each guest was notified by telephone (also in Russian) that his invitation would soon be arriving.

  While we wanted to bring together a diverse and interesting group, this was not the place to include refuseniks, dissidents, or anyone else whom the Soviet leadership might find embarrassing. (We did invite Sakharov, but he and Gorbachev had already met.) In their dinner for us at the Soviet embassy in Washington, the Gorbachevs had invited prominent Democrats such as Ted Kennedy, Pamela Harriman, and Speaker Jim Wright. These were certainly appropriate choices, but how do you put together a politically diverse group in a one-party state without inviting dissidents? It wasn’t easy, but we included a sprinkling of writers, journalists, filmmakers, actors, and musicians, much as we would have done at a White House dinner. Gary Kasparov, the chess champion, was invited, along with Andrew Lloyd Webber, the composer, who happened to be in Moscow on business. The menu consisted of lobster bisque, suprême of chicken with truffle sauce, carrot soufflé, salad, cheese, and frozen chocolate mousse with vanilla sauce.

  As usual, I sat with Gorbachev, but this time our table included a cross section of Soviet writers and intellectuals. The talk was loud and boisterous, and the Russians at our table were eager to confront Gorbachev on any number of issues. I was surprised that nobody deferred to the chairman, but he seemed to be enjoying the exchange, just as he had at the state dinner in Washington. The discussion went so fast that the translators couldn’t keep up, but when the dinner was over, Jim Billington filled me in on what it all meant.

  One well-endowed woman at our table became so animated that I was afraid she was going to spill out of her low-cut dress. She was a writer who wanted Gorbachev to explain why a certain prominent historian had not been invited to the upcoming Communist party congress. This prompted a lively discussion on the topic, and a few days later it was announced that he would be attending the congress after all.

  We had asked Dave Brubeck and his quartet to provide the entertainment, not only because the Russians love American jazz, but also because Brubeck is a great favorite in Moscow. I knew he was the right choice when the audience began applauding in the middle of the first song, the Duke Ellington standard, “Take the A Train.” From start to finish, our dinner was a hit.

  There were several other memorable moments during our visit to the Soviet Union, including my visit to a Moscow school. The children were darling—the girls in their brown dresses and white pinafores, and the boys in blue slacks and white shirts. Their eyes were full of excitement, and they couldn’t wait to ask me questions—in English—about their American counterparts:

  What kind of uniforms do children wear in America?

  What kind of games do American children like?

  Do American children go on long camping trips like we do?

  One of the boys led me into a special wing of the building which commemorated the many graduates of this school who died during World War II. Pointing to a piece of artillery, he said, “It’s not usual to see a gun in a school. But this is why it is here, because this is a museum. We say that when a gun speaks, it’s too late to talk. We hope the gun will never be used again. You know, our country lost twenty million people in the war.”

  I was deeply moved by his words, and very glad that we had made this trip. I explained that American children didn’t want war either, and that I hoped both sides could move closer to peace. At that moment it all seemed so simple. Kids are kids, and I couldn’t help but think that if it were up to the children, the world might be a safer place. I made some remarks before leaving, and ended by saying “I love you,” which evidently made a big impression, because some of the children came up and hugged me. Russian society tends to be rather formal, and this was a rare and welcome example of spontaneity.

  A few minutes after leaving the school, I found myself in another world entirely when I was driven out into the country to visit the grave of Boris Pasternak. I have always been a great admirer of Doctor Zhivago, which was first published in the West in 1956 but did not appear in the Soviet Union until shortly before we arrived. Pasternak’s son Yevgeny was with me, and as I placed a bouquet of flowers on his father’s grave, I was suddenly aware that Yevgeny was humming softly. It was, I learned later, a requiem. He also told me that May 30, the date of my visit, was the twenty-eighth anniversary of his father’s death.

  Before I left, Yevgeny took me into his father’s dacha and showed me the room where Pasternak wrote Doctor Zhivago. Then he handed me a small book of his own poems. Suddenly, amidst the birch trees and the lilacs, I was seeing a Russia very different from the one I had seen in the Kremlin. That was Russian power, but this was the Russian soul.

  When I came out of the dacha to drive to my next appointment, I was greeted by four village women holding lilacs. “We’re so happy to see you,” they said. “We’re so glad you came. We’ve waited for you for so long. All we want is for our children to live under blue skies—and no war.”

  They hugged and kissed me, but finally I had to leave. I got into the car, and when I looked out the rearview window, they were sobbing. I felt terrible, as if I were deserting them.

  My only other spontaneous interaction with regular people came during our ill-fated walk down the Arbat, Moscow’s pedestrian mall. Before we left Washington, Ron had said to me, “Try to get out, Mom. Don’t let them push you into a car. Get out and walk around. See the Arbat and get a feel for the people.”

  That was easy for him to say, but I don’t think he understood the massive amount of security that such a trip entails. Even so, Ronnie and I remembered his advice, and the afternoon when we had a free moment because our visit with the Ziemans had been canceled, we strolled out onto the Arbat. Everybody recognized us and called to us and seemed excited and happy that we were there.

  It was all going beautifully until the KGB suddenly arrived and started roughing people up. They were supposed to be protecting us, but we didn’t need any additional protection, and we soon found ourselves in the middle of a mob scene. Some of the reporters who came with us were punched and kicked, and I had to rescue Helen Thomas from the KGB—whom Ron had described as “the kind of lugs who crush walnuts on their foreheads because it feels good.” (Afterward, I told Helen she owed me one.) I was frightened—these people hadn’t been doing anything; they just wanted to shake hands and welcome us. The whole incident was an ugly reminder that some things in the Soviet Union still hadn’t changed.

  Even with glasnost, this was still a closed and secretive society. Ronnie and I stayed at Spaso House, and it was a strange and uncomfortable experience to be in a place where you can’t talk freely because
the rooms are almost certainly bugged. I found it frustrating to have my mind and my heart filled with thoughts, impressions, and reactions, and not to be able to talk about any of it with my husband. We were even warned not to write notes because they could be photographed with hidden cameras. And when Ronnie had to read his confidential briefing papers, he went down to a special, secure room in the basement.

  On the second day of the summit, I flew off to Leningrad for a quick visit to the famous Hermitage museum. My hostess was Lidiya Gromyko, the wife, and now widow, of President Andrei Gromyko. Raisa was busy with a previously scheduled engagement with Mrs. Papandreou of Greece, which was fine with me.

  I was in Leningrad for only a few hours, but it was the most beautiful city I have ever seen, and I can understand why the Russians call it the Venice of the North. And I was overwhelmed by the reception I received from the people. I left Ronnie behind in Moscow—now there’s a phrase I never expected to write—but even so, tens of thousands of people lined the streets to welcome me on the way in from the airport.

  The Hermitage was built by Catherine the Great, as a winter palace, in 1754. It’s an enormous building, with 353 rooms and three million pieces of art. To see it properly would take weeks, which left me with a dilemma that was all too common in my years as first lady: Either I could take a fast and superficial look at a famous landmark, or I had to skip it entirely. On the principle that something is better than nothing, I had decided to spend eighty minutes at the Hermitage.

  I saw only a tiny fraction of the exhibits, of course, and even then I had to walk quickly. Poor Mrs. Gromyko! While I was racing through, one of the reporters asked if she was tired. “Of course I’m tired,” she said. “I’m seventy-seven years old!”

  I’m glad I saw a little of the Hermitage, but I’m sorry that some Russians took offense at the brevity of my visit. One official was quoted as saying, “It’s a crime that she did it so quickly,” and in a sense he was right. But at least I was there. The entire summit lasted less than a hundred hours; you do what you can on these trips. Perhaps in my new life as a private citizen, I’ll be able to return to some of the wonderful places all over the world that I saw for only a few minutes as first lady.

  It was shortly after leaving the Hermitage that I made the kind of blunder I was most afraid of. I was on a hydrofoil on the Neva River, en route to the summer palace of Peter the Great. My companion was Dmitri Likhachev, an elderly Soviet scholar who is trying to preserve some of his country’s historic buildings, and we were talking about how the government was tearing down beautiful structures to make room for ugly concrete high rises. I knew exactly what he meant, because we have the same problem in our country. “What are we going to do about these monstrosities?” I asked.

  I thought we were having a private conversation, but a reporter was sitting with us, and soon it was all over the world that I had referred to Soviet buildings as “monstrosities.” I hadn’t meant it that way, but it was too late to undo the damage.

  On the final evening of our visit, Ronnie and I and the Gorbachevs attended a special performance at the magnificent Bolshoi Theater. The royal box was flanked by American and Soviet flags, and as the four of us stood together while the orchestra played our two national anthems, I was just overwhelmed by the pageantry of it all. This is really happening, I thought. Here we are in Moscow, and they’re playing our anthem.

  As I mentioned before, at our state dinner in Washington, Gorbachev had remarked on how wonderful the Soviet anthem had sounded that morning when it was played by the Marine Corps Band. Listening to “The Star-Spangled Banner” in the Bolshoi Theater I had a similar reaction. During eight years of White House life, I heard our anthem played hundreds, if not thousands, of times. But never did it sound as grand and imposing as it did that night, in that breathtaking setting, just hours after Ronnie and Gorbachev had signed the historic INF treaty. Once again I had a sense of history in the making.

  Owing to some minor logistical problem, Ronnie and I had been a little late in getting to the theater. When we arrived, Gorbachev asked if our late arrival had anything to do with a rumor that was circulating in Moscow that Ronnie was going to be assassinated at the Bolshoi. This was the first we had heard of it, and although Gorbachev assured us that there was absolutely nothing to worry about, I wasn’t exactly thrilled. But it didn’t seem to bother Ronnie, who assumed that Gorbachev wasn’t taking any chances when it came to the safety of his American guests.

  While this is not normally the sort of worry I can put out of my mind, I still managed to enjoy the ballet, which featured selections from Sleeping Beauty, Swan Lake, Romeo and Juliet, and other works. It helped that we were at the end of a long and exciting trip which had obviously been successful. That sense of relief, combined with the warmth and beauty of the Bolshoi Theater, made for a memorable evening.

  When the performance was over, we took a thirty-minute drive to the Gorbachevs’ dacha for dinner with them, the Shultzes, and the Shevardnadzes. We were only a few miles from Moscow, but the atmosphere was much more casual and relaxed than in the city. We had been led to believe that this was the Gorbachevs’ private dacha, but I learned later that it was an official guest house. They also have a private dacha, but we didn’t see that.

  At dinner, Gorbachev talked at some length about the nuclear accident at Chernobyl. It was obvious to all of us at the table that this tragedy had made a tremendous impression on him; he was clearly disturbed and deeply affected by it. I was already well disposed toward Gorbachev, and I found his concern moving.

  Gorbachev also discussed the upcoming Communist party congress. He told us that one of the reforms he wanted to institute was to limit the terms of top Soviet officials to a specific number of years. As soon as he said that, Raisa jumped right in. “Yes,” she said, “except for the general secretary. If the people want him to stay, of course he should.”

  Earlier in the evening, I had asked George Shultz for a favor. “Please,” I said, “this trip has been wonderful, but Ronnie and I are exhausted, and tomorrow morning we fly to London. Can you speak to Shevardnadze and see to it that we’re out of here by ten?”

  George said he would, but as the dinner was drawing to a close, he leaned over and whispered to me, “I think I’ve failed you.”

  “I think you did too,” I replied. It was clear that we were never going to leave by ten.

  But George hadn’t given up. When dinner finally ended and we moved to the sitting room for coffee, he and Shevardnadze approached our hosts together and said, “It’s been a wonderful evening and we want to thank you. But now it’s time to go home.”

  I was already on my feet. But then Raisa said, “No, no, I want everyone to sit down. I have something to say.”

  Well, when Raisa Gorbachev tells you to sit down, you sit down.

  She spoke about the meaning of the summit and the friendship between our two countries. She said some kind things, but, as usual, she went on too long. Then her husband made some very gracious comments about how important this contact was for our two nations, and for the entire world.

  I could barely stay awake during the ride home, but when we passed through Red Square, Ronnie insisted that we get out of the car so he could show me the red marble of Lenin’s tomb and the painted brick of the Kremlin Wall. I had never seen Red Square, and as tired as I was, I desperately wanted to. So of course we stopped, and it was very impressive. It would have been a shame to go home without seeing it.

  Fortunately, there’s a happy postscript to my difficult relationship with Raisa. In December 1988, Gorbachev flew to New York to address the United Nations. While he and Ronnie met for lunch, Raisa and I were among the guests at a women’s luncheon at the home of Marcela Pérez de Cuéllar, the wife of the secretary general of the U.N.

  But something had clearly changed. At the table, Raisa talked with Matilda Cuomo, the governor’s wife, and acknowledged that Soviet society had not done a good job in the area of child care. “
We could have handled this better,” she said. “We always provided day care in the mother’s workplace, but now I think it might have made more sense to keep the child at home for the first few years.”

  Raisa talked, but this time she didn’t lecture. The atmosphere was warmer than usual, and I was touched by what she told me. “I will miss you and your husband,” she said. “As for the two of us, it was destiny that put us at the place we were, next to our husbands, to help bring about the relationship that our two countries now have. My husband and I hope you will return to the Soviet Union to see us.”

  “We’d like that very much,” I said. “You know, Ronnie has always said that he would love to have you and your husband see the Western states. We would be delighted if you could visit us in California.”

  Believe it or not, I meant it.

  I didn’t know this at the time, but just as Raisa was issuing her invitation to me, Mikhail Gorbachev was extending a similar invitation to Ronnie. And Ronnie, who would enjoy nothing better than to show Gorbachev our country, immediately invited them to California, and to the ranch.

  If Raisa and I had been left alone, without any press, we probably would have had an easier time of it. But even before our first meeting in Geneva, there had been so much talk about the two of us that we were both enormously self-conscious. In any event, I’m very glad that we saw each other one last time in New York, which was a nice ending to a relationship that had obviously been difficult for both of us.

  18

  Coming Home

  NOTHING can prepare you for living in the White House—and nothing can prepare you for leaving it. On January 20, 1989, Ronnie and I left under the best of circumstances, and still it was wrenching for both of us. I can only imagine how hard it must be to leave in defeat.