Eight of the post-Soviet nations joined the CIS at Alma-Ata on December 21. (Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania never did sign on; Georgia did so in 1993.) Seeing the writing on the wall, Gorbachev on December 23 negotiated a retirement package with Yeltsin and Aleksandr Yakovlev. On Wednesday, December 25, he took leave of the presidency and the Soviet Union on television and gave control of the USSR’s 35,000 nuclear weapons to Yeltsin. He described the dismemberment of the USSR as a mistake and a betrayal of a thousand years of Russian history, but accepted that he was unable to prevent it. Thirty-eight minutes after he began, he was done and the hammer-and-sickle was run by hand down the Kremlin flagstaff; five minutes after that, the Russian tricolor was run up to flutter in the hibernal breeze. Gorbachev and Yeltsin bickered down to the wire about the handoff. They had agreed to meet one-on-one in Gorbachev’s study, but Yeltsin, seeing red over parts of the resignation speech that were critical of the republic leaders, demanded he take the nuclear briefcase (the black Samsonite bag containing the authorization codes) in another Kremlin spot. They ended up doing it through the good offices of Shaposhnikov, who received the case from Gorbachev ten minutes after Gorbachev’s talk.111 The USSR had gone the way of the overland empires of the Ottomans and Austro-Hungarians and refracted into fifteen countries.
For Gorbachev, the alternatives had been unpalatable. One was to get Yeltsin to work with him to save the union. Yakovlev plied Gorbachev again after the coup with the nonstarter idea of Yeltsin as vice president; Georgii Shakhnazarov made several similar proposals. Gorbachev did not move a muscle to pursue them. Another possibility was for Gorbachev to fall on his sword and resign in Yeltsin’s favor. Shaposhnikov saw this as desirable and thought it could be followed by USSR-wide elections. The delicate state of civil-military relations kept him from raising it with either Gorbachev or Yeltsin. Gorbachev himself aired the possibility with Gavriil Popov, by now the mayor of Moscow, in late August (“Maybe I should hand everything over to Boris”), and Eduard Shevardnadze spoke with Yeltsin about it around this time. Popov advised against such a choice, thinking Yeltsin as USSR president would drive the non-Russian elites away.112 Yeltsin heard of this talk but considered it “unserious” and the post-coup Soviet presidency “ephemeral.”113
Gorbachev’s only other option was to reverse the tide by force. This was not in him to do, and his disinclination since 1989 to take responsibility for local tests of strength had made the army officer corps distrustful of his intentions. Any praetorian ambitions the generals might have had were wrung out of them after the coup. In late November the Soviet president fished in his Kremlin office for Shaposhnikov’s opinion of a temporary military takeover, to be followed by a return to barracks. The reply was that it would land its authors in jail, upon which Gorbachev replied that his query was only hypothetical. The army did not have the training or equipment for police work, the minister said, and Yeltsin would torpedo any such policy. It could bring August redux or, worse yet, “mountains of corpses and a sea of gore.”114
Yeltsin, with a steelier spine and far more political capital, had greater choice than Gorbachev did in the matter. It goes without saying that he took power into account, but his actions in late 1991 were not driven by power alone.115 He came down against even a diluted post-Soviet federation for two reasons. First was his skepticism of the viability of such a construct. Seven union republics (all three in the Baltic, all three in the Caucasus, and the western borderland of Moldova) had boycotted the post-coup talks.116 The Ukrainians took part in some consultations, but Kravchuk did not darken the door of Novo-Ogarëvo. His refusal to agree was the straw that broke the camel’s back.
For Yeltsin, another point, as I see it, was determinative. He opted against a neo-USSR because he was opting for a Russian state—self-standing, governable, and capable of modernization and normalization. To put it another way, he opted for nation-building over empire-saving.117 What he desperately wanted was to leap into post-communism in the protocountry, Russia, that had freely elected him president. The opening move was laid out in the rousing address to the Russian congress on October 28 in which Yeltsin committed Russia to radical economic reform. A liberalization of prices, something Gorbachev had hemmed and hawed about for years, was the key component. The diarist Chernyayev cast a Gorbachevian scowl on Yeltsin’s uncouthness but sank it in a panegyric to his call to arms, with an allusion to the French Revolution:
Yeltsin’s report . . . is a breakthrough to a new country, to a new society, although the ideas and concepts behind this very exit were all laid down in the philosophy of Gorbachev-style perestroika. He himself [Gorbachev] was not able to break in good time with his habits, although he more than once confessed, “We are all from the past.” I hate to say it, but not everyone has the will to break with this past conclusively and at the right time. . . .
In [Yeltsin’s] report it’s either win all or lose all. But in Russia that has always been how big things are done. M. S. [Gorbachev] never went further than Mirabeau. This fellow is going all the way to Napoleon, skipping over Danton, Robespierre, Barras, and even the enragés.
He has thrown out hope to the people. This is the sign of charisma, for all his gaucheness as a person. As an individual he is all mediocrity and grayness, but as “chieftain” in the current concrete situation he is what is required.
And [Yeltsin] is placing his bets on Russia. I cannot repeat it too often: Gorbachev’s historic mistake was that, enfolded in the psychology of “internationalism,” he never understood the role of Russia. I feel human sympathy for him. He knows that it is not only senseless right now to oppose Yeltsin. It is simply impossible from the point of view of the country’s interests. He has no alternative. . . . The way out lies in an irrational consolidation of the Russians, in the despair that brings people together.118
Chernyayev had laid hold of Yeltsin’s broader appeal. The Russian leader was forging ahead, not treading water. He was conjuring hope out of despair. Giving up on an obsolete doctrine and the imperial structure it had held up, he was banking on a national community in which people shared material interests and sociocultural affinities. He was passing through a door the star-crossed Gorbachev had jimmied open but could not go through himself. And he was doing it the way he liked, in one stroke. “I have always been inclined toward simple solutions,” he was to write in Presidential Marathon. “It has always seemed to me that it is much easier to slice through the Gordian knot than to spend years untying it.”119 In 1991 he had the blade in his hands and was not squeamish about using it.
“What if?” analysis holds out myriad counterfactuals for the “thickened history” of 1985 to 1991.120 Boris Yeltsin was not an uncontainable force. His relations with Gorbachev and Yegor Ligachëv, the authors of his move to Moscow, were guarded at the best of times. Had they any inkling of how he would act, they would have left him in Sverdlovsk. In Moscow, two Soviet prime ministers in a row had misgivings about Yeltsin’s ability and malleability; those misgivings were swept under the carpet. Gorbachev could in all probability have kept Yeltsin on board after his mutiny in 1987 or invited him back into the fold at the 1988 party conference; or he could have had the foresight to get Yeltsin out of the country for the 1989 election. It was not too late after the election to genuflect to Yeltsin’s popularity by making him head of government. A motivated and more tightly organized CPSU would have blocked the Russian parliament from making Yeltsin its chairman in 1990 and instituting the presidency in 1991. The Five Hundred Days plan offered a sterling but wasted chance to mollify him. Suppler behavior by the Soviet leaders would have aggravated Russians less, and a softer posture on the union treaty would have given Yeltsin incentives to take a compromise position. Averting the opera bouffe of August 1991 would have bought Gorbachev time to try to cook up a hybrid successor regime. And a cutthroat coup d’état instead of a procrastinating one would have resulted in Yeltsin’s arrest, in the best of cases, or death in an inferno at the White House, at worst.
One foot planted in the past and one in the future, Yeltsin was a boss for the bosses, who knew the old ways but looked forward to new ones. For him and the nation, the hard part—to graduate from the simplex of talking about a better country to the complex of building it—was just beginning.
CHAPTER NINE
A Great Leap Outward
In its last top-of-the-line National Intelligence Estimate on the USSR before its downfall, completed in November 1990, the U.S. Central Intelligence Agency saw “deterioration short of anarchy” as the most likely scenario over the next year, with a probability close to even. Three other scenarios were given chances of one in five or less. They were “anarchy,” “military intervention” either as an army coup or at the direction of the civilian leadership, and “light at the end of the tunnel,” which would be marked by “substantial progress” toward constructive relationships between the center and the republics, toward “the filling of the political power vacuum by new political institutions and parties,” and toward new economic relations based on the market principle.1 The annus mirabilis 1991 proved the safest prediction wrong: Deterioration short of anarchy was unsustainable. Elements of the second, third, and fourth were all in evidence: There were anarchic outbreaks as governmental control over self-generating processes weakened; the August coup provided military intervention; and, in Russia, the emergence of an embryonic nation state led by Boris Yeltsin pointed to the possibility of light at the end of the tunnel. As the CIA had anticipated in its classified report, “enormous difficulties” in multiple realms would lie ahead under the most bullish of the scenarios, “but a psychological corner would be turned to give the population some hope for a brighter future.” Even with such a shift in mass attitudes, economic contraction and constitutional issues, if nothing else, would issue in pressures that “could break any government.”2
The Yeltsin of 1990–91 was adamant that the days of the Soviet partocracy were numbered, so differing with the allies in intellectual circles, and the observers abroad, who tended to think it would die a dragged-out death. At a clangorous rally on the Moscow Garden Ring in March 1991, Gavriil Popov lectured journalists not to ballyhoo the crisis and to expect the CPSU to hang on into the twenty-first century. Marching at his side, Yeltsin took tart exception: The system was “collapsing of its own weight” and the dénouement would come “very soon.”3 As to the means and timing, he was no more farsighted than the rest. Were Gorbachev to fail or the democrats to be beat out, he held that the populace “would take to the streets and would take their fate into their hands,” as it had been in Prague, Bucharest, and other bloc capitals in 1989.4 Yeltsin was taken unawares by the concatenation of a banana-republic coup and an implosion of the state. “I was in a tense emotional state,” he comments of the weeks after August 21, since “the events that had just occurred were so sudden.”5
Yeltsin all the while regarded winning the game with some trepidation. In Notes of a President, he records his response, as parliamentary chairman, to being allocated the White House office of Vitalii Vorotnikov in June 1990. The “seditious thought” that he was about to take charge of Russia, still an undergoverned subunit of the Soviet Union, “frightened” him.6 On the evening of December 23, 1991, around the Kremlin desk that had been his since July, he gathered cohorts to mark the ironing out of Gorbachev’s retirement. Lev Sukhanov, motioning at a wall map of the RSFSR, toasted him with the words, “On this whole territory, there is now nobody above you.” “Yes,” Yeltsin smiled radiantly, “and for this, life has been worth living !”7 Four days later he occupied Gorbachev’s working office on the third floor of Building No. 1, the triangular, green-domed Senate Palace of tsarist times. Yeltsin’s exuberance did not much outlast the bubbles in the drinks. “My rapture,” he says about the transfer of authority generally, “was replaced . . . by a bad case of the jitters.”8
Well might he have been jittery, for he was ill-prepared for victory. It was one thing to appropriate physical trophies and proclaim the goal of changing Russia forever. It was quite another to govern and to flesh out that goal.
Had Yeltsin arrived at Building No. 1 through an unhurried, well-bounded, and educative political contest, he would have had to nominate a shadow cabinet and to propound “profound and affirmative ideas” and “a model of rule,” to quote Oleg Poptsov, the editor and cagey observer of the Moscow scene. As it was, the stock advancement from disagreement to opposition and on into the halls of government was fast-forwarded: “The rotten tree of the state broke down, and power and its appurtenances fell at [the opposition’s] feet.”9 Yeltsin had shaken its branches and trunk and placed himself to harvest the apples. Except in the broadest brushstrokes, he had not worked through the constitutive choices he would be called upon to make if power were his, all the more so power in a Russian structure not encumbered by the Soviet superstructure.
A flotilla of his aides would conclude in their memoir The Yeltsin Epoch that, “not ready for so swift a development of the state of affairs,” Yeltsin “entered the genre of improvisation” in 1991.10 But the novelty was one of degree only. Yeltsin had been improvising brilliantly since 1985: at trying to make perestroika work, challenging Gorbachev, politicking. What distinguished this new situation was that the stakes were higher and the boundaries of the possible laxer than they were in communism’s tipping years. Social brakes and buffers had been obliterated. Nothing was sacred and everything of value was up for grabs—even the name of the republic, de-Sovietized and restyled the Russian Federation or Russia on December 25.11 Yeltsin’s message in the 1991 presidential election gave little guidance on what to do next. Russians, Gennadii Burbulis said, voted for Yeltsin in “a purely religious form of protest and hope” and threw in with “a savior,” not a reform plan.12
Before he was snowed under by events, Mikhail Gorbachev had tried to manage change in the style of a symphony conductor—directing wellprimed instrumentalists from fixed, sequent sheet music. Boris Yeltsin conducted a political jazz combo—altering the frequency, duration, and accent of melody lines as he went and open to extemporization by members. The facility for thinking on his feet was part of his political mystique, and his organizational props had been slight, as he relied largely on unsalaried volunteers. “We worked as a team, as a single organism,” one of them, Valentina Lantseva, reminisced. “We were fellow fighters, not aides and not hired hands. . . . We worked on ebullience and Russian romanticism.”13
The amateurism of that innocent time was now an anachronism. President Yeltsin had in his hands the buttons and pedals to all the shambling machinery of government on Russian territory. The communist regime was no longer there as a scapegoat. Was he up to the new assignment? The philosopher Aleksandr Tsipko, a moderate Russian nationalist who wanted to save the USSR, spoke for many when he judged that Yeltsin was not. “I honestly would not want to be in Boris Nikolayevich’s shoes,” he wrote in Izvestiya in October 1991. “Yeltsin the fighter and destroyer is in the past. The time of Yeltsin the creator is upon him.” It was, Tsipko said, a terrifying burden that he was slow to face up to. Haunted by the chimera of “a center that no longer exists,” Yeltsin would have been content if the old foe were still around to beat up on.14
Bringing back the Soviet bugbear was impossible, and it was impossible to get along on differing from Gorbachev, for Gorbachev had been marginalized. Yeltsin forced him to vacate his Moscow apartment and country residence, together with the Kremlin offices, and to scale down his demands for pension and staff, but granted his request
to start a Gorbachev Foundation with property deeded by the Russian administration.15 Gorbachev went on the transatlantic lecture circuit, learned to be a fundraiser (he would even appear in a Pizza Hut commercial in 1997), wrote his memoirs, and established Green Cross International, an environmental organization. He never spoke with Yeltsin after December 23, 1991, and as before looked down on him as a shifty megalomaniac.16 Yeltsin matched Gorbachev’s lack of humility with a lack of magnanimity, making him persona non grata in official Moscow. As Yeltsin planned his first state visit to Washington, D.C., in June 1992, one criterion he gave his hosts for the beyond-the-beltway portion was that it be at a place Gorbachev had never seen—which led him midway across the country to the state of Kansas.17 (He toured Wichita, rode a farm combine in a wheatfield, and took home a plastic bear filled with Grannie’s Homemade Mustard, from a family business in Hillsboro.) In August, convinced that comments by Gorbachev violated a promise made to him in December 1991 of noninterference in politics, Yeltsin had Interior Minister Viktor Yerin carry out a “financial and legal inspection” of the foundation. “Naturally, ‘abuses’ were uncovered, in particular, participation in trading operations.”18 In September Gorbachev was barred from foreign travel for refusing to testify at the hearing by the new Russian Constitutional Court into the legality of Yeltsin’s decrees banning the Communist Party—he would not participate, he said, even if brought into the courtroom in handcuffs. The ban was lifted within weeks, and Gorbachev was fined 100 rubles (the price of a hamburger and cola drink) for contempt of court.19 Both Gorbachev and Yeltsin eased off, and the dust settled.20
Yeltsin Page 29