Six Crises

by Richard Nixon

  I tried again to explain to him the operation of our constitutional system—how our Congressmen and Senators represent all segments of our population, how millions of U. S. citizens emigrated from or had their relatives in Eastern European countries, and how the resolution represented the strongly-held views of those citizens, as well as many other Americans. I also pointed out that the resolution did not call for our intervention, or even for our support of a revolution in the satellite nations, but only expressed moral support and asked for prayers for those who want freedom in those nations.

  But Khrushchev chose not to understand. He belabored the point. I listened carefully and responded each time he allowed me to make a point. Now I could see what Khrushchev was trying to do. He was on the offensive, trying to throw me off balance and to force me to debate him on the ground he selected. Each time I tried to reason with him or even to change the subject, he brushed my answer aside. He did this not because he thought my arguments were unreasonable but because he wanted to create and maintain all the tension he could on this point.

  Toward the end of the conversation, he shook his finger at me and warned that I would be hearing about this Captive Nations Resolution throughout my stay in the Soviet Union. I told him I welcomed free discussion on any point. He warned me that I might even hear catcalls. I responded that I had had some experience as far as catcalls were concerned. We went round and round in this fashion until I reminded the Premier of the American expression, “We have beaten this horse to death; let’s change to another.” But Khrushchev insisted that he wanted to tell us once more what he thought of that resolution.

  “This resolution stinks!” he shouted, pounding the table. Then he spelled out what he meant in some earthy four-letter words, so beyond the pale of diplomacy that Troyanovsky, his interpreter, blushed bright red and hesitated before finally translating his words.

  It was on that “peasant” note that my courtesy call on the leader of the world Communist movement came to an end. His attack at this early stage of my visit had been a surprise. His vehemence and choice of language had been a shock. But my intense preparation for this visit and my study of his past tactics helped me to meet his attack without losing my temper or my sense of balance.

  From the Kremlin, we drove to Sokolniki Park for a preview of the American Exhibition. I expressed concern to Thompson about the meeting we had just had. I had done my best to turn away Khrushchev’s wrath with soft answers, but with very little apparent success. Thompson advised me, however, that I should continue to follow the same tactics. He said that Khrushchev’s purpose was to goad me into some rash and impulsive statements and that I should avoid falling into this trap.

  As we arrived at the exhibition grounds, I had no idea what to expect, except to be on guard for almost anything. Since Khrushchev had blown off so much steam at our private meeting, however, I thought he might put on the air of the proper host for the benefit of the hundred or so newsmen who were now observing every move he made. But when God created Khrushchev (something Khrushchev would deny), He broke the mold.

  No sooner had we started to walk around the exhibition grounds with more than a hundred newsmen gathered around us than Khrushchev let loose with a jibe. “Americans have lost their ability to trade. Now you have grown older and you don’t trade the way you used to. You need to be invigorated.”

  “But you need to have goods to trade,” I responded.

  He quickly dropped that subject and moved to another one. And then through a combination of circumstances neither of us could anticipate, we found ourselves by accident, rather than design, standing on a stage with literally millions of potential viewers and listeners watching every action and listening to every word we were saying. We had come upon a model television studio featuring a new type of color-television tape. A young Ampex Company executive steered us to a stage in front of a camera and asked each of us to say something which later could be played as a form of greeting to visitors to the fair.

  Khrushchev at first seemed reluctant to say anything. He apparently thought he was being tricked. But then he saw a large crowd of Soviet workmen in a gallery overhead, and the corps of newspapermen around us, and the temptation was too much for him. He seized the opportunity as eagerly as an American politician accepts free television time. Instead of greeting the visitors to the exhibition, he took out after me.

  First, he said the Soviet Union wanted to live in peace and friendship—but was fully prepared to protect itself in war. Then, boasting that the Soviet Union would be on the same economic level with the United States in another seven years, he twitted me by saying, “When we catch up with you, in passing you by, we will wave to you. Then if you wish, we can stop and say: ’Please follow up. . . .’” Then he denounced the Captive Nations Resolution again. Wrapping his arms around a Soviet workman nearby, he declared, “Does this man look like a slave laborer? With men of such spirit how can we lose?”

  As Akalovsky, my interpreter, whispered what he was saying into my ear I again had to do some quick thinking. Should I try to answer his outlandish and sometimes even insulting charges on the spot, or should I take a conciliatory line as I had at our first meeting? Again, I had to remind myself that I was the host at the exhibition with the obligation to treat a guest with courtesy. I was his inferior in rank, a Vice President speaking to a head of government. And again, I could not be sure what his motive was. Was he trying to goad me into giving him an excuse to break off the current Geneva negotiations? Or was he attacking me for propaganda purposes to display Soviet superiority over “soft” Western negotiators and leaders?

  As at our previous conference, I decided this was not the time to take him on. I tried to change the subject to color television, and the other consumer items which were on display at the American Exhibition. I urged that we needed a free exchange of ideas between our two countries. “You must not be afraid of ideas,” I said. “After all, you don’t know everything . . .”

  “If I don’t know everything,” he interrupted, “you don’t know anything about Communism—except fear of it.”

  Still determined not to be provoked or goaded into saying anything which could be misinterpreted, I tried again to change the tone of the conversation, but he would have none of it. Constantly interrupting me, he insisted that I was a lawyer and he was a coal miner, but that he still could outargue me on Communism vs. capitalism.

  As we watched the playback of the conversation, I could see that he had been aggressive, rude, and forceful. He had gone after me with no holds barred. And I had had to counter him like a fighter with one hand tied behind his back. It was this television tape which was later played before millions of viewers in the United States and in other countries. Khrushchev’s obvious rudeness made an unfavorable impression and my keeping my temper despite considerable provocation met with public approval. But his attack had shaken me right to my toes. He had been on the offensive and I on the defensive throughout. I knew that he had scored heavily and I felt it was imperative that I find an opportunity to strike back so that the record could be set straight publicly. Bob Considine later compared the episode to the first round of the Dempsey-Firpo fight. Khrushchev had started the encounter by knocking me out of the ring. At the end, I had climbed back in to fight again. And the second round was still coming up.

  As we continued to walk through the exhibition grounds he kept up his needling. Once he believes he has gained an advantage over an opponent, he never lets up. He kept making references to me as a smart lawyer with the innuendo that I was a slick and dishonest manipulator of words in contrast with his own “honest” background as a miner and a worker.

  Consequently, as we walked by a model American grocery store, I commented, “You may be interested to know that my father owned a small general store in California, and all the Nixon boys worked there while going to school.” Khrushchev with a wave of his arms snorted, “Oh, all shopkeepers are thieves.” But this one I did not let pass. “Thieving ha
ppens everywhere,” I responded. “Even in the store I visited this morning, I saw people weighing food after they had bought it from the State.” This time it was Khrushchev who changed the subject.

  Then we came to the center attraction of the exhibition, a model American home, fully furnished and equipped with all our modern conveniences. The Soviet press had focused their ridicule on this model home during the past week, saying that it was no more typical of a worker’s home in the United States than the Taj Mahal was typical in India or Buckingham Palace in Great Britain. Khrushchev and I walked up the center hall of the model home, looking into the exposed rooms, and we stopped at the kitchen.

  And here we had our famous “kitchen conference” or, as some reporters put it, the “Sokolniki Summit.” This conversation, incidentally, was not carried on television in the United States but was reported in the newspapers.

  The conversation began innocently enough. We discussed the relative merits of washing machines. Then I decided that this was as good a place as any to answer the charges that had been made in the Soviet press, that only “the rich” in the United States could afford such a house as this.

  I made the point that this was a typical house in the United States, costing $14,000, which could be paid over twenty-five or thirty years. Most U. S. veterans of World War II have bought houses like this, in the $10,000 to $15,000 range, I told him, adding that most any steelworker could buy one.

  “We too can find steelworkers and peasants who can pay $14,000 cash for a flat,” he retorted. Then he went into a harangue on how American capitalists build houses to last only twenty years and the Soviets build for their children and grandchildren. He went on and on, obviously determined to deny the American know-how he saw so plainly in front of him:

  “You think the Russians will be dumbfounded by this exhibit. But the fact is that all newly built Russian houses will have this equipment. You need dollars in the United States to get this house, but here all you need is to be born a citizen. If an American citizen does not have dollars he has the right to buy this house or sleep on the pavement at night. And you say we are slaves of Communism!”

  I finally interrupted him. “In our Senate we would call you a filibusterer,” I said. “You do all the talking and you do not let anyone else talk. I want to make one point. We don’t think this fair will astound the Russian people, but it will interest them just as yours interested us. To us, diversity, the right to choose, the fact that we have a thousand different builders, that’s the spice of life. We don’t want to have a decision made at the top by one government official saying that we will have one type of house. That’s the difference . . .”

  “On political differences, we will never agree,” Khrushchev said, again cutting in on me. “If I follow you, I will be led astray from Mikoyan. He likes spicy soups and I don’t. But that doesn’t mean we differ.”

  I tried again to point up our belief in freedom of choice, and I put in a plea for more exchanges between our two countries to bring about a better understanding. But Khrushchev did not want to debate me on my grounds. He changed the subject back to washing machines, arguing that it was better to have one model than many. I listened to his long harangue on washing machines, realizing full well that he was not switching arguments by chance or accident; he was trying to throw me off balance.

  “Isn’t it better to be talking about the relative merits of our washing machines than the relative strength of our rockets?” I said at the end of his long speech. “Isn’t this the kind of competition you want?”

  At this he gave the appearance of turning angry and, jamming his thumb into my chest, he shouted: “Yes, that’s the kind of competition we want, but your generals say we must compete in rockets. Your generals say they are so powerful they can destroy us. We can also show you something so that you will know the Russian spirit. We are strong, we can beat you. But in this respect we can also show you something.”

  As Akalovsky translated what he was saying into my ear, I knew that now was the time to strike back. Otherwise I would leave the impression to the press and through them to the world that I, the second-highest official of the United States, and the government I represented were dealing with Khrushchev from a position of weakness—militarily, economically, and ideologically. I had to be firm without being belligerent, a most difficult posture to preserve. With this in mind, I pointed my finger at him and said:

  “To me, you are strong and we are strong. In some ways, you are stronger than we are. In others, we are stronger. But to me it seems that in this day and age to argue who is the stronger completely misses the point. . . . No one should ever use his strength to put another in the position where he in effect has an ultimatum. For us to argue who is the stronger misses the point. If war comes we both lose.”

  Now Khrushchev changed the pace. He tried to laugh off what I had said by exclaiming: “For the fourth time I have to say I cannot recognize my friend Mr. Nixon. If all Americans agree with you, then who don’t we agree with? That is what we want.”

  This time I was determined not to let him get off the hook. I pressed on: “I hope the Prime Minister understands all the implications of what I have just said. When you place either one of our powerful nations in such a position that it has no choice but to accept dictation or fight, then you are playing with the most destructive thing in the world. This is very important in the present world context,” I went on before he could interrupt. “It is very dangerous. When we sit down at a conference table it cannot all be one way. One side cannot put an ultimatum to another. It is impossible.”

  Now we were going at it toe-to-toe. To some, it may have looked as though we had both lost our tempers. But exactly the opposite was true. I had full and complete control of my temper and was aware of it. I knew the value of keeping cool in a crisis, and what I said and how I said it was done with as much calm deliberation as I could muster in a running, impromptu debate with an expert. I never doubted, either, whether Khrushchev had lost control of his emotions. In situations before the kitchen debate and after it, according to my observations, Khrushchev never loses his temper—he uses it.

  Now, using his temper, Khrushchev struck back. He accused me of issuing an ultimatum, he vehemently denied that the Soviet Union ever used dictation, and he warned me not to threaten him. “It sounds to me like a threat,” he declared, poking his finger at me. “We, too, are giants. You want to threaten—we will answer threats with threats.”

  “That’s not my point,” I retorted. “We will never engage in threats.”

  “You wanted indirectly to threaten me,” he shouted back. “But we have the means to threaten, too.”

  “Who wants to threaten?” I asked.

  “You are talking about implications,” he went on, apparently getting more and more excited. “I have not been. We have the means at our disposal. Ours are better than yours. It is you who want to compete. Da, da, da . . .”

  “We are well aware that you have the means. To me, who is best is not material.”

  “You raised the point,” he went on. “We want peace and friendship with all nations, especially with America.”

  I could sense now that he wanted to call an end to the argument. And I certainly did not want to take the responsibility for continuing it publicly. We both had had enough. I said, “We want peace too.”

  He answered, “Yes, I believe that.”

  And so we ended our discussion on the underlying question of the whole debate—the possibility of easing Cold War tensions at the then current Four Power Conference in Geneva.

  “It would be a great mistake and a blow to peace if that conference should fail,” I said.

  “That is our understanding as well,” he said.

  Then, returning to my responsibilities as his host, I put my hand on his shoulder and said with a smile, “I’m afraid I haven’t been a good host.” Khrushchev turned to the American guide in the model kitchen and said, “Thank the housewife for letting us use her
kitchen for our argument.”

  As we walked away from the model house, to view the rest of the exhibition, I began to feel the effects of the tremendous tension of the past two hours. Holding back when you have something you want to say is far more wearing on the system than letting yourself go. I felt like a fighter wearing sixteen-ounce gloves and bound by Marquis of Queensberry rules, up against a bare-knuckle slugger who had gouged, kneed, and kicked. I was not sure whether I had held my own. But two widely differing sources of opinion buoyed me up on this score. Ernie Barcella, the correspondent for United Press International, came alongside and whispered in my ear, “Good going, Mr. Vice President.” A moment or so later, Mikoyan took me aside and through my interpreter paid me an unexpected compliment. “I reported to Mr. Khrushchev when I came back from Washington that you were very skillful in debate and you proved it again today . . .”1

  Khrushchev now engaged in a bit of personal public relations. He shook hands with Soviet workmen, and then, spotting one old woman who had been cheering him, he gave her a tremendous hug in which they both rocked back and forth for several seconds while photographers took pictures.

  As we approached one exhibit I saw Bill Hearst in the crowd and beckoned to him. Khrushchev recognized him immediately, for Hearst had interviewed the Soviet Premier on several occasions. He grabbed both of Hearst’s hands and shook them emphatically, shouting good-naturedly, “Hello, my capitalistic, monopolist, journalist friend. Do you ever publish anything in your papers that you disagree with?”

  “Oh, boy, do I!” said the publisher of the Hearst chain.

  “You should see what some papers print about me,” I remarked. Khrushchev looked surprised, as though he didn’t believe either of us. A moment later, I saw Westbrook Pegler and called him over. As I introduced them, I thought that probably never before had two men who thought less of each other shaken hands.