Extraordinary, Ordinary People

by Condoleezza Rice

  WITH EASTERN Europe liberated and Germany unified, I began to think about returning to Stanford. Most universities have a “two-year rule,” meaning that a faculty member can take only two consecutive years of leave without forfeiting tenure. Stanford had been very flexible in my case, and I felt that I needed to get back to my academic career. I was also dead tired.

  I went to see Brent in September 1990 and told him that I needed to leave at the first of the year. He asked me to stay, saying that he wanted to restructure the staff in light of international events. He would promote me to special assistant to the President and break up the current directorate that included Europe to create a separate entity for the Soviet Union. Moreover, Saddam Hussein had invaded Kuwait that August, and the United States had rallied an international coalition against him. It was likely that there would be war in the Middle East. Brent would need to turn increasingly to that problem and wanted someone that he trusted to deal with the Soviet Union.

  I told him that I’d stay a little while longer to help manage Soviet affairs in light of the coming Gulf War. The next big challenge was dealing with a wounded—perhaps fatally wounded—Soviet Union. Moscow was confronting grave difficulty in managing the republics, particularly the Baltic states, which were suddenly restive, having seen the collapse of Soviet power in Europe. “Brent,” I said, “the Soviet Union may break up, and I don’t think I have the energy for it.”

  I did stay until April 1991. During the first part of that year, the Soviet Union’s decline accelerated precipitously. I worked together with my new deputy, Nick Burns, who’d come to join me from Baker’s staff at the State Department, to adjust our policies accordingly. Previously, in September 1989, Bob Gates had asked me to convene a small and very secret group to consider contingencies for the breakup of the Soviet Union and the overthrow of Gorbachev by hard-line Communist Party leaders. It was time to dust off that work. But we had to be careful to avoid leaks and met privately, allowing no mention of the sessions on our calendars.

  We also decided that the President needed to meet Soviet leaders other than Gorbachev. The Soviet president was now wedged uncomfortably between the backlash of alarmed conservatives, who struggled to halt or even reverse the flow of events, and the rise of radical figures, who wanted to move faster even if it meant the end of the Soviet Union,

  Boris Yeltsin was one of those radical leaders. He was making a claim—outlandish at the time—that Russia needed to be liberated from the Soviet Union. Yeltsin was Gorbachev’s bitter rival, and when he requested a meeting with President Bush in September 1990, there was some reluctance to see him. The President had enormous respect and sympathy for Gorbachev and was determined to do nothing to embarrass the Soviet leader. We settled on a tried-and-true remedy for such a problem: a meeting with the national security advisor during which the President would make an unannounced drop-by. Yeltsin was told only that he would meet Brent.

  That afternoon I met Boris Yeltsin at the West Wing basement door. He got out of the car and turned to his aide. “This isn’t the door you go in to see the President,” he said in Russian. Obviously he’d expected to be received at the columned formal entrance to the White House where the Marine guards stand vigil.

  Before the translator could say anything, I replied in Russian that Mr. Yeltsin’s meeting was with General Scowcroft.

  “Who is this man Scowcroft?” Yeltsin barked. “Is he even important enough to meet with me?” Yeltsin, a big man—more than six feet tall and at least 250 pounds—stood there with his arms folded, red-faced and scowling.

  I was furious. “Mr. Yeltsin,” I said, this time in English, “General Scowcroft is a busy man. If you don’t want to keep your appointment, let me know and I’ll cancel it and you can go back to your hotel.”

  He muttered to himself for a few moments, then huffed and said sharply, “Where is he?” Instinctively, I took him by the arm and almost dragged him up to Brent’s office.

  Brent, knowing none of this, greeted him warmly. Yeltsin sat down and launched into a soliloquy on his plans for Russia. Brent, who always worked too hard for his own good, fell asleep. Yeltsin didn’t notice, completely absorbed in his own presentation. About thirty minutes into the meeting, the President flung open the door. Yeltsin smiled broadly, jumped up, and embraced the startled leader of the free world in a bear hug. Then he continued his monologue. After about thirty minutes more he was done. The President left, and I escorted a self-satisfied Yeltsin out to his car.

  My first impressions of the man were obviously not very good. But less than a year later Yeltsin stood bravely atop a tank on a Moscow street and faced down the army and the security services of the Soviet Union. Boris Yeltsin would become the historic if somewhat flawed figure who brought down the Soviet Union and launched democracy in Russia. I was very glad that we had arranged that early meeting—bizarre as it was—with the President of the United States.

  AS EXPECTED, January 1991 brought the outbreak of war with Saddam Hussein. This event dominated the news and the attention of the President and Brent. But I was consumed with simultaneous crises in the Baltic states. Suddenly faced with the prospect of Baltic independence, Gorbachev belatedly tried to crack down. Thirteen people were killed and more than a hundred were wounded when Soviet-backed Lithuanian security forces fired on and drove tanks over protesters at the TV tower in Vilnius, the capital city.

  I went to Brent to discuss the events and what to do. I told him that the President had to make a strong response. Moscow couldn’t be allowed to think that the United States was condoning the Kremlin’s brutality. Each day Marlin had read a statement urging restraint on all sides. We were starting to sound as if we thought there was no difference between the innocent protesters and the goons of the Interior Ministry who were beating them up. I was concerned too that Moscow might decide to launch a full-scale military assault against Lithuania or Latvia.

  Bob Gates agreed with me, and we argued for a statement that would condemn Soviet actions and say that further violence would harm U.S.-Soviet relations. Brent was opposed, worrying about our dependence on Moscow to keep the coalition against Saddam Hussein together. It is often the case that policy makers are faced with competing priorities. Of the two crises, I knew that the impending war against Saddam was the more pressing.

  Nonetheless, we went to the President with two versions of the statement. Standing there in the Oval Office beside the President’s desk, I could see how tired he was. He was about to send American forces into battle. It is the loneliest decision that a President has to make, and it was clearly weighing on this veteran of World War II. The President decided to issue the strong version. “We condemn these acts,” the President told the press, saying that the events “could not help but affect our relationship” with Moscow.

  I had told the President that I did not think the statement would garner much attention and that Moscow had to expect it by now. I was wrong. That night Peter Jennings, Dan Rather, and Tom Brokaw all led the news with the U.S.-Soviet “confrontation,” even as we were preparing to confront Saddam Hussein. Brent was furious, but it was the right thing to do.

  Violence in the Baltics continued to escalate. The next week five people, including a young schoolboy, were killed by members of a Soviet special-forces unit in Latvia. One of the victims, a journalist, was shot in the face outside a Latvian hotel as our consular office described the unfolding chaos to me on the telephone. The carnage took place as more than a hundred thousand people marched outside the Kremlin in opposition to the Soviet crackdowns. In spite of this upheaval, the Soviet Union did not launch a full-scale military invasion of Lithuania and Latvia. I can’t be sure, but I have always thought that the President’s clarity helped to remind Moscow of the costs of doing so. After the events that January, it was increasingly clear that the Baltic states would become independent and that Gorbachev’s days were numbered.

  Fortunately, our pressure on Moscow did not disrupt the Gulf War coalition, wh
ich, led by American military power, successfully expelled Saddam Hussein’s forces from Kuwait. But the war left the Iraqi dictator in power, able to threaten his neighbors and oppress his people. That would be a problem for another day.

  WITH THE war concluded, I decided that I had discharged my duties and could return home. The President sent me a lovely letter recounting the role that I had played. “While the fate of the Soviet Union is still not decided,” he wrote, “you have set us on a course to realize the historic dream of a Europe whole, free and at peace.” I was sad to leave but felt a tremendous sense of completion and accomplishment.

  The day before my departure, First Lady Barbara Bush invited me to join her for tea in the residence. “You are such a good friend of the Bushes,” she said. “This won’t be the last that we see of you.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Back in California

  I RETURNED TO Stanford tired but content. The university was again generous, telling me that I would not be required to teach until the fall quarter. That allowed me time to design my next research project—the one that I would use to make my case for promotion to full professor during the next academic year.

  On the personal side, I decided that I had outgrown my place at 74 Pearce Mitchell, and looked to find a new home. Fortunately, the young couple renting the condo wanted to buy it. Daddy and Clara offered to have me stay with them until I found a new home and renovated it. The transition took a bit longer than I had planned, and I lived with them for five months. I insisted on paying rent because I did not want to take Clara’s generosity for granted. I had a good deal of free time in the months immediately after my return and enjoyed long lunches with Daddy, just catching up and spending time together. I also had the opportunity to become closer to my stepmother, whom I hadn’t known very well when she and Daddy married.

  I didn’t miss Washington or the work in the White House. Even when the coup against Gorbachev took place in August 1991, leading to the eventual collapse of the Soviet Union in December, I didn’t regret my decision to leave. Throughout the spring and summer, I worked again for ABC News as an expert analyst but largely kept my distance from the policy world. I’d done my part and had no desire to try to influence events from afar.

  In fact, new horizons were opening up for me. A few weeks after returning home, I received a call from George Shultz. I had gotten to know George shortly before he went to Washington to become secretary of state in 1982. He had taken an interest in my career and stayed in touch during my time in Washington. George was a director of the Chevron Corporation and wondered if I might be interested in joining the board. Chevron had just acquired a stake in the Tengiz oil field in Kazakhstan, at the time a part of the Soviet Union, and George felt that my expertise would be useful to them. After a day with the CEO, Ken Derr, and his team, I signed on enthusiastically. In retrospect, it was a stretch for the company to appoint a thirty-six-year-old associate professor to a board largely populated by corporate titans. At the time, Chevron named oil tankers for its directors, so in 1993 my entire family and I traveled to Brazil to christen the Condoleezza Rice. Several years later, when I was national security advisor, the company and I agreed that it was not wise to have my name floating into ports around the world, and the tanker was renamed. After the terrorist attacks of September 11, I was awfully glad we had made the change.

  I quickly learned that once you join one corporate board, other opportunities emerge. A month or so later, Frank Herringer, the CEO of Transamerica, invited me to join the board of the insurance and financial services company, headquartered in San Francisco. Then one day my secretary said that David Packard wanted to come and see me. I’d gotten to know David in Republican politics, but he was a giant figure, a founding father of Silicon Valley and one of Stanford’s greatest benefactors. I could not imagine him coming to see me. “Tell Mr. Packard that I’ll come to see him,” I said to Yvonne.

  She returned a few minutes later. “No, he insists on coming to see you.”

  “How are you, Dave?” I asked to break the ice when he entered my office.

  “It’s no fun getting old,” he said. “But as they say, it’s better than the alternative.” I laughed, but he went right to the point. “Hewlett-Packard is a good company. You’re a good person. I want you to be a director of HP. Call me when you decide.” Then he got up and left.

  Dave had a reputation for directness, even abruptness, but this was a remarkable encounter. Usually a prospective director meets with the management and other directors. There is a kind of two-way courtship. Not with Dave. So I called him the next day and said yes.

  Holding down three corporate board positions, I was quickly becoming busier than I had planned to be. Yet when Governor Pete Wilson called to ask if I would serve on a statewide commission to redistrict California, I couldn’t refuse. The commission met every Thursday and Friday in Sacramento. We took testimony from around the state on how to redraw the electoral lines. It was a great experience, and through it, I got to know the state of California intimately.

  Pete’s appointment of me to the commission was the second time we’d encountered each other. We’d first met back in Washington when he was the junior senator from California. He’d been elected governor in November 1990 and had to appoint a successor to serve the remainder of his term in the Senate. President Bush and his chief of staff, John Sununu, urged Pete to appoint me. Many of the northern California power brokers got behind the idea. David Packard told Pete that he’d personally raise the money for my campaign.

  I met Pete in a hotel a few days after his election. Even though I had been careful to avoid press attention, the story of our meeting leaked that morning. I immediately liked the new governor, and we have remained friends over the years. That day we talked about political life, and he asked me if I had the “fire in the belly” to run for office. His successor, he explained, would have to raise money and begin campaigning for 1992 right away. I talked about the issues, particularly education and immigration, but didn’t answer him directly. He asked if I was pro-choice. I said that I did not favor overturning Roe v. Wade but thought some restrictions were wholly appropriate. Our meeting ended amiably but inconclusively.

  Several days later, I read in the Washington Post that Pete had chosen John Seymour, the former mayor of Anaheim and a California state senator, to succeed him. John, Pete believed, could raise money and would be able to mobilize the exceedingly important southern California constituencies. Frankly, I was relieved, if a little annoyed, to have found out in the newspaper. I probably would have accepted the job had he offered. But the truth is, I wasn’t at all sure of the answer to Pete’s question. Over the years I have realized that the answer is no. I don’t have the fire in the belly needed to run for elective office. Nonetheless, many in the party have never let me forget the events of that fall. John Seymour was soundly defeated in the 1992 election by Dianne Feinstein.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Learning Compassion

  ONE OF my surprises upon returning to Palo Alto was just how much my father had established a new life and reputation of his own. Daddy was always a magnet for people, and he’d become a powerful one in Palo Alto. Not only was he active with Stanford’s Public Service Center and Department of Athletics, transforming what was once just a study hall for freshman football players into an academic resource and tutoring center for all Stanford athletes, but he had also become a well-regarded figure in East Palo Alto.

  Not long after I returned home, one of Daddy’s new friends—Charlie Mae Knight, the superintendent of the Ravenswood schools in East Palo Alto—asked if I would deliver the district-wide commencement address. Ravenswood is an elementary and middle school district with no high school. Yet as I sat on the stage, it occurred to me that with extended families having come from all over the Bay Area and beyond to attend the ceremonies, the commencement exercises felt more like a high school graduation.

  “This is an awfully elaborate comm
encement for eighth graders,” I said to Charlie.

  “Well,” she said, “that’s because 70 percent of these kids will never finish high school. This is their last commencement.”

  I was stunned and realized that I knew very little of the poverty and lack of opportunity just a few blocks from my house. I’d served on committees such as the Mid-Peninsula Urban Renewal Authority, but frankly, like most residents of Palo Alto, I avoided any real contact with East Palo Alto and its high crime rate. When I first moved to Palo Alto, I’d occasionally take the wrong exit off Highway 101, deceptively labeled University Avenue. After a few encounters with East Palo Alto’s “Whiskey Gulch,” with its four liquor stores on the corners and a reputation for drive-by shootings, I learned to find the right exit a minute or so down the road.

  That evening, I asked my father to tell me about the challenges for the school district, feeling a little embarrassed that I’d lived in the area for ten years and knew nothing, while my father, who’d moved to Palo Alto only recently, was actively trying to help. He told me about some of his efforts, including refurbishing an athletic field for the district. It seems that it was a constant struggle against the gophers, but he felt he was winning and the kids would soon have a nice place to play. Daddy also told me about what Charlie Mae wanted to do. Ravenswood had had eleven superintendents in ten years and the odds were long, but he was impressed with her toughness and commitment. He was going to be a partner to her and mobilize resources from Stanford to help. “Stanford has been running its own programs and its own agenda in East Palo Alto,” he said. “It’s about time that someone ask the people there what they need.”