Zhukov made a few notes, photographed by Muratov’s eyes, and saw the faces in Wenceslas Square.
The American delegate, tough with grey wavy hair, took up arms. ‘The situation the world faces tonight is an affront to all civilized sensibilities. Foreign Armies have without warning invaded a member state of the United Nations. If the Security Council does not seize itself of this gross violation of the Charter and deal with it promptly and incisively, its vitality and integrity, its very seriousness of purpose, will be subject to serious question …’
The American pressed home the attack, accusing the Russians of inventing the request from the Czechs for military help. ‘We all know that this claim is a fraud, an inept and obvious fraud.’ And he pointed out that when the Soviet Politburo met the Czechs at Bratislava it was those Czechs who were recognized as their country’s leaders.
Hungary interrupted on a point of order. Over-ruled.
Zhukov thought: If only we can produce evidence of a cry for help from the Czechs.
Russia stopped America, supporting Hungary’s point of order. And tossed in Vietnam and the Middle East.
The United States representative swept on, fuelled by outrage. He charged that most, if not all, the Czech leaders who shared in the Bratislava communiqué affirming ‘unbreakable friendship’ were now under detention. ‘Did those leaders request that their country be attacked and overrun by foreign troops?’
He read a statement issued by Radio Prague, the official Government station, that Zhukov had not heard. ‘This (the invasion) happened without the knowledge of the President of the Republic, the Chairman of the National Assembly, the Premier or the First Secretary of the Czechoslovak Communist Party Central Committee.’ Also a demand from the Czech Foreign Ministry to the Soviet Embassy there that all troops be withdrawn.
The demand, said the United States representative, was ‘a brave act which all free men must applaud.’
But did anyone applaud or condemn on the river beaches of Moscow? Or on the shores of Lake Baikal? Or among the ripening orchards of Alma-Ata? Not if they neither read nor heard it, Zhukov thought. Would I have known in my unenlightened post at the Foreign Ministry? Or in the cossetted cubicles of my home?
The American delegate read a declaration from the Czech Mission calling for the release of Svoboda, Cernik, Dubcek and the others, and the withdrawal of troops. ‘Working people, citizens. Remain at your working places and protect your enterprises. For further development of Socialism in Czechoslovakia make use of all democratic means. If necessary you will be able to defend yourself also by a general strike. We are confident that we will overcome these serious moments with pride and character.’
Zhukov nodded. Yes, all that mattered was the cause of Socialism. The calls of the Czechs had some of the tone of the Bolsheviks; although already they were touched with brave hopelessness. A general strike against tanks. A dimpled baby’s fist against a bruiser’s knuckles.
Muratov, his fingers stroking the black down on his cheeks, said, ‘Such feeble accusations. Such blatant falsehoods.’
Zhukov wondered if Muratov really believed that. Believed that the appointed representatives and leaders of Czechoslovakia were making it all up.
‘I noticed you nodding, Comrade Zhukov,’ Muratov said. ‘I suppose you were amused at the American’s nonsense.’
Zhukov didn’t reply. If only the Russian delegate could produce some evidence of any request for help. If he failed then Soviet integrity was humiliated.
Said the American, ‘In Czechoslovakia tonight the dark and ugly visage of the Soviet intention has been sharply revealed. It is the intention to destroy, to sap, to deter free debate, to prevent Mankind from uttering or facing the truth. I know that the responsible governments represented around this council table will never be a party to such a shoddy business.’
Then Canada had her say. And Britain, whose representative, a peer of the realm, an articulate country squire of a man, read his Government’s statement. ‘This is a tragedy not only for Czechoslovakia but for Europe and for the whole world. It is a serious blow to the efforts which so many countries have been making to improve relations between East and West.’
Then the peer turned on the Russian delegate. ‘All of us must have felt a sense of compassion for the man who has today endeavoured to carry out such an unworthy task. We can picture his distaste, indeed his disgust, at having to defend such a disgraceful act. No wonder that in doing so he carried so little conviction.’
You couldn’t beat the British, Zhukov thought, when it came to the stiletto. A caress on the underbelly with refined Westminster steel, leaving a widening slit of blood.
Zhukov felt sorry for his compatriot. What could he say? What would I say? How much did he believe? How many lies are justified in the cause of Socialism. He noted, with pleasure, that the Russian delegate at the horseshoe table smiled at the Englishman’s proffered sympathy.
Then Denmark had a say.
Then Russia again, still warding off the debate. ‘Attempting to deny the right of the Socialist countries to give assistance to fraternal Socialist States, or their friends, to the peoples of Socialist countries, is an old method of the imperialists, the goal of which is to shatter the unity and cohesion of the Socialist countries and to look for cracks in order to do so.’
A whiff of Pravda, Izvestia and Tass.
The Soviet uncle talked on, and on.
Sentence by sentence, it came to Vladimir Zhukov that, whatever the outcome on this point, nothing would be achieved by the Security Council of the United Nations. Just words, angry words, demands, notes, protests, damnations. But they would do nothing: there was nothing they could do. Once again the people of Czechoslovakia would be sacrificed while their protectors snapped and protested with futile eloquence.
The Russian announced that he wouldn’t insist on a vote. The President ruled that a vote there should be. Thirteen for, two against—Russia and Hungary.
Then the President invited a Czech representative to the table. Vladimir Zhukov, the Russian, the enemy, listened, hunched forward, fists balled and sweating. The Czech read a message from the Presidium of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of Czechoslovakia:
‘On 20 August, around 11 p.m., the troops of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, Polish People’s Republic, Hungarian People’s Republic, Bulgarian People’s Republic and German Democratic Republic crossed the State border of the Czechoslovak Socialist Republic. This happened without the knowledge of the President of the Republic, the Chairman of the National Assembly, the Prime Minister, the First Secretary of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of Czechoslovakia, or those organs.’
Zhukov touched Muratov’s arm. ‘I must go and telephone the ambassador in Washington.’
‘Very well, although I’m sure that the mission …’
‘I have my orders,’ Zhukov said. ‘Please make notes for me.’
‘Are you calling the ambassador direct?’
‘What other way?’
Muratov expressed awe in some Scandinavian tongue.
But Zhukov didn’t go straight to the phone. He walked into the hot street, dust like baking powder on the sidewalks, and bought another paper. The Soviets had dropped leaflets on Prague, set up a puppet newspaper.
He dropped the paper in the road and a shuffling old man, his face creased in all the wrong places, said, ‘You dropped somethin’, mister.’
‘I don’t want it.’
The old man picked it up to resell for a nickel.
Zhukov returned to the international gardens of the United Nations and watched the tugs. They hate us. Sparrows at his feet. We who spent our youth fighting the tyrant Nazi. (There, in those spilled years of young manhood, was the foundation-stone of his naïveté.) A helicopter buzzing the East River, looking cockeyed at a couple of junior skyscrapers, symbolized tyranny. But just the same a red-scarved ideal hung in the background of his youth—maybe a little tattered—but fluttering j
ust the same, like the wings of a scorched insect.
Blood must always be spilled, the lecturer had said, in the surgery of mankind.
Behind the hedge of flags they wrangled on. Czechoslovakia still on his feet probably. What would happen to the poor bastard when the Russians put their men back in power in the interests of unity? He could always defect, Zhukov mused. Unless, like Vladimir Zhukov, he considered defection to be an act of cowardice.
Then again you had to analyse cowardice. Only brave men could be public cowards.
And sitting there, between the isolationist tugs and automobiles, Vladimir Zhukov actually considered defection.
Considered it as a possibility, nothing more. An improbability, perhaps. But, by its very improbability, conceding possibility.
But not for any of the reasons that patronizing Capitalists speculated that poor Communists standing in line for ball-point pens might seek the paradise of political asylum. Not for the 5th Avenues of plenty, not for the vacuums emptied for free-enterprise, not even for the free-speech that allowed you to call the President a shit without having the tongue of your soul cut out.
No, you contemplated—contemplated was too strong—you considered, explored, nudged, the possibility of defection because of what you suddenly perceived about your own country, about your own system, from a distance.
Because you saw yourself as the enemy you had once fought.
He left the sparrows and the tugs, the helicopter wheeling exhibitionistically, and went into the bar of the United Nations where they dispensed international drinks. He ordered a Stolichnaya and drank it in one gulp, followed by a glass of iced water, beside a group of sombre East Europeans and an Arab being coaxed, not for the first time, into having a Scotch. A few journalists with distant deadlines stood at the bar waiting for the story to develop.
Zhukov considered another vodka, then rejected it. The barman who enjoyed dispensing patriotic drinks looked disappointed. But with the Russians you never could tell …
Zhukov went to the phone and called Washington.
‘Yes?’ said the ambassador.
‘The debate is going ahead,’ Zhukov said. ‘By thirteen votes to two.’
‘No surprises there,’ said the ambassador.
‘Had you already heard?’
‘Yes,’ said the ambassador. ‘But don’t let that worry you.’
A good, avuncular man.
‘The Czechoslovakian representative is talking,’ Zhukov said. ‘He has read a statement from the Presidium of the Central Committee of the Party in Czechoslovakia claiming that we crossed his country’s borders without the knowledge of the president, the chairman, the prime minister, the first secretary …’
‘Again, no surprises.’
‘No surprises?’
‘No surprises,’ the melodious voice advised him.
‘Then I will return to the Security Council and prepare further reports.’
‘Very well,’ Zuvorin said. And, a little more hesitantly, ‘Is everything else in order, Comrade Zhukov?’
‘Yes thank you, sir.’ As far as he knew because he hadn’t been looking for pursuit.
Back at the bar he ordered one more Stolichnaya and stood, hands on the bar, contemplating it.
An Australian journalist moved in. ‘Excuse me, but you’re with the Russian team, aren’t you?’
A forceful young man with black curly hair, a pink shirt and a voice rasped by the Bondi Beach surf.
‘I am a Russian,’ Zhukov said.
‘Would you like a drink, sir?’
Zhukov grinned despite it all. Sir instead of shit. He thought this young Australian was probably very competent. He thought he was the sort of young man he might like to go out and get drunk with. ‘No thank you—I have one here.’
‘But you’re not from the Soviet Mission in New York are you, sir?’
‘Where are you from?’ Zhukov asked.
‘Melbourne. What do you think, sir, of the Soviet presence in Czechoslovakia?’
Presence. A nice word. ‘You should be a diplomat, young man.’
Rebuff was no stranger to the Australian. ‘But what do you think?’
‘I think that one day you will become editor of your newspaper.’
He returned to the Security Council where the American delegate was comparing the Soviet presence in Czechoslovakia with the German presence. The presence which Zhukov had helped to remove.
‘… Thus Czechoslovakia, wedged between more powerful states, has been the victim of two foreign tyrannies in succession: first that of Hitler and then that of the Soviet Union. Hitler’s oppression, savage though it was, lasted for the comparatively brief span of seven years and ended with the downfall of the tyrant himself. But the Soviet tyranny that followed has lasted from 1948 to the present, for twenty years. And in this year 1968 when at last the national spirit of the Czechoslovak people began to flame anew, the world waited through anxious weeks to see whether these few modest manifestations of freedom could be accepted by Moscow and its client states.
‘Now we know the answer, which was written not in words but in the streets of Prague by the treads of Soviet tanks for all the world to read …
‘The question before us tonight is a vital one that has haunted mankind through the ages: Will the relations between men and nations be governed by the rule of main force and of rigid ideological conformity, or will they be governed by rules of fair play and tolerance which find their highest expression in the Charter of the United Nations?’
The words poured out while in the streets of Prague the guns snouted.
God knows how long the Russian talked for. Or how he kept it up. History, politics, polemics, Vietnam, the Middle East, a spasm of irritation over the American member’s comments on the Russian predilection for the word imperialism. ‘It is to be found in every language in the world, and I believe that there are over 2,800 languages, according to the linguists, and imperialism is always imperialism, and the peoples of the world all abhor American imperialism whether or not the American representative likes it.’
Muratov nudged Zhukov. ‘He is quite right. Such knowledge.’ He rubbed the hair on his cheekbones as if his fingertips were erasers.
‘It doesn’t seem to have a lot to do with Czechoslovakia,’ Zhukov observed.
‘It was the American representative who raised it.’
‘I suppose so.’
The Russian delegate produced a document from the ‘lawful legitimate authorities’ in Czechoslovakia. An appeal for assistance from the Warsaw Pact allies. Again Zhukov leaned forward, hoping for the justification for everything.
The authors of the long document accepted responsibility for ‘rallying all patriotic forces in the name of our Socialist future and our homeland’ and urged all Czechs to support the military units of the allies.’
But, Zhukov thought, who are the authors?
‘We appeal to all of you from Sumava to the Cierna Nad Tisov, from Karkonoszeto to the Danube, to understand the greatness and seriousness of these days … we ask that you be aware of your responsibility, that you keep confidence and be united in the future. Our guiding lines will continue to be foresight, order, progress, truth and Socialism, national sovereignty and solidarity. Long live and flourish the democratic, Socialist Czechoslovakian group of the Central Committee of the Communist Party and Government and National Assembly, which have addressed an appeal for assistance to Socialist countries.’
The Soviet delegate said, ‘This is the appeal which caused us to heed it and to come to the assistance of Czechoslovakia and its armed forces …’
But who the hell wrote it?
‘There,’ Muratov whispered, ‘at last the Imperialists have had their answer.’
‘Have you watched television lately?’ Zhukov asked.
‘I do not waste my time with propaganda, Comrade Zhukov.’
The Soviet delegate talked on involving the Wall Street Journal, a Congressman from Florida, Assistant Secretar
y-of-State Eugene Rostow, Senator Walter Mundale of Minnesota, German Foreign Minister Willi Brandt, Napoleon, Hitler, Truman and Churchill.
‘Too much blood,’ he proclaimed, ‘too many heavy losses, too many victims—twenty million Soviet citizens—were sacrificed in Eastern Europe during the second world war against German Fascism for us to remain passive when confronted with the attempts of the Imperialist revenge-seekers to carve anew the borders of post-war Europe.’
I fought, Zhukov thought. And, from the surprise on Muratov’s face, realized that he had spoken his thought.
The American was speaking. He had just been handed a copy of a Radio Prague broadcast claiming that the Soviet military commander in Prague had issued an order that anyone seen on the streets at night would be shot. Said the American member: ‘Now that is one way to bring about tranquillity, because if this order is carried out faithfully it is quite certain that a number of very unfortunate Czechs are likely to become very tranquil indeed because they will be dead.’
The Security Council resolution expressing concern over the dangers of ‘violence and reprisals’ and the ‘threats to human rights’ called for immediate withdrawal of troops and a halt to ‘all other forms of intervention in Czechoslovakian internal affairs’.
During the debate on the resolution the American delegate said the world was disgusted by the Russian assertion that the invasion was merely ‘fraternal assistance’. And, scoffing, cited opposition to the occupation from imperialists such as Indira Gandhi, Pope Paul VI, Ceausescu, Tito and Julius Nyerere.
The resolution was carried by ten votes to the inevitable two (Russia and Hungary) with three abstentions.
The futility of it all was finally emphasized by the Soviet Union which exercised its 105th veto.
Zhukov reported back to the ambassador in Washington. But he sensed that Zuvorin was bored with such an inevitability and more concerned with the breakdown in his relations with the President: two men seeking autumnal grandeur for the history books.
The Red House Page 26