Edge of Eternity (119 page)

“Will anything come of the Round Table?” Tanya asked.

Before Danuta could answer, Marek said: “It's a trick. Jaruzelski wants to cripple the opposition by co-opting its leaders, making them part of the Communist government without changing the system. It's his strategy for staying in power.”

Danuta said: “Marek is probably right. But the trick is not going to work. We're demanding independent trade unions, a free press, and real elections.”

Tanya was shocked. “Jaruzelski is actually discussing free elections?” Poland already had phony elections, in which only Communist parties and their allies were allowed to field candidates.

“The talks keep breaking down. But he needs to stop the strikes, so he reconvenes the Round Table, and we demand elections again.”

“What's behind the strikes?” Tanya said. “I mean, fundamentally?”

Marek interrupted again. “You know what people are saying? ‘Forty-five years of Communism, and still there's no toilet paper.' We're poor! Communism doesn't work.”

“Marek is right,” said Danuta again. “A few weeks ago a store here in Warsaw announced that it would be accepting down payments for television sets on the following Monday. It didn't have any TVs, mind you, it was just hoping to get some. People started queuing on the Friday beforehand. By Monday morning there were fifteen thousand people in line—just to put their names on a list!”

Danuta stepped into the kitchen and returned with a fragrant bowl of
zupa ogórkowa,
the sour cucumber soup that Tanya loved. “So what will happen?” Tanya asked as she tucked in. “Will there be real elections?”

“No,” said Marek.

“Maybe,” said Danuta. “The latest proposal is that two-thirds of the seats in parliament should be reserved for the Communist Party, and there should be free elections for the remainder.”

Marek said: “So we would still have phony elections!”

Danuta said: “But this would be better than what we have now! Don't you agree, Tanya?”

“I don't know,” said Tanya.

•   •   •

The spring thaw had not arrived, and Moscow was still under its duvet of snow, when the new Hungarian prime minister came to see Mikhail Gorbachev.

Yevgeny Filipov knew that Miklós Németh was coming, and he buttonholed Dimka outside the leader's office a few minutes before the meeting. “This nonsense must be stopped!” he said.

These days, Filipov was looking increasingly frantic, Dimka
observed. His gray hair was untidy, and he went everywhere in a rush. He was now in his early sixties, and his face was permanently set in the disapproving frown he had worn for so much of his life. His baggy suits and ultra-short haircut were back in fashion: kids in the West called the look retro.

Filipov hated Gorbachev. The Soviet leader stood for everything Filipov had been fighting against all his life: relaxation of rules instead of strict party discipline; individual initiative as opposed to central planning; friendship with the West rather than war against capitalist imperialism. Dimka could almost sympathize with a man who had wasted his days fighting a losing battle.

At least, Dimka hoped it had been a losing battle. The conflict was not over yet.

“What nonsense in particular are we talking about?” Dimka said wearily.

“Independent political parties!” Filipov said as if he were mentioning an atrocity. “The Hungarians have started a dangerous trend. Jaruzelski is now talking about the same thing in Poland. Jaruzelski!”

Dimka understood Filipov's incredulity. It was, indeed, astonishing that the Polish tyrant was now talking of making Solidarity a part of the nation's future, and of allowing political parties to compete in a Western-style election.

And Filipov did not know it all. Dimka's sister, in Warsaw for TASS, was sending him accurate information. Jaruzelski was up against the wall, and Solidarity was adamant. They were not just talking, they were planning an election.

This was what Filipov and the Kremlin conservatives were fighting to prevent.

“These developments are highly dangerous!” Filipov said. “They open the door to counterrevolutionary and revisionist tendencies. What is the point of that?”

“The point is that we no longer have the money to subsidize our satellites—”

“We have no satellites. We have allies.”

“Whatever they are, they're not willing to do what we say if we can't pay for their obedience.”

“We used to have an army to defend Communism—but not anymore.”

There was some truth in that exaggeration. Gorbachev had announced the withdrawal from Eastern Europe of a quarter of a million troops and ten thousand tanks—an essential economy measure, but also a peace gesture. “We can't afford such an army,” said Dimka.

Filipov was so indignant he looked as if he might burst. “Can't you see that you're talking about the end of everything we have worked for since 1917?”

“Khrushchev said it would take us twenty years to catch up with the Americans in wealth and military strength. It's now twenty-eight years, and we're farther behind than we were in 1961 when Khrushchev said it. Yevgeny, what are you fighting to preserve?”

“The Soviet Union! What do you imagine the Americans are thinking, as we run down our army and permit creeping revisionism among our allies? They're laughing up their sleeves! President Bush is a Cold Warrior, intent on overthrowing us. Don't fool yourself.”

“I disagree,” said Dimka. “The more we disarm, the less reason the Americans will have for building up their nuclear stockpile.”

“I hope you're right,” said Filipov. “For all our sakes.” He walked away.

Dimka, too, hoped he was right. Filipov had put his finger on the flaw in Gorbachev's strategy. It relied upon President Bush being reasonable. If the Americans responded to disarmament with reciprocal measures, Gorbachev would be vindicated, and his Kremlin rivals would look foolish. But if Bush failed to respond—or, even worse, increased military spending—then it would be Gorbachev who looked a fool. He would be undermined, and his opponents might seize the opportunity to overthrow him and return to the good old days of superpower confrontation.

Dimka went to Gorbachev's suite of rooms. He was looking forward to meeting Németh. What was happening in Hungary was exciting. Dimka was also eager to find out what Gorbachev would say to Németh.

The Soviet leader was not predictable. He was a lifelong Communist who was nevertheless unwilling to impose Communism on other
countries. His strategy was clear: glasnost and perestroika, openness and restructuring. His tactics were less obvious, and on any particular issue it was hard to know which way he would jump. He kept Dimka on his toes.

Gorbachev was not warm toward Németh. The Hungarian prime minister had asked for an hour and had been offered twenty minutes. It could be a difficult meeting.

Németh arrived with Frederik Bíró, whom Dimka already knew. Gorbachev's secretary immediately took the three of them into the grand office. It was a vast high-ceilinged room with paneled walls painted a creamy yellow. Gorbachev was behind a contemporary black-stained wood desk that stood in a corner. There was nothing on the desk but a phone and a lamp. The visitors sat down on stylish black leather chairs. Everything symbolized modernity.

Németh got down to business with few courtesies. He was about to announce free elections, he said. Free meant free: the result could be a non-Communist government. How would Moscow feel about that?

Gorbachev flushed, and the purple birthmark on his bald dome darkened. “The proper path is to return to the roots of Leninism,” he said.

This did not mean much. Everyone who tried to change the Soviet Union claimed to be returning to the roots of Leninism.

Gorbachev went on: “Communism can find its way again, by going back to the time before Stalin.”

“No, it can't,” said Németh bluntly.

“Only the party can create a just society! This cannot be left to chance.”

“We disagree.” Németh was beginning to look ill. His face was pale and his voice was shaky. He was a cardinal challenging the authority of the Pope. “I must ask you one question very directly,” he said. “If we hold an election and the Communist Party is voted out of power, will the Soviet Union intervene with military force as it did in 1956?”

The room went dead silent. Even Dimka did not know how Gorbachev would respond.

Then Gorbachev said one Russian word: “
Nyet.
” No.

Németh looked like a man whose death sentence has been repealed.

Gorbachev added: “At least, not as long as I'm sitting in this chair.”

Németh laughed. He did not think Gorbachev was in danger of being deposed.

He was wrong. The Kremlin always presented a united front to the world, but it was never as harmonious as it pretended. People had no idea how shaky was Gorbachev's grip. Németh was satisfied to know what Gorbachev's own intentions were, but Dimka knew better.

However, Németh was not finished. He had won from Gorbachev a huge concession—a promise that the USSR would not intervene to prevent the overthrow of Communism in Hungary! Yet now, with surprising audacity, Németh pressed for a further guarantee. “The fence is dilapidated,” he said. “It has to be either renewed or abandoned.”

Dimka knew what Németh was talking about. The border between Communist Hungary and capitalist Austria was secured by a stainless steel electric fence one hundred and fifty miles long. It was naturally very expensive to maintain. To renew the whole thing would cost millions.

Gorbachev said: “If it needs renewing, then renew it.”

“No,” said Németh. He might have been nervous, but he was determined. Dimka admired his guts. “I don't have the money, and I don't need the fence,” Németh went on. “It's a Warsaw Pact installation. If you want it, you should renew it.”

“That isn't going to happen,” said Gorbachev. “The Soviet Union no longer has that kind of money. A decade ago, oil was forty dollars a barrel and we could do anything. Now it's what, nine dollars? We're broke.”

“Let me make sure we understand one another,” said Németh. He was perspiring, and he wiped his face with a handkerchief. “If you do not pay, we will not renew the fence, and it will cease to operate as an effective barrier. People will be able to go to Austria, and we will not stop them.”

There was another pregnant silence. Then at last Gorbachev sighed and said: “So be it.”

That was the end of the meeting. The farewell courtesies were perfunctory. The Hungarians could not get away quickly enough. They had got everything they asked for. They shook hands with Gorbachev
and left the room at a fast walk. It was as if they wanted to get back on the plane before Gorbachev had time to change his mind.

Dimka returned to his own office in a reflective mood. Gorbachev had surprised him twice: first by being unexpectedly hostile to Németh's reforms, and second by offering no real resistance to them.

Would the Hungarians abandon the fence? It was an essential part of the Iron Curtain. If suddenly people were allowed to walk over the border and into the West, that could be a change even more momentous than free elections.

But Filipov and the conservatives had not yet surrendered. They were on the alert for the least sign of weakness in Gorbachev. Dimka did not doubt that they had contingency plans for a coup.

He was looking thoughtfully at the large revolutionary picture on his office wall when Natalya called. “You know what a Lance missile is, don't you?” she said without preamble.

“A short-range surface-to-surface tactical nuclear weapon,” he replied. “The Americans have about seven hundred in Germany. Fortunately their range is only about seventy-five miles.”

“Not any longer,” she said. “President Bush wants to upgrade them. The new ones will fly two hundred eighty miles.”

“Hell.” This was what Dimka feared and Filipov had predicted. “But this is illogical. It's not that long ago that Reagan and Gorbachev
withdrew
intermediate-range ballistic missiles.”

“Bush thinks Reagan went too far with disarmament.”

“How definite is this plan?”

“Bush has surrounded himself with Cold War hawks, according to the KGB station in Washington. Defense Secretary Cheney is gung ho. So is Scowcroft.” Brent Scowcroft was the national security adviser. “And there's a woman called Condoleezza Rice who is just as bad.”

Dimka despaired. “Filipov is going to say: ‘I told you so.'”

“Filipov and others. It's a dangerous development for Gorbachev.”

“What's the Americans' timetable?”

“They're going to put pressure on the West Europeans at the NATO meeting in May.”

“Shit,” said Dimka. “Now we're in trouble.”

•   •   •

Rebecca Held was at her apartment in Hamburg, late in the evening, working, with papers spread over the round table in the kitchen. On the counter were a dirty coffee cup and a plate with the crumbs of the ham sandwich she had eaten for supper. She had taken off her smart working clothes, removed her makeup, showered, and put on baggy old underwear and an ancient silk wrap.

She was preparing for her first visit to the United States. She was going with her boss, Hans-Dietrich Genscher, who was vice chancellor of Germany, foreign minister, and head of the Free Democratic Party, to which she belonged. Their mission was to explain to the Americans why they did not want any more nuclear weapons. The Soviet Union was becoming less threatening under Gorbachev. Upgraded nukes were not merely unnecessary: they might actually be counterproductive, undermining Gorbachev's peace moves and strengthening the hand of hawks in Moscow.

She was reading a German intelligence appraisal of the power struggle in the Kremlin when the doorbell rang.