The Kennedy Half-Century (23 page)

The crisis was far from over, however, and could not end while Soviet
missiles remained in Cuba. On Thursday afternoon at the U.N., Adlai Stevenson ripped into the Soviet ambassador: “Do you, Ambassador Zorin, deny that the USSR has placed and is placing medium- and intermediate-range missiles and sites in Cuba? Yes or no? Do not wait for the translation. Yes or no?” When the Russian replied that he was not in an American courtroom and would answer in due course, Stevenson said, “You are in the courtroom of world opinion right now,” and added that he was prepared to wait for Zorin’s answer “until hell freezes over.” Kennedy, watching the drama unfold on television, appreciated Stevenson’s rhetorical flourish. “Too bad he didn’t show some of this steam in the 1956 campaign,” he chuckled.
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On Friday, October 26, a group of elite policymakers drawn from the National Security Council decided to recall three of the team’s saboteurs that were already on their way to Cuba as part of Operation Mongoose’s effort to topple Castro. Adding chaos to crisis was unwise, they reasoned. That same day, the State Department received a letter from Khrushchev addressed to the president. The informal tone convinced Llewellyn Thompson, the U.S. ambassador to Russia, that the chairman had written it without any input from his advisers. Worried about the prospect of a nuclear war, Khrushchev offered to withdraw the missiles in exchange for a U.S. pledge not to invade Cuba. He sent a similar message through Aleksandr Fomin, the KGB station chief in Washington.
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Kennedy remained appropriately skeptical, given the earlier duplicity by the Soviet regime. His suspicions hardened the next day when the Soviets released a second statement, adding a new condition for peace: the withdrawal of American missiles in Turkey. The members of Ex Comm were uncertain about the proper response, but Robert Kennedy suggested that they simply ignore the second statement and respond to Khrushchev’s original letter. JFK liked the idea and ordered Sorensen to draft a reply. He also dispatched his brother to meet with Anatoly Dobrynin, the Soviet ambassador to the United States. At the same time, Kennedy was coming under increased pressure from his military advisers to launch an attack. At four P.M. he learned that a Soviet surface-to-air missile had killed a U-2 pilot, Major Rudolf Anderson, overflying Cuba earlier that day. The Joint Chiefs demanded an eye for an eye, but the president refused. Khrushchev needed time to mull over his proposal, and a military response of any kind might short-circuit the only real chance to avert nuclear war. Moreover, the Bay of Pigs crisis had taught Kennedy that his generals could be very wrong.
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At 7:45 P.M., Robert Kennedy received Ambassador Dobrynin in his office
at the Justice Department. “I want to lay out the current alarming situation the way the president sees it,” the attorney general explained. The downing of the U-2 plane meant that there was “now strong pressure on the president to give an order to respond with fire if fired upon” that could easily spark a “chain reaction.”
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RFK then summarized the main points of the president’s response to Khrushchev’s October 26 letter: if the Soviets dismantled their missiles, the United States would lift its embargo and promise not to invade Cuba. When Dobrynin asked about the missiles in Turkey, RFK assured him that the issue was negotiable, although the president could not publicly announce any such deal for fear of undermining the NATO alliance. Instead, President Kennedy would order the dismantling of the missiles in a few months, after the crisis had passed.
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When Khrushchev learned about the meeting, he wasted no time in accepting Kennedy’s terms. The Soviet leader further ordered an immediate radio broadcast of his decision so the news would be received and confirmed by Washington before events could spiral further out of control on either side. JFK was inclined to believe the crisis was over but some of his military advisers disagreed. They were convinced that the Soviets were employing a clever delaying tactic and urged the president to attack. Yet after the Bay of Pigs, Kennedy had learned caution—that discretion truly was the better part of valor. In a nod to their concerns, though, the president promised he would maintain the Cuban quarantine until all of the missiles were removed.
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Negotiations with the Soviets continued over the next few weeks about nagging details. Washington wanted Moscow to remove its IL-28 airplanes, which had the capability to drop nuclear bombs on American cities; allow on-site verification of the dismantling process; and provide safeguards against the reintroduction of offensive weapons. The Kremlin balked at first, insisting that it had already fulfilled its bargain, but eventually conceded on all points. In response, Kennedy was able to announce an end to the quarantine on November 20, 1962.
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Although decades have elapsed since the Cuban Missile Crisis, it continues to fascinate—and haunt—us. Without question, it was the most perilous moment of the Cold War, and, one could argue further, the most dangerous moment in the history of mankind. A nuclear exchange with Russia would have made the carnage of Hiroshima and Nagasaki appear minor. Fifty years on, what lessons should we draw? Perhaps above all, governments should remember that peace can be achieved even when hope for peace appears forlorn. Shrewd leaders must understand, as Kennedy did, how to combine the threat of military force with face-saving diplomatic options that rational regimes (where they exist) will normally prefer to their own destruction. Military options usually are enticing because they offer the promise of quick
and total victory, yet the promise often turns out to be an illusion. In the case of Cuba, the president’s generals preferred to destroy the missile sites, which would have solved the immediate threat while creating a far greater one—all-out war. President Kennedy’s intelligence, patience, and probing questions during the crisis validated the wisdom of the Founders’ decision to put military leaders under civilian control. A less thoughtful or cautious commander in chief might have given in to his generals’ pleadings. Kennedy’s wisdom and sober judgment in October 1962 have justifiably been praised by historians, and this was probably his finest moment as president. The costly lessons learned at the Bay of Pigs paid off for the president and the world.

Not incidentally, the harrowing events of “the missiles of October” prodded President Kennedy to reevaluate his policies. Could some longer-term good come from this near-death experience? Was common ground between East and West more possible than he had yet conceded? Might the United States and the Soviet Union work together to limit the proliferation of nuclear weapons? As we will see, Kennedy would emphasize these themes in his final year in the White House.

In the meantime, Kennedy had a different kind of confrontation at home to manage. In June 1962, the U.S. Fifth Circuit Court of Appeals ordered the University of Mississippi to admit James Meredith, a black Air Force veteran who believed that God had chosen him to challenge the state’s segregation laws.
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Mississippi governor Ross Barnett, a Democrat, rejected the federal court’s order and told his constituents that he “would not surrender to the evil and illegal forces of tyranny.” The Kennedys, embracing their constitutional responsibilities, urged Barnett to obey the law. But the governor proved to be stubborn; he knew that racial integration was the third rail of Mississippi politics and that if he bowed to Washington’s will, his constituents would punish him and his party at the polls. Instead of complying with the court’s order, Barnett physically blocked Meredith from registering while giving a states’ rights oration explaining his resistance.

The Kennedys made several attempts to negotiate with the governor and thought that they had found a reasonable solution: If Barnett maintained law and order, they would keep their troops on the sidelines. But the brothers knew better than to fully trust the governor and took additional safety precautions. Following established law, President Kennedy seized control of the Mississippi National Guard and dispatched federal marshals to protect Meredith. He also went on television to remind Americans that the United States was “founded on the principle that observance of the law is the eternal safeguard of liberty and defiance of the law is the surest road to tyranny.” At the same time, Kennedy attempted to console white Southerners, most of whom were fellow Democrats. “I recognize that the present period of transition and
adjustment in our nation’s Southland is a hard one for many people,” he said. “Neither Mississippi nor any other Southern state deserves to be charged with all the accumulated wrongs of the last one hundred years of race relations. To the extent that there has been failure, the responsibility for that failure must be shared by us all, by every state, by every citizen.” He went on to remind Mississippians of their accomplishments “on the field of battle and on the gridiron” and urged calm. “The eyes of the nation and of all the world are upon you and upon all of us,” said the president. “And the honor of your university and state are in the balance. I am certain that the great majority of the students will uphold that honor.”
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Alas and inevitably, many did not, and on the evening of September 30, 1962, Mississippi’s campus became a war zone. An enraged mob of thousands hurled bricks and bottles at Meredith’s dormitory while angry shouts and gunshots echoed through the humid night. Governor Barnett withdrew his state troopers and let the federal marshals fend for themselves. Two people died and hundreds of others were injured, including twenty-seven marshals who suffered bullet wounds. Kennedy finally ordered federal troops to the scene, though they arrived too late to repel the initial waves of violence. It certainly had not unfolded the way the president and attorney general had envisioned, and they were criticized—and were critical of themselves—for poor planning.

James Meredith blamed “the lack of clear authority” in Washington for the fiasco. But he also remained optimistic that the civil rights movement would ultimately triumph. A year after the riot, having finished his degree, Meredith waxed optimistic in a letter addressed to the attorney general. “Today regardless of all other considerations, I am a graduate of the University of Mississippi. For this I am proud of my country—the United States of America.” He was also proud of the marshals who had risked their lives for his safety. “If I had no other measure by which to evaluate the trend of the American mind than the United States marshals with which I came in contact during my stay at the University of Mississippi, I would be very much encouraged. The marshals, many of whom were Southerners themselves, in addition to their security duties, were a constant reminder to me that white Americans could and would respect the rights of other Americans.”
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The Kennedys weren’t as optimistic as Meredith about race relations. By the fall of 1962, they were worried about pushing too hard and fast on civil rights, and the bloodshed in Oxford had shown them what might happen if they did.
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President Kennedy refused to ask Congress for a strong civil rights bill and waited until the midterm elections were safely behind him before signing an executive order banning discrimination in federally funded housing—a promise he had made long ago. Civil rights leaders were growing
restless and angry: why was the president dragging his feet when the movement was at a critical moment? After all, Kennedy possessed a great deal of political capital in 1962. His handling of the Cuban Missile Crisis in October had pushed his approval ratings much higher (74 percent job approval according to the Gallup poll) and allowed Democrats to gain seats in the Senate while losing only four seats in the House in November. This was a far better showing than the president’s party usually posted in midterm elections.
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Instead of putting the full power of the White House behind comprehensive civil rights legislation, though, Kennedy opted for a piecemeal voting rights bill, which he introduced in February 1963. Mainly, the bill declared that a sixth grade education would be sufficient, in and of itself, to prove literacy, so that anyone with this level of schooling could avoid the infamous Southern registrar’s trick of requiring blacks to read aloud and interpret the Constitution before they could be enrolled as voters. As disappointing as the president’s proposal was to civil rights activists, in Kennedy’s mind the country was not ready for an omnibus bill. The Kennedy administration certainly wasn’t ready, and the president told an aide that the conservatives on Capitol Hill would “piss all over” him if he pressed too hard on civil rights. Kennedy also continued to appoint segregationist judges and refused a request from the Civil Rights Commission to withhold federal funds from Mississippi until the state complied with court orders.

The president’s timidity irked Martin Luther King, Jr. In the early spring of 1963, King published an article in
The Nation
containing a number of tough criticisms of Kennedy. “The Administration sought to demonstrate to Negroes that it has concern for them,” he explained, “while at the same time it has striven to avoid inflaming the opposition. The most cynical view holds that it wants the votes of both and is paralyzed by the conflicting needs of each.” Unwilling to wait for Kennedy to initiate civil rights action, King made plans to provoke an incident in Birmingham, Alabama, often termed the most segregated city in America. In April, King and colleagues held mass meetings and demonstrations in the streets and boycotted the city’s businesses. When an Alabama court issued an injunction against the protests, King ignored the order and was promptly arrested. His famous “Letter from a Birmingham Jail,” which was written to white clergy who were uncomfortable with his tactics, could just as easily have been addressed to John F. Kennedy. “I must confess that over the past few years I have been gravely disappointed with the white moderate,” King wrote. “I have almost reached the regrettable conclusion that the Negro’s great stumbling block in his stride toward freedom is not the White Citizen’s Counciler or the Ku Klux Klanner, but the white moderate, who is more devoted to ‘order’ than to justice.” JFK had been stressing law and order for over two years, and urged blacks to take their
grievances to court, not to the streets. But Kennedy’s cautious pragmatism, which had served him well in many respects, did not mesh with the spirit of the civil rights movement. African Americans wanted major changes right away; they were unwilling to sit in the back of the bus any longer.
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