Like any Prime Minister, he talked mostly in predictable clichés. There would be hard times ahead, but the country would emerge stronger in the long run. And yadda yadda yadda, thought Jasper. He needed something better than this.
He asked whether the new political ‘clubs’ could ever become free political parties.
Németh gave Jasper a hard, direct look, and said in a firm, clear voice: ‘That is one of our greatest ambitions.’
Jasper concealed his astonishment. No Iron Curtain country had ever had independent political parties. Did Németh really mean it?
Jasper asked whether the Communist Party would ever give up its ‘leading role’ in Hungarian society.
Németh gave him that look again. ‘In two years I could imagine that the head of government might not be a Politburo member,’ he said.
Jasper had to stop himself saying
Jesus Christ!
He was on a roll, and it was time for the big one. ‘Might the Soviets intervene to stop these changes, as they did in 1956?’
Németh gave him the look for the third time. ‘Gorbachev has taken the lid off a boiling pot,’ he said, slowly and distinctly. Then he added: ‘The steam may be painful, but change is irreversible.’
And Jasper knew he had his first great story from Europe.
* * *
A few days later he watched a videotape of his report as it had appeared on American television. Rebecca sat beside him, a poised, confident woman in her fifties, friendly but with an air of authority. ‘Yes, I think Németh means every word,’ she said in answer to Jasper’s question.
Jasper had ended the report speaking to camera in front of the parliament building, with snowflakes landing in his hair. ‘The ground is frozen hard here in this Eastern European country,’ he said on the screen. ‘But, as always, the seeds of spring are stirring underground. Clearly the Hungarian people want change. But will their Moscow overlords permit it? Miklós Németh believes there is a new mood of tolerance in the Kremlin. Only time will tell whether he is right.’
That had been Jasper’s sign-off, but now to his surprise he saw that another clip had been added to his piece. A spokesman for James Baker, secretary of state to newly inaugurated President George H. W. Bush, spoke to an invisible interviewer. ‘Signs of softening in Communist attitudes are not to be trusted,’ the spokesman said. ‘The Soviets are attempting to lull the United States into a false sense of security. There is no reason to doubt the Kremlin’s willingness to intervene in Eastern Europe the minute they feel threatened. The urgent necessity now is to underscore the credibility of NATO’s nuclear deterrent.’
‘Good God,’ said Rebecca. ‘What planet are they on?’
* * *
Tania Dvorkin returned to Warsaw in February 1989.
She was sorry to leave Vasili on his own in Moscow, mainly because she would miss him, but also because she still nursed a faint anxiety that he would fill the apartment with nubile teenagers. She did not really believe it would happen. Those days were over. All the same, the worry nagged at her a little.
However, Warsaw was a great assignment. Poland was in a ferment. Solidarity had somehow risen from its grave. Amazingly, General Jaruzelski – the dictator who had cracked down on freedom only seven years previously, breaking every promise and stamping on the independent trade union – had in desperation agreed to round-table talks with opposition groups.
In Tania’s opinion, Jaruzelski had not changed – the Kremlin had. Jaruzelski was the same old tyrant, but he was no longer confident of Soviet support. According to Dimka, Jaruzelski had been told that Poland must solve its own problems, without help from Moscow. When Mikhail Gorbachev first said this, Jaruzelski had not believed it. None of the East European leaders had. But that had been three years ago, and at last the message was beginning to sink in.
Tania did not know what would happen. No one did. Never in her life had she heard so much talk of change, liberalization, and freedom. But the Communists were still in control in the Soviet bloc. Was the day coming nearer when she and Vasili could reveal their secret, and tell the world the true identity of the author Ivan Kuznetsov? In the past such hopes had always ended up crushed beneath the caterpillar tracks of Soviet tanks.
As soon as Tania arrived in Warsaw, she was invited to dinner at the apartment of Danuta Gorski.
Standing at the door, ringing the bell, she remembered the last time she had seen Danuta, being dragged out of this very apartment by the brutish ZOMO security police in their camouflage uniforms, on the night seven years ago when Jaruzelski had declared martial law.
Now Danuta opened the door, grinning broadly, all teeth and hair. She hugged Tania, then led her into the dining room of the small apartment. Her husband Marek was opening a bottle of Hungarian Riesling, and there was a plate of snack-sized sausages on the table with a small dish of mustard.
‘I was in jail for eighteen months,’ Danuta said. ‘I think they let me out because I was radicalizing the other inmates.’ She laughed, throwing back her head.
Tania admired her guts. If I were a lesbian, I could fall for Danuta, she thought. All the men Tania had loved had been courageous.
‘Now I’m part of this Round Table,’ Danuta went on. ‘Every day, all day.’
‘It is really a round table?’
‘Yes, a huge one. The theory is that no one is in charge. But, in practice, Lech Wałȩsa chairs the meetings.’
Tania marvelled. An uneducated electrician was dominating the debate on the future of Poland. This kind of thing had been the dream of her grandfather, the Bolshevik factory worker Grigori Peshkov. Yet Wałȩsa was the anti-Communist. In a way she was glad Grandfather Grigori had not lived to see this irony. It might have broken his heart.
‘Will anything come of the Round Table?’ Tania 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.’
Tania was shocked. ‘Jaruzelski is actually discussing free elections?’ Poland already had phoney 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?’ Tania 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
, a sour cucumber soup that Tania loved. ‘So what will happen?’ Tania 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 phoney elections!’
Danuta said: ‘But this would be better than what we have now. Don’t you agree, Tania?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Tania.
* * *
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 grey 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 counter-revolutionary 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 any more.’
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 towards 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 panelled 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.