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 The Wall Street Journal <http://s.wsj.net/img/wsj_print.gif> 

BOOKSHELF

MAY 28, 2011


When Kennedy Blinked 


 


By CHARLES MCCARRY 


Readers skeptical of the Camelot myth may experience twinges of schadenfreude 
while reading this meticulously researched, elegantly written account of John 
F. Kennedy's mortifying encounters with the Soviet Union's Nikita Khrushchev 
during the first year of his presidency. Others, on coming to the end of 
Frederick Kempe's molecule-by-molecule deconstruction of the Kennedy reputation 
for toughness, vigor, smarts and unshakable cool, are more likely to breathe a 
sigh of relief that civilization somehow survived the confrontation. 

"Berlin 1961" revolves around the question of whether Kennedy's decision to 
countenance the erection of the Berlin Wall was, in Mr. Kempe's words, "a 
successful means of avoiding war, or . . . the unhappy result of his missing 
backbone." On those terms, the book is a scholarly history of the crisis that 
culminated on Aug. 13, 1961, when East Germany, convinced that its economic and 
political survival depended on stopping the hemorrhage of refugees to the West, 
cut the city in two with the Berlin Wall, thereby imprisoning its people for 
the next 26 years. Since 1945, 2.8 million, or one in every six East Germans, 
had fled their benighted country.

View Full Image

 BERLIN 
<http://si.wsj.net/public/resources/images/RV-AC976_BERLIN_D_20110527012911.jpg>
 

Time Life Pictures/Getty Images 

President Kennedy looks over the wall from a platform in 1963. 

On another level, the book is a richly detailed study of a primal scuffle for 
supremacy between Kennedy and Soviet leader Nikita S. Khrushchev. The two men 
had little in common except the personal power to wage nuclear war and the 
realization that each had something to prove about his geopolitical manhood. 
The youthful, handsome and wealthy but secretly unhealthy American had attained 
the presidency by the hair's-breadth margin of a tenth of 1% of the popular 
vote but raised questions about his judgment and steadiness with his shaky 
handling of the Bay of Pigs debacle in April 1961. The Russian, an uncouth but 
shrewd peasant who had been illiterate into his 20s, was beset by enemies 
within the Soviet leadership who thought—with the encouragement of China's Mao 
Zedong—that he was insufficiently aggressive in his dealings with the United 
States. Khrushchev saw in Kennedy's weakness in Cuba an opportunity to correct 
this impression, solidify his leadership and advance Soviet prestige—by 
challenging Kennedy on the most dangerous and strategic ground of the Cold War. 

On Jan. 21, the day after Kennedy's inauguration, Khrushchev, looking for a 
"fresh start" in Soviet-American relations, summoned Llewellyn Thompson, the 
American ambassador to Moscow, and offered a handful of carrots. He informed 
Thompson that he had issued an unprecedented order to Izvestia and Pravda to 
publish the full text of Kennedy's inaugural speech. He offered to release two 
U.S. Air Force officers who had been in Soviet custody since their RB-47 
aircraft was shot down the summer before. He also proposed to reduce jamming of 
the Voice of America, among smaller gestures. Kennedy responded with a list of 
U.S. moves that included lifting the ban on imports of Soviet crabmeat.

By Jan. 25, whatever good feeling this exchange of concessions had created was 
overturned in Kennedy's mind when he learned of a recent Khrushchev speech to 
Party hacks that, "if taken literally," as Thompson cabled, was "a declaration 
of cold war." Actually it was routine communist rhetoric, but it prompted the 
president "to devalue and discount all of Khrushchev's conciliatory gestures." 
Mr. Kempe, president of the Atlantic Council and a former chief diplomatic 
correspondent of The Wall Street Journal, describes this as "the first mistake 
of the Kennedy presidency." 

In April, the Bay of Pigs invasion blew up in the administration's face. Former 
Secretary of State Dean Acheson, alarmed by this "crazy scheme," had urged 
Kennedy to abandon it and after the fiasco told an audience of Foreign Service 
officers that the view of Europeans was that the new president was "a gifted 
young amateur playing with a boomerang, when they saw, to their horror, that he 
had knocked himself out." As for Khrushchev, Mr. Kempe writes, "the new U.S. 
president had lived down to his lowest expectations. . . . Never in his fondest 
dreams had he anticipated such incompetence."

 BERLIN 
<http://si.wsj.net/public/resources/images/RV-AC975_BERLIN_D_20110527012846.jpg>
 

Imagno/Getty Images 

A West German boy gazes at the newly erected Berlin Wall in January 1961 .

Acheson, called in for advice on the Berlin question, attempted to take the 
president's diplomatic education in hand. Kennedy explained that he needed 
tutors because he "had spent so much time . . . knowing people who could help 
him become president that he knew very few . . . who could help him be 
president." With regard to the Soviets, Acheson advised a hard line. Berlin, he 
said, "was the key to power status in Europe, and thus a willingness to defend 
it was central to keeping the Kremlin in check elsewhere."

The essential thing was to maintain the status quo. To demonstrate to 
Khrushchev that the U.S. was serious about doing just that, Acheson recommended 
a significant U.S. military buildup in Germany. As for deterring the Soviets 
through nuclear saber-rattling, it was unlikely that either Khrushchev or 
Washington's European allies could be led to believe that the U.S. would risk 
nuclear war to defend Berlin. Still, he told Kennedy, as others would do in the 
days to come, that "if a crisis is provoked, a bold and dangerous course may be 
the safest."

George Kennan advised Kennedy to communicate privately with Khrushchev. By 
clandestine means, the president's brother and attorney general, Robert F. 
Kennedy, arranged an unusual back channel, using as a go-between a mid-level 
agent of the GRU (Soviet military intelligence) who was a friend of one of 
Bobby's journalist friends and who was said to have special access to 
Khrushchev. Only the Kennedy brothers, Khrushchev and the astounded GRU 
hierarchy knew of this arrangement, but in a short time it produced an 
agreement for a summit meeting in early June in Vienna. "No formal agenda is 
planned and no negotiations will take place," Kennedy told a joint session of 
Congress. 


Berlin 1961


By Frederick Kempe 
Putnam, 579 pages, $29.95

Khrushchev's intention at Vienna was to test Kennedy's nerve and to put on 
record the Soviet Union's intentions in Berlin and East Germany as a whole. 
Four days after the summit was announced, he called in Ambassador Thompson and 
laid down a marker. Whether Kennedy liked it or not, "he would take unilateral 
action in the fall or winter to give control of the city to the East Germans 
and end all occupation rights." This breathtaking maneuver would provide Walter 
Ulbricht, the East German leader, with the authority to truncate Berlin and 
stop the stampede of refugees. Khrushchev believed that he could accomplish 
this with impunity, telling his inner circle, in Mr. Kempe's paraphrase, "that 
Kennedy so feared war that he would not react militarily." Others, at home and 
abroad, thought that the president had no other option but to meet bluster with 
strength. Charles de Gaulle, speaking to Kennedy in Paris hours before the 
summit, told him that "any retreat from Berlin, any change of status. . . would 
mean defeat," adding: "If [Khrushchev] wants war, we must make it clear that he 
will have it."

In Vienna, however, Kennedy took a persistently conciliatory line. Early on, he 
told Khrushchev that communism could remain where it was already established in 
the world but could not occupy new territory. Startled American diplomats 
regarded this as a signal of the president's willingness, contrary to 
longstanding U.S. policy, to accept the existing division of Europe into Soviet 
and Western spheres of influence. Khrushchev said that it was beyond his powers 
to guarantee that communist ideas would not proliferate beyond present borders.

Kennedy attempted to raise the question of a nuclear-test-ban treaty, his first 
priority, but Khrushchev pounced instead on the Berlin question. "If the United 
States refuses to sign a peace treaty [with Germany]," he said, "the Soviet 
Union will do so and nothing will stop it." After one day of talks, he was more 
certain than ever that Kennedy was hopelessly weak. "This man is very 
inexperienced, even immature," Khrushchev told his interpreter.

Kennedy was exhausted. On ordinary days he took five hot baths or showers to 
ease excruciating lower back pain. He wore a tight corset. In private he often 
used crutches. From his personal doctor he received two or three daily 
injections of procaine, a stronger version of Novocain, and several other 
drugs. A medical hanger-on, Dr. Max Jacobson ("Dr. Feelgood" to his celebrity 
patients), administered injections that contained hormones, steroids, vitamins, 
enzymes, animal cells and amphetamines. Warned after laboratory analysis that 
Jacobson's nostrums were dangerous, the agonized Kennedy said: "I don't care if 
it's horse piss. It works." 

"Between doses," Mr. Kempe writes, pondering what effect the injections might 
have had on Kennedy's behavior in Vienna, "his mood could swing violently from 
overconfidence to bouts of depression."

On the second and final day of the summit, Kennedy continued his attempts to 
establish empathy and introduced more new terminology, repeatedly referring to 
the allied zones of Berlin as "West" Berlin. This provocative usage, which 
implied that Berlin could become two separate cities without American 
objection, did not pass unnoticed. As Mr. Kempe puts it: "In perhaps the most 
important manhood moment of his presidency, Kennedy had made a unilateral 
concession."

The message was clear: The Soviet Union, as long as it did not touch "West" 
Berlin, could do as it liked in its own part of Berlin and Germany, or deputize 
East Germany to do it under Soviet protection, and the U.S. would passively 
stand aside. "The USSR will sign a peace treaty and the sovereignty of East 
Germany will be observed," Khrushchev said. "Any violation of that sovereignty 
will be regarded as an open act of aggression." Famously, if tardily, Kennedy 
replied that it was going to be a long, cold winter. But he admitted to James 
Reston of the New York Times, while the wounds of the summit were still fresh: 
"He savaged me . . . just beat the hell out of me."

The president began to resist. He signed National Security Action Memorandum 
No. 109, a plan for a four-stage escalation of U.S. reactions to a blockade of 
Berlin. The first stage called for sanctions; the second, for a large American 
military buildup in Europe; the third, for sending a three-division probe up 
the Autobahn to Berlin, air strikes on non-Soviet targets in East Germany and a 
possible naval blockade; the fourth, for "selective nuclear strikes to 
demonstrate the will to use [such weapons] . . . and finally, general war."

Somehow worse never came to worst, and surely the bottom line is that there was 
no war and that West Berlin remained intact to become the capital of a 
re-united, democratic Germany. Whether this was achieved by good luck or good 
management or faint-heartedness is moot and likely to remain so. Mr. Kempe's 
point is that Kennedy's indecisiveness in the early stages of the crisis 
produced the wall itself, an exponential increase in East-West tension, and, in 
the half-century that followed, other fateful consequences that included the 
Cuban missile crisis—and, though Mr. Kempe doesn't say so, the Vietnam War, 
along with social and strategic spores that lodged in the American psyche and 
darkened world opinion with results yet to be revealed. It also provided, as 
Mr. Kempe puts it in the final sentence of this mind-shaking work of 
investigative history, an example "of what unfree systems can impose when free 
leaders fail to resist."

—Mr. McCarry's new novel, "Ark," his 21st book, will be published this year.





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