POST WALL
POST SQUARE
Rebuilding the World after 1989
Kristina Spohr

Copyright

William Collins

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This eBook first published in Great Britain by William Collins in 2019

Copyright © Kristina Spohr 2019

Cover photograph © Getty Images

Kristina Spohr asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

Maps by Martin Brown

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

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Source ISBN: 9780008280086

Ebook Edition © October 2019 ISBN: 9780008280109

Version: 2020-10-13

‘Kristina Spohr beautifully reconstructs the events of the 1989–92 era, reminding us of the importance of intelligent, responsible political leadership at critical moments of history … Uses recently declassified material in the British, French, German, Russian and US archives … [and] pays deserved tribute also to the “people power” of central and eastern Europe. She mentions not only those who filled the streets of East Berlin and Prague in peaceful demonstrations, but also brave individuals such as Lech Walesa, the earthy, politically astute electrician from Gdansk, who symbolised Poland’s non-violent move to democracy’

Financial Times

‘Sweeping panorama … One of the many strengths of this book is the way Spohr pulls together these stories of befuddled leaders and of the forces they unleashed, wittingly or otherwise, in effect providing a global history … Post Wall, Post Square is free of jargon and filled with insight on the interplay between individual decisions and larger historical forces. The result is a magisterial account of the momentous events of 1989 and the diplomacy that put in place a new global settlement, with a reunified Germany at the heart of an expanded NATO and an enlarged and deepened European Union’

Times Literary Supplement

‘When it comes to the end of the Cold War and creation of the contemporary global commonwealth, few, if any, scholars are more conversant in more sources in more languages than Kristina Spohr. Here she finally brings her knowledge together in a masterly, broad narrative international history of this pivotal time in world history. It is political and diplomatic history in a grand style, done with nice balance, empathy, and an eye for telling detail. It will be one of the standard works on this period for many years to come’

PHILIP ZELIKOW, co-author of To Build a Better World

‘A gripping and compelling account … The peaceful ending of the Cold War between West and East remains one of the greatest achievements of modern statecraft’

CHRISTOPHER ANDREW, Literary Review

‘Reads excellently … Spohr lets the fundamental ideas of her global history emerge from an abundance of colourful and lively miniatures. It is the monumental painting of an impressionist, always hard on the heels of the historical protagonists. Whoever reads this roams the hallways of power in Beijing and Paris, sits opposite Helmut Kohl and Margaret Thatcher … The fact that the big picture is never lost is due to the confident structuring of the facts and the stylistic skills of the author’

Freie Presse

‘Spohr offers a sweeping diplomatic history of the period, showing how the “conservative diplomacy” of leaders like George H.W. Bush and Helmut Kohl helped usher in a peaceful new order, while also exploring how missed opportunities and blind spots created tensions that remain with us today’

The American Interest

Dedication

For my godchildren

Anna Lisa (*1997)

Daniel (*2004)

James (*2007)

Clio (*2013)

born into the post-Wall world

Epigraph

If 1989 was the year of sweeping away, 1990 must become the year of building anew.

James A. Baker, 1990

We don’t care what others say about us. The only thing we really care about is a good environment for developing ourselves. So long as history eventually proves the superiority of the Chinese socialist system, that’s enough.

Deng Xiaoping, 1989

France is our homeland, Europe is our future.

François Mitterrand, 1987

Peace is not unity in similarity but unity in diversity, in the comparison and conciliation of differences.

Mikhail Gorbachev, 1991

Politics needs a sense of the possible, also of what is acceptable to others.

Helmut Kohl, 2009

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Praise

Dedication

Epigraph

List of Maps

Introduction

1 Reinventing Communism: Russia and China

2 Toppling Communism: Poland and Hungary

3 Reuniting Germany, Dissolving Eastern Europe

4 Securing Germany in the Post-Wall World

5 Building a Europe ‘Whole and Free’

6 ‘A New World Order’

7 Russian Revolution

8 ‘Dawn of a New Era’

9 Glimpsing a ‘Pacific Century’

Epilogue: Post Wall, Post Square: A World Remade?

Abbreviations

Footnotes

Notes

Index

List of Illustrations

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Also by Kristina Spohr

About the Publisher

Maps

Cold War Europe, 1985

Post Wall Europe, 1992

Europe ‘Reunified’ within EU and NATO

The Soviet Union’s Sphere of Influence, 1985

The Post Soviet Space and the Remaining Communist Countries, 2015

China’s Economic Reach, 2015

Introduction

Economic crisis in the Soviet Union … War in the Gulf … Chaos in Yugoslavia … A Stalinist coup against Soviet leader Mikhail Gorbachev … Mobilisation across the whole Eastern bloc … Soviet invasion of the Balkans … The West calls up reservists and puts civil defence on highest alert …

At dawn on 24 February 1989, thousands of Warsaw Pact tanks begin rolling into West Germany, from the Baltic right down to the border with Czechoslovakia. The main attack comes across the North German Plain, with a secondary strike toward Frankfurt. At first Western armoured forces manage to keep the enemy in check, despite a tidal wave of refugees. But then the Kremlin resorts to the use of poison gas against Great Britain and northern Germany. On 5 March, Allied forces start to break and NATO authorises the first use of tactical nuclear weapons. Undeterred, the Soviets press home their attacks, so NATO moves to a second and this time massive nuclear strike on 9 March with twenty-five nuclear bombs and missiles, a third of which are launched from West Germany. The Soviet leadership reciprocates in kind. An atomic firestorm engulfs most of West and East Germany. The radiation spreads across Poland, Czechoslovakia and Hungary …[1]

Of course this was not what really happened. It was the storyline for NATO’s biennial ‘Wintex’ war game. In the 1989 scenario Germany became the theatre of a ‘limited nuclear war’, which meant instant obliteration for hundreds of thousands of Germans, and radioactive contamination across the historic heartland of Europe condemning millions more to a lingering, agonising death. Worse, the spectre loomed that localised nuclear conflict might ignite the Third World War.

Even before the war game had begun, the Wintex 89 drill narrative had been leaked to the press and then sensationalised in the German and Soviet media. So appalling was the prospect sketched out in the simulation that Waldemar Schreckenberger – the man from the Chancellery chosen to play commander-in-chief (Bundeskanzler übungshalber) during the exercise while the real chancellor was busy conducting West Germany’s normal government business – refused to launch the second strike in an effort to curtail the human tragedy. As a result, Wintex 89 was prematurely aborted. There would be no more NATO Wintex drills in the future.

At the beginning of 1989 the Western defence establishment still took seriously the prospect that the long superpower confrontation might climax in a global nuclear holocaust. Only a few months later, however, the European future looked radically different. The Cold War did indeed come to an end in a rapid and unexpected fashion – but not with the nuclear ‘big bang’ for which the two armed camps had spent so much time, money and ingenuity rehearsing.

The war between East and West never did take place; the Cold War denouement was a largely peaceful process, out of which a new global order was created through international agreements negotiated in an unprecedented spirit of cooperation. The two chief catalysts of change were a new Russian leader, with a new political vision, and popular protest in the streets of Eastern Europe. People power was explosive, but not in the military sense – the demonstrators of 1989 demanded democracy and reform, they disarmed governments that had seemed impregnable and, in a human tide of travellers and migrants, they broke open the once-impenetrable Iron Curtain. The symbolic moment that captured the drama of those months was the fall of the Berlin Wall on the night of 9 November.

In 1989, everything seemed in flux. Currents of revolutionary change surged up from below, while the wielders of power attempted political reform at the top.[2] The Marxist–Leninist ideology of Soviet communism, once the mental architecture of the Soviet bloc, haemorrhaged credibility and rapidly lost grip. Liberal capitalist democracy now seemed like the wave of the future: while the ‘East’ embarked on a ‘catch-up’ transformation in Western Europe’s image, the world appeared set on a path of convergence around American values. There was talk of ‘the end of history’.[3]

Nothing had prepared international leaders for such swift and all-encompassing change. For decades they had played war games like Wintex 89. They had never formulated a scenario for a peaceful exit from the Cold War; at worst they just had a fictive military strategy for surviving nuclear Armageddon or, at best, diplomatic tactics for managing a muddled competitive coexistence between two adversarial blocs. They could scarcely have been less prepared for the actual ending that came in 1989–91. This book explores why a durable and apparently stable world order collapsed in 1989 and then examines the process by which a new order was improvised out of its ruins.[4]

In order to understand the paths they took and the decisions they made, I peer over the shoulders of key statesmen, watching them struggle to understand and control the new forces at work in their world. These men (and one woman) explored a range of often-conflicting options in an effort to manage events, impose stability and avoid war. Lacking road maps or shared blueprints for a future world order, they adopted an essentially cautious approach to the challenge of radical change – using and adapting principles and institutions that had proved successful in the West during the Cold War. This was undoubtedly a diplomatic revolution, but conducted – paradoxically perhaps – in a conservative manner.

The leaders involved were a small, interconnected group. In Europe, the triangle that particularly mattered was formed by the Soviet Union, the United States and the Federal Republic of Germany: on one level, the political leaders – Mikhail Gorbachev, George H. W. Bush and Helmut Kohl;[5] on another their foreign ministers – Eduard Shevardnadze, James Baker and Hans-Dietrich Genscher.[6] It was within these fields of force that post-Cold War Europe was shaped. On the margins were two potent but increasingly isolated figures: Margaret Thatcher in Britain, who opposed the rapid unification of Germany, and the French president François Mitterrand, who reluctantly participated on the condition that a united Germany must be deeply embedded in Europe.[7] Their interactions with Kohl, especially over the project of European integration, formed a further power-political triangle.[8]

Yet it is a central assertion of my book that we cannot understand post-Wall Europe without taking account of what happened in 1989 on the other side of the world. Under Deng Xiaoping, the People’s Republic of China experienced a dramatically different exit from the Cold War – forever synonymous with the bloodshed in Tiananmen Square on 4 June.[9] China’s gradual entry into the global capitalist economy was therefore counterbalanced by Deng’s determination to maintain the dominance of the Communist Party. This balancing act – so different from Gorbachev’s complete loss of control – moved his country into another orbit. The people power that had played such a central role in Eastern Europe had no analogue here. Deng’s ‘success’ in suppressing it had vast implications that are still being played out in today’s world. So, the European story has to be framed within another, global triangle – itself a continuation of the Sino-Soviet-American ‘tripolarity’ that was emerging in the later stages of the Cold War.[10]

Taken as a whole, these managers of change formed a cohort largely from the same generation, born between 1924 and 1931, with the exceptions of Mitterrand (b.1916) and Deng (b.1904). All of them were marked by the memory of a world at war between 1937 and 1945 and thus shared an acute awareness of the fragility of peace. It is noteworthy that most of them (Kohl and Mitterrand were exceptions) also lost power in 1990–2, so they were never obliged to confront in a sustained way – as political leaders – with the fallout from their actions.

My first three chapters deal with the headline-grabbing upheavals of 1989 – the cutting of Hungary’s Iron Curtain with Austria, the bloodbath in Tiananmen Square, the accidental fall of the Berlin Wall. But the main focus is on what happened in the exhilarating yet alarming era that followed: the era of the post-Wall and the post-Square. The hope that humankind was entering a new age of freedom and sustained peace competed with the dawning recognition that the bipolar stability of the Cold War era was already giving way to something less binary and more dangerous.[11]

The core of the book traces the story of how in 1990–1 the world was reshaped by conservative diplomacy – adapting the institutions of the Cold War to a new era. Although this was led by the West, and particularly by US president George Bush, the Soviet leader Mikhail Gorbachev was also willing to buy into the process as part of an effort to reorient the Soviet Union’s official ideology towards the ‘common’ values Soviet citizens shared with the West.[12] The resulting rapprochement culminated in a brief era of unprecedented cooperation between the US and the USSR. Their collaborative approach to Iraq’s invasion of Kuwait in 1990 was to serve as the centrepiece of what the American president described as the ‘new world order’. Confrontational bipolarity appeared to be metamorphosing into a two-pillar approach to global security, rooted in superpower cooperation within the United Nations and guided by international law.[13]

Both Bush and Gorbachev hoped that this new modus vivendi could serve as the foundation for post-Cold War international relations. America was clearly the senior partner but the cooperation was real. The partnership worked, but it was fragile, precisely because it was overly focused on the relationship between the two men at the apex of their respective states. Bush, Kohl and other Western leaders all clung to Mikhail Gorbachev rather than engaging with the deeper problems of the unravelling Soviet Union. At the end of 1991, the USSR totally disintegrated, forcing Bush to take seriously the man at the helm of post-Soviet Russia, Boris Yeltsin – who was struggling to confront the immense challenge of his country’s transition to capitalist democracy.[14] This new upheaval in global geopolitics, affecting not only Europe but also Asia, obliged Bush to rethink his two-pillar approach.

With the Soviet Union gone and bipolarity a thing of the past, the United States was now pressing with fresh urgency for a truly global US-led free-trading system. Intended to replace the almost moribund 1947 General Agreement on Tariffs and Trade (GATT) which no longer seemed adequate to the dynamics of an increasingly globalised world economy, a new World Trade Organisation should embrace the big players Russia and China as they moved out of their respective command economies or ‘Plans’, and offer more support to the developing countries. Yet the US was not alone in seeking to reposition itself in the global economic power play. Japan, with its prodigious economy, was touted as the coming hegemon of the ‘Pacific Century’, whose economic weight would fill the geopolitical vacuum created by the collapse of the Soviet Union. The leadership of communist China had its own ambitions. The Chinese regime survived ‘the Tiananmen Incident’, consolidated its hold on the country and prospered post-Square; over time this would prove far more important, both economically and geo-strategically, than the false dawn of the Rising Sun.[15]

In Europe, too, the peace and stability of the post-war era were starting to fray in 1991 when Yugoslavia became engulfed by a genocidal war. A once firm Balkan polity fractured into warring statelets, triggering massive movements of refugees. These new Balkan wars did not ignite a European or global conflagration, as in 1914, but international leaders struggled to put out the flames.[16]

The splintering of Yugoslavia also raised fears of what Gorbachev himself called the ‘Balkanisation’ of the Soviet Union in 1991.[17] For a while Moscow’s power struggle with Kiev over territory in Ukraine and Crimea seemed even to teeter on the edge of war. Disputes and clashes erupted during 1992 about ownership of the Black Sea Fleet and strategic ports, Russian basing rights and the use of Ukrainian military facilities. And Washington was particularly anxious about the fate of the Soviet nuclear arsenal – now scattered between Russia and three other newly independent post-Soviet republics.

The collapse of Soviet power allowed former clients around the world to assert themselves as ‘renegade’ states. Even after the Kuwait War of 1990–1, the problem of Saddam Hussein’s Iraq remained unresolved, and Kim Il-sung’s North Korea, with its secret nuclear weapons programme, now became a particular headache.[18] This is why the last two chapters of Post Wall, Post Square are devoted to global events in 1992 – a year largely ignored in most accounts of the end of the Cold War, in which problems were spawned that are still with us in the twenty-first century. Notwithstanding the premature triumphalism of some commentators, the Cold War did not end with the simple victory of the United States over the Soviet Union, and the world was not remade in America’s image.[19]

Nowhere did international diplomacy produce swifter and more impressive results than in the unification of Germany. The German question posed a huge challenge because of the country’s problematic place in Europe, its centrality to the origins of two world wars and its subsequent position as the cockpit of the Cold War. In the process of managing German unification, two key alliances of the West during the Cold War – NATO and the European Community – were conserved, modified and eventually enlarged to encompass the states of Central and Eastern Europe.[20]

The measures adopted to stabilise post-Wall Europe were thus essentially conservative in character, in the sense that they made use of pre-existing, Western institutions and structures, rather than custom-designing new ones to meet the exigencies of a new era. Despite the efforts of some European statesmen – notably Genscher, Gorbachev and Mitterrand – in 1989–91, no new pan-European architecture was created to embrace the two halves of the continent and incorporate Russia into a shared security structure. The Helsinki 1975 Conference on Security and Cooperation in Europe (CSCE) possessed the potential to become such a structure, but it was never converted into an operative security organisation. The post-Wall political reality – with America set to remain a ‘European power’ – conspired against such pan-European paths. And the attractions of a Europe reunified under the aegis of an ever-closer European Union and secured by a reinvented NATO were simply too strong.[21]

Consequently, the West–East asymmetry increased over time, as the jumbled fragments of what had been the Cold War order were re-formed within an ever-larger Western-dominated framework. The resulting imbalance would become intolerable for Gorbachev’s successors, Boris Yeltsin and Vladimir Putin. A marginalised – though still powerful and status-conscious Russian rump state – was left to lick its wounds on the periphery of the new Europe. We are still grappling with the consequences.[22]

This rereading of the period 1989–92 draws on archival material in various languages from both sides of the former Iron Curtain. Post Wall, Post Square relies heavily on recently declassified or neglected documents – ranging from memoranda to memcons, from personal letters to intelligence reports – in the national, presidential and Foreign Ministry archives of the United States, the Soviet Union (Russia), Germany, Britain, France and Estonia. Other important resources include the National Security Archive, the Woodrow Wilson Center Digital Archive and the associated Cold War International History Project in Washington DC – with their abundance of electronic briefing books and published documentary collections from the West, Eastern Europe, Russia and China (including party and Politburo materials). Further primary sources include diaries and private papers by the leaders and their advisers and numerous memoirs by the major actors.[23]

Post Wall, Post Square combines the granular reconstruction of key episodes with the synoptic study of macro-historical change. To comprehend properly this era of transitions requires us to adopt an artificial vantage point ‘above’ the confusion of events. But a successful analysis must also find space for the narratives with which leading protagonists made sense of their world and justified their actions. After all, the story of what happened in those years was ‘co-written’ by the chief actors. They were never just players in someone else’s tale, but powerful, if flawed, makers of history in their own right.

In 1995 German president Roman Herzog characterised his era as ‘a time that as yet has no name’.[24] Twenty-five years later, his aphorism has lost little of its poignancy, because the distinguishing features of the post-Cold War era remain difficult to discern or understand. Some may say, as 1989 recedes into the past, that the overarching narrative must be economic – taking us from the collapse of the Bretton Woods financial system in the 1970s to the financial crash of 2008.[25] But I argue that a deeper analysis of these crucial ‘hinge years’ of 1989–92 helps to make sense of the underlying geopolitical order in which the upheavals of global capitalism take their place. And it is this order that is now under threat.

The achievements of the conservative managers were impressive: above all, they stabilised Central Europe during a period of rapid geopolitical change. But the (mainly American) confidence that the world would henceforth converge towards US values in an increasingly Washington-centred global order has not stood the test of time. The notion that an aggrieved but resurgent Russia[26] or the People’s Republic of China – always following its own compass[27] – would accept subordinate status in a unipolar world now appears hopelessly naive.[28] And the Europe of the Maastricht Treaty failed to generate the vision and energy to create a continent that was whole, free and dynamic. It was cramped by its adherence to dogmas forged after 1945 and hobbled by its chronic lack of independent political and military power.

This new European Union of 1992 co-opted the logic of the West German state’s post-war trajectory. The Federal Republic had long renounced Germany’s historical pretensions as a military power. European integration was conceived in the 1950s as a German–French peace project built around economic prosperity and social welfare. As the EU sought to reap the post-Cold War peace dividend in the 1990s, it saw itself in German mode as a beacon of ‘civilian power’[29] – not of military might.

This represented a linear reading of the post-Wall future, extrapolating the peaceful unification of Germany onto the European plane. But the plausibility of this eirenic dream has been called into question by the rise in the 2010s of populism, nationalism and illiberalism – with ‘Brexit’ shaking the core belief that the European integration project is irreversible and US President Donald Trump undermining the presumed indestructibility of the transatlantic alliance. The American vision of a ‘global community of nations’[30] – an order based on international law, liberal values, the limited use of force and a legitimate international arbitrating authority – now looks utopian.[31] The old great power rivalry is back with a vengeance and the traditional Western verities of democracy and free trade are being challenged around the world – especially by Russia and China, but also by America itself.

The deficiencies of the international settlement that ended the Cold War are now obvious. Frozen conflicts, the unravelling of arms-control agreements, the sclerosis of international institutions, the emergence of powerful authoritarian regimes and the proliferating threat of weapons of mass destruction (WMD) – these are just some of the unforeseen consequences of design flaws in the new order improvised with such haste and ingenuity by the shapers of world affairs in 1989–92.[32] That is why – now more than ever – we need to understand its origins and troubled birth.

Chapter 1
Reinventing Communism: Russia and China

The 7th of December 1988. Manhattan was abuzz that evening. Thousands of New Yorkers and tourists lined the streets, cheering, waving and giving thumbs-up signs behind the police barricades as Mikhail Gorbachev rode down Broadway in a forty-seven-car motorcade.

Gorbymania in Manhattan

Suddenly, in front of the Winter Garden Theater where the musical Cats was playing, Gorbachev ordered his stretch limo to halt. Smiling, he and his wife Raisa jumped out and had their pictures taken. The Soviet leader was photographed beneath a huge neon Coca-Cola sign, raising his clenched fists in triumph – like Robert ‘Rocky’ Balboa.

Gorbachev was really soaking up American adulation. A block south, in the middle of Times Square – the Mecca of world capitalism – the electronic billboard was flashing a red hammer and sickle with the message ‘Welcome, General Secretary Gorbachev’. He might still have been a communist at heart and the leader of America’s rival superpower, but that night in New York, ‘Gorby’ was a superstar, hailed above all as a peacemaker. Indeed most of his time in Manhattan the Soviet leader was mixing with celebs, billionaires and high society, rather than rubbing shoulders with the American proletariat.[1]

One of the visits tentatively scheduled was to Trump Tower. Real-estate developer Donald Trump could not wait to take Mrs Gorbachev around the glitzy shops in his tower’s marble atrium. He was also dying to show off to the Gorbachevs a suite on the sixtieth floor with a swimming pool that he claimed was ‘virtually regulation size, within the confines of an apartment’ and, of course, his own opulent $19 million domicile on the sixty-eighth floor. He said he wanted them to get ‘a good shot of what New York and the United States are about’ and he hoped that they would ‘find it special’. In the end, Gorbachev’s itinerary was altered and Trump Tower slipped off the list. That afternoon, however, when a Gorbachev lookalike was seen strolling past Tiffany’s and down Fifth Avenue followed by a horde of film crews drawing huge crowds, Trump and his bodyguards rushed down from his office thinking that the Soviet leader had changed his mind and was now keen to view his temple of consumerism. Squeezing on to the sidewalk, the tycoon enthusiastically pumped the fake Gorbachev’s hand.

The real Gorbachev was actually sequestered inside the Soviet mission. Caught out, Trump assured journalists he had seen through the stunt, declaring ‘I looked into the back of his limo and saw four attractive women. I knew that his society had not come that far yet in terms of capitalist decadence.’ Mikhail Gorbachev certainly did not share Donald Trump’s ideal of decadence. Nevertheless, he was clearly fascinated by the market economy. Bystander Joe Peters reckoned that Gorbachev was ‘going to learn all our tricks of capitalism and become the Donald Trump-ski of the Soviet Union’.[2]

The sense of anticipation was palpable. That very morning Gorbachev achieved perhaps his greatest international triumph so far. At the United Nations he had delivered a truly astounding address, one that would become pivotal for future Soviet foreign policy and for the course of world politics. Gorbachev’s intention was to deliver ‘the exact opposite’ of Winston Churchill’s notorious Iron Curtain speech of 1946.

Over the course of one hour, the Soviet leader dropped a succession of bombshells on specific policy issues. Most striking, he declared the termination of the international class struggle, insisting that ‘the use or threat of force no longer can or must be an instrument of foreign policy’. Instead, he urged the world to embrace ‘the supremacy of the universal human idea’ and lauded the significance of the 1948 UN Universal Declaration of Human Rights which had been adopted, almost to the day, forty years before.[3]

These were amazing words from any Moscow policymaker, let alone the general secretary of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union. On the eve of 1989 Gorbachev stood before the world as the master of reform, apparently in control of events.

In reality, he would unleash a revolution that swept everything before it – eventually even himself. And the Western leader who would have to cope with the fallout was a cautious new American president who felt considerable scepticism about his magnetic Soviet counterpart and was wary about the true intentions behind Russia’s headline-grabbing reforms. George H. W. Bush had been vice president for all eight years of Ronald Reagan’s presidency (1981–9). He would enter the White House determined to take stock of US–Soviet relations and rethink his priorities as he started building a new agenda that would distinguish him politically from the Reagan administration.[4] In fact, his main concern in early 1989 was how to handle the ‘reinvention’ of communism that was under way not in Europe but in Asia.

*

Mikhail Sergeyevich Gorbachev was not a ‘normal’ Soviet leader. Born in 1931 in Privolnoye, a small village near Stavropol in the north Caucasus, he grew up witnessing his family’s suffering under Stalin’s collectivisation drive and later the Great Purge. When Gorbachev was ten, his father was drafted into the army and did not return for five years. Privolnoye was spared destruction during the Great Patriotic War but Stavropol was occupied by the Germans for five months in 1942–3, so Gorbachev experienced the ravages of war close-up and did not forget. Academically gifted and interested in politics, he shone at school and was cultivated from an early age by the local leaders of the Communist Party. Thanks to their patronage, he was sent to the prestigious Moscow State University (MGU) to study law; in order to gain entry he wrote an essay entitled ‘Stalin is our battle glory, Stalin is the Flight of our Youth’ – evidence that his political views then were still ‘straight Stalinist, like everyone else at the time’, as his best friend at university put it. At a third-year ball he met Raisa Maximovna Titarenko, a chic and clever philosophy student. A year later, in 1954, they were married.

Sent back to Stavropol, Gorbachev rose steadily through the Soviet nomenklatura system in the usual way, while Raisa taught Marxism at the local polytechnic and studied for a PhD on the peasantry in the region’s collective farms. Gorbachev’s youthful Stalinism was shaken by First Secretary Nikita Khrushchev’s 1956 ‘secret speech’ which denounced his predecessor Stalin’s monstrous crimes and laid bare the endemic problems of Russian industry and agriculture. Henceforth Gorbachev, though continuing to believe faithfully in communist ideology, recognised how flawed it had become in Soviet practice. Through his travels with Raisa to France, Italy and Sweden from the 1960s onwards, he encountered the West and glimpsed an alternative future. Meanwhile, his political career accelerated. In 1967, he became the regional party boss, aged only thirty-five; twelve years later he was put in charge of Soviet agriculture, moving to the centre of power in Moscow, while Raisa was given a teaching post at MGU. One of his leading patrons was KGB chief Yuri Andropov, who succeeded Leonid Brezhnev as general secretary in November 1982.[5]

Although nearing fifty, Gorbachev was almost a spring chicken by the standards of the Soviet Politburo. Andropov, nearly seventeen years his senior, suffered from acute kidney failure and died in February 1984. His successor Konstantin Chernenko was two decades senior to Gorbachev: afflicted with heart and lung problems, he expired in March 1985. Finally the old men of the Kremlin decided to jump a generation and opt for Gorbachev. Justifying to Raisa why he was taking the job, Mikhail said ‘all those years … it’s been impossible to achieve anything substantial, anything on a large scale. It’s like coming up against a wall. But life demands it. We can’t go on like this.’[6] Yet what should be done instead was much harder to determine. First Gorbachev tried an anti-alcohol campaign; after that failed he looked for deeper remedies and new slogans, espousing first ‘uskorenie’ (acceleration), then ‘perestroika’ (restructuring) and ‘glasnost’ (transparency). But these did not entail revolutionary changes: Gorbachev was still a party man and wanted to re-form the Soviet system to make it more viable and competitive: his motto was ‘Back to Lenin’.

His frequent invocations of Lenin were in part to justify to the party his policies of innovation and restructuring, which so sharply deviated from the Stalinist and Brezhnevite practice that in Gorbachev’s opinion had perverted ‘socialism’. But more than that, he identified his own view of fundamental reform of the Soviet system under the auspices of perestroika with Lenin’s 1920s ideas of a New Economic Policy: a guided and limited system of free enterprise. His goal at this stage was not a turn to capitalism or to social democracy. For him Lenin remained the source of legitimacy for policy changes within the Communist Party of the Soviet Union (CPSU) – the pure font of Soviet doctrine. He wanted to restructure the traditional Soviet sociopolitical order ‘within the system’, which is why under glasnost he also advocated ‘socialist pluralism’ ahead of full ‘political pluralism’ – all this to reinvigorate the Soviet Union.[7]

To achieve reform and rejuvenation, Gorbachev had to reduce the burden of the military-industrial complex on the Soviet economy, intensified during the 1980s by the war in Afghanistan and the spiralling arms race with America.

To be sure, the Soviet command economy was performing poorly simply for structural reasons – a fact masked by the global oil price rise of the 1970s and the country’s vast Siberian reserves which fuelled a GDP growth rate of 2–3.5% between 1971 and 1980. But when the oil price dropped in the next decade, national income fell sharply. Indeed, in 1980–5 the USSR found itself at near zero growth. The increasing dissatisfaction of Soviet consumers was exacerbated by declining living standards and limited access to high-tech civilian goods. This was due in part to the inflexibility of the planned economy and the lack of industrial modernisation, but the root problem was that perhaps up to a quarter of GDP was being gobbled up by the military sector to the detriment of the civilian production.[8]

In order to galvanise the economy at home while slowly opening it up to the outside world, Gorbachev needed to foster a stable international environment and also to address the USSR’s ‘imperial overstretch’ in Eastern Europe and the developing world. This meant reducing US hostility (disengaging from the arms race) and making compromises in the Third World (including ideological recognition of the right to self-determination). So domestic policy was inextricably bound up with foreign policy. Seeking a less confrontational relationship with the United States, Gorbachev was keen to talk with his American opposite number.[9]

At first glance, however, US president Ronald Reagan seemed an unlikely partner. Born in 1911, and so the same age as the man Gorbachev had just replaced, Reagan was a vehement anti-communist who had intensified the arms race once he came to power in 1981. He was notorious for his denunciation of the USSR as an ‘evil empire’ and for his prediction that the ‘march of freedom and democracy’ would ‘leave Marxism–Leninism on the ash heap of history’.[10] This all-out ideological competition, he believed, justified the military build-up of his early years. But there was another side to Reagan – the would-be peacemaker, who saw military power as a basis for diplomacy to secure ‘peace through strength’. Even more surprising, this hard-headed realist cherished a utopian belief in a nuclear-free world.[11]

During his first term, Reagan had been unable to initiate dialogue with the sick old men of the Kremlin. But with the accession of Gorbachev, not merely dialogue but negotiation suddenly became possible. Over the course of four summits between Geneva in November 1985 and Moscow in May/June 1988 the discussions were often heated but the two leaders gradually forged a relationship based on personal trust and even affection. Gorbachev’s radical nuclear arms-reduction proposals at Reykjavik in October 1986 – six months after the horrendous Chernobyl accident – almost carried Reagan along with him, to the horror of some die-hard advisers. By the time of their Washington meeting in December 1987 they had moved on to first-name terms. There was also substance in the new relationship. At Washington, Reagan and Gorbachev signed away a whole category of nuclear weapons in the Intermediate Nuclear Forces Treaty – the first time the superpowers had ever agreed to reduce their nuclear arsenals. Here was a significant step in defusing the Cold War, making it less likely that a nuclear conflict would break out. Atomic scientists put back their celebrated ‘Doomsday Clock’ to six minutes before midnight, instead of three. And on 31 May 1988, when Reagan was asked in Red Square whether he still felt the USSR was an ‘evil empire’, he replied ‘I was talking about another time, another era.’[12]

Reagan was moving on – and so was Gorbachev. Six months later, the dramatic address at the UN on the morning of 7 December was for the Soviet leader a ‘watershed’ moment. He wanted to present himself as a shaper of international affairs but, unlike Churchill, moving the world out of the Cold War. And he was keen to wrong-foot the Americans, especially at a time of transition between presidents when their foreign policy would be in limbo. ‘The Americans are scared that we might do something as in the spirit of Reykjavik.’ He had been preparing the speech for months, ever since Reagan’s visit, and it went through many drafts, being tweaked right up to the last minute. Gorbachev was determined to use the occasion to show the world his belief in the bright future of the rejuvenated Soviet Union and to confirm his credentials as a visionary peacemaker. And he hoped that by setting out his new political thinking in such an eye-catching way he would secure Western credits and economic assistance.[13]

By the time Gorbachev arrived at the UN, the vast General Assembly Hall was totally packed, with all 1,800 seats occupied. There was a buzz of excited chatter. Expectations were high. Gorbachev stepped up to the podium, dressed in a dark, well-tailored suit, white shirt and burgundy-coloured tie. At the start of his address, he spoke slowly and deliberately but then gathered pace, with increasing sweep and authority. In doing so, he set out his ideological blueprint for how Marxism–Leninism should evolve and how the world should extricate itself from the Cold War.[14]

He began with remarks that drew together Western and Eastern European history around the revolutionary idea: ‘Two great revolutions, the French Revolution of 1789 and the Russian Revolution of 1917, have exerted a powerful influence on the actual nature of the historical process and radically changed the course of world events. Both of them, each in its own way, have given a gigantic impetus to man’s progress.’ Having detoxified revolution and established common ground across the divided continent, Gorbachev expatiated on the universality of human experience – ‘today we have entered an era when progress will be based on the interests of all mankind’ – and insisted that further progress was possible only through a truly global consensus, in a movement towards what he called ‘a new world order’. If that were so, he added, ‘then it is also worth agreeing on the fundamental and truly universal prerequisites and principles for such activities. It is evident, for example, that force and the threat of force can no longer be, and should not be, instruments of foreign policy.’ Here was an explicit renunciation of the ‘Brezhnev Doctrine’ – Moscow’s claimed right to deploy the Red Army within its own sphere of influence to save a fellow communist state – that in 1968 had justified the use of tanks to crush the Prague Spring. Instead, considering the ‘variety of sociopolitical structures’, he declared ‘freedom of choice’ to be a ‘universal principle’ that knows ‘no exception’.[15]

So Gorbachev was thinking big, way beyond the conventional bipolarities of East versus West. After more than forty years of Cold War, he was explicitly advocating the ‘de-ideologisation of interstate relations’ and thereby declaring an end to Third World interventionism. Indeed, with the world as a whole now seriously tackling hunger, disease, illiteracy and ‘other mass ills’, he argued for recognising ‘the primacy of the universal human idea’. Nevertheless, he did not intend to abandon Soviet values: ‘The fundamental fact remains that the formation of the peaceful period will take place in conditions of the existence and rivalry of various socio-economic and political systems.’ However, he went on, ‘the meaning of our international efforts, and one of the key tenets of the new thinking, is precisely to impart to this rivalry the quality of sensible competition in conditions of respect for freedom of choice and a balance of interests’. So the two systems would not blur into each other, but their relationship would become one of peaceful ‘co-development’. In this way, working together, the superpowers would be able to ‘eliminate the nuclear threat and militarism’ whose eradication was essential for world development and the survival of the human race.

In addition to his grand vision, Gorbachev made specific proposals, especially terminating the nine-year intervention in Afghanistan, the USSR’s equivalent of America’s Vietnam, and on disarmament, which he called ‘the most important topic, without which no problem of the coming century can be resolved’. He spoke of the need for a new strategic arms-reduction treaty (START), reducing each superpower’s arsenal by 50%. And, to put pressure on the United States, he unveiled a unilateral proposal to cut the Soviet troop strength in Europe by half a million men over the next two years. In this way Gorbachev sought to initiate a shift from the ‘economy of armament’ to an ‘economy of disarmament’.

Such a conversion had become absolutely essential to underpin his project of a ‘profound renewal’ of the entire socialist society – a project that had grown vastly in scope since 1985 as he developed his big ideas of perestroika and glasnost. Indeed, Gorbachev explained, ‘under the sign of democratisation, perestroika has now spread to politics, the economy, intellectual life and ideology’. Soviet democracy would be ‘placed on a solid normative base’ including ‘laws on the freedom of conscience, glasnost, public associations and organisations’. Nevertheless, in order not to tempt anybody to ‘encroach on the security’ of the Soviet Union and its allies while the Kremlin undertook the much-needed ‘bold revolutionary transformations’, Gorbachev was adamant that the USSR’s defence capability should be maintained at what he termed a level of ‘reasonable and reliable sufficiency’. Such language was a marked change from the pursuit of ‘superiority’ that had dominated East–West relations for most of the Cold War. Serious differences still existed, he admitted, and tough problems had to be resolved between the superpowers but the Soviet leader was essentially upbeat about the future as he looked around the hall: ‘We have already graduated from the primary school of learning to understand each other and seek solutions in both our own and common interests.’[16]

Near the end of his speech he acknowledged the work of President Reagan and his Secretary of State, George Shultz, in forging agreements. ‘All this’, he said, ‘is capital that has been invested in a joint undertaking of historic importance. It must not be wasted or left out of circulation. The future US administration headed by newly elected President George Bush will find in us a partner, ready – without long pauses and backward movements – to continue the dialogue in a spirit of realism, openness, and goodwill, and with a striving for concrete results, over an agenda encompassing the key issues of Soviet–US relations and international politics.’[17] Bush was not in the audience – he watched the speech on television – but he could not have missed the message. As Gorbachev had told the Politburo before leaving Moscow, with his diplomatic offensive there would be ‘nowhere for Bush to turn’.[18]

Gorbachev’s aide Anatoly Chernyaev was in the audience. Having helped write the speech, he had expected it would make an impression but was not prepared for the reaction that morning. ‘For over an hour nobody stirred. And then the audience erupted in ovations, and they would not let [Gorbachev] go for a long time. He even had to get up and bow as if he were on stage.’[19] Gorbachev, a great showman, lapped it all up. Much of the press reaction was also positive. The New York Times editorialised, ‘Perhaps not since Woodrow Wilson presented his Fourteen Points in 1918 or since Franklin Roosevelt and Winston Churchill promulgated the Atlantic Charter in 1941 has a world figure demonstrated the vision Mikhail Gorbachev displayed.’[20] But others looked behind the occasion and the rhetoric. The Christian Science Monitor, for instance, drew attention to what Gorbachev did not say. There was no suggestion that the Kremlin intended to pull back fully from its farthest positions of strategic influence gained in the Second World War – in East Germany and in East Asia. Indeed the speech said virtually nothing about Asia. Armed forces in Soviet Asia would be reduced, he promised, and ‘a major portion’ of Soviet troops temporarily stationed in the Mongolian People’s Republic would ‘return home’. But there was no mention of the bases in Vietnam, the Monitor complained, and not a word about the four northern Japanese islands seized by Stalin in 1945 whose disputed status had blocked a peace treaty between Japan and the USSR to formally end the Second World War.[21] The newspaper had a point – Gorbachev’s post-Cold War vision was selective – but the UN speech made clear that for him the cockpit of the Cold War lay in Europe. It was there that the tension had to be defused.

As soon as his show at the United Nations was over,[22] Gorbachev turned his mind to the next event in his packed New York schedule: a meeting with President Reagan and Vice President Bush on Governors Island, off the southern tip of Manhattan. Yet in the limo down to the pier at Battery Park, the Soviet leader had to take an urgent phone call from Moscow: a major earthquake had hit the Caucasus and the latest reports said that some 25,000 people in Armenia had died. Gorbachev decided to return home the next morning, without stopping over in Cuba and London as originally planned.[23] Controlling his anxieties, Gorbachev turned his mind during the short boat ride to what would be his fifth and farewell meeting with Reagan, the man he no longer considered an ‘unreconstructed Cold Warrior’ but instead with whom he had managed against the odds to develop a genuine fondness and friendship.[24]

As Bush watched the ferry coming towards him across the choppy waters of New York Harbor, he sensed a feeling of tense expectation among the waiting American and Soviet officials. He was certainly on edge himself. As president-elect, a few weeks away from inauguration and not yet in a position to set policy, he had to weigh his future role against his present status as merely Reagan’s deputy. He knew Gorbachev would be anxious to know in which direction he intended to take relations with the Soviet Union, but Reagan was still the man in the Oval Office. On this particular day Bush wanted to avoid doing anything that could be interpreted as undermining the current president’s authority or to circumscribe his own future freedom of action.[25]

Gorbachev walked off the boat – waving to the onlookers, a broad smile on his face – and an equally cheerful Reagan greeted him on the quayside. The two delegations were soon sitting in the commandant’s residence on Governors Island. Conversation during their meeting was mostly light and nostalgic: it was not a ‘negotiating session’, as Gorbachev remarked to the media present. Yet it was in some way ‘special’, as Bush put it, because of his own double role, looking to the past and the future.[26]

After the journalists and photographers had left, Reagan and Gorbachev reminisced about their first encounter in Switzerland a mere three years before, and the president offered the Soviet leader a memento – a photo of the moment they met in the parking lot with Reagan’s handwritten inscription that they had ‘walked a long way together to clear a path to peace, Geneva 1985–New York 1988’. Gorbachev was touched and said how much he valued their ‘personal rapport’. Reagan agreed. He felt proud of what they had ‘accomplished together’: two leaders who had the ‘capability of creating the next world war’ had decided ‘to keep the world at peace’[27] and so they had laid a ‘strong foundation for the future’. This was possible, he claimed, because they had always been ‘direct and open’ with each other. What Reagan did not mention – naturally, because this was a cosy wander down memory lane – was that their Moscow summit in May/June had failed to ‘crown’, as Gorbachev hoped, the procession of meetings with a treaty to reduce their strategic offensive weapons – START I. This, as Gorbachev emphasised in his UN speech, was significant unfinished business.[28]

Reagan asked Bush whether he wanted to add anything. The vice president chose to comment only on the symbolism of the photo. The two countries had come a long distance in the last three years, he said, going on to express the hope that in three years’ time there would be ‘another such picture with the same significance’. Bush said he wanted to build on what President Reagan had done, working with Gorbachev. Nothing that had been accomplished ought to be reversed. But he added that he would just need ‘a little time to review the issues’. Gorbachev wanted assurances that Bush would follow the path laid down by Reagan. Yet the vice president would not be drawn, using the need to construct a new Cabinet as his excuse. His theory, he said, was to ‘revitalise things by putting in new people’. He wanted to ‘formulate prudent national security policies’ but insisted that he didn’t want to ‘stall things’ or ‘set the clock back’. Bush was trying to keep the discussion loose and vague, using platitudes to keep his options open.[29]

There was, however, no let-up from the Soviet leader. His eyes firmly on the future, Gorbachev continued to probe Bush over lunch. He fished for substantive reactions to his UN speech. Shultz merely said the audience had been ‘very attentive’ and the final burst of applause was totally ‘genuine’. Bush, apart from commenting that Gorbachev seemed to have had ‘a full house, with every seat filled’, stayed silent. Gorbachev stressed that he was committed to all that he had said at the UN about cooperation between their countries.[30] While admitting that there were ‘real contradictions’ between them, particularly on regional issues, he insisted that Washington should not be suspicious of the Soviet Union. Turning directly to Bush, he said that it was ‘a good moment to make that point, with the vice president there’. The Soviet leader did a quick tour d’horizon of crisis hotspots around the world and then reprised his main theme about the cooperation he and the president had managed to build up. Glancing pointedly again at Bush as well as Reagan, he declared that ‘continuity was the name of the game’ and that ‘we should therefore be able to work together on all regional problems in a constructive way’. There was still no reaction from Bush, so Gorbachev tried to put him on the spot. ‘If the next president has studies under way, and has some remarks or suggestions on these issues I would like to hear from him.’ Bush again declined to be drawn. In the end Gorbachev simply joked that ‘the important thing was to make life easier for the next president’.[31]

Throughout the meeting, Bush remained buttoned up and stayed on the margins – sometimes, according to journalist Steven V. Roberts, edging ‘awkwardly into the picture’.

George H. W. Bush – The marginal man

Speaking to the press later that day in Washington, the vice president stuck to this non-committal tone: ‘I made clear to the general secretary that I certainly wanted to continue the progress that’s been made in the Reagan administration with the Soviets, and I also made clear that we needed some time, and he understood that.’[32]

*

George H. W. Bush was inaugurated on 20 January 1989 as forty-first president of the United States. He was the first serving vice president to be elected to the White House since Martin Van Buren in 1836. To many, in fact, George Bush had always seemed in the anteroom of history, doing useful jobs but on the edge of greatness: ambassador to the United Nations, US envoy to China and head of the CIA in the 1970s. And when he finally stuck out his neck in 1980, by running for the Republican nomination to the presidency, Bush had been outclassed by the telegenic Reagan – a product of Hollywood – whose financial policies Bush denigrated as ‘voodoo economics’.[33]

Reagan initially hoped to enlist former president Gerald Ford as his running mate, but after negotiations broke down less than twenty-four hours before the ticket was to be announced, he offered the position to Bush who, despite the bruising campaign for the nomination, immediately accepted. He was a loyalist and team player. His diary entries included comments such as ‘I am not going to be building my own constituency or doing things like background conferences to show that I am doing a good job’, and also ‘the president must know that he can have the vice president for him and he must not think that he has to look over his shoulder’.[34]

In Reagan’s second term, when Bush started to plan his own campaign, such loyalty was sometimes held against him – as evidence of his perpetual readiness to play second fiddle.[35] And when pressed to articulate his own agenda, he reportedly exclaimed ‘Oh, the vision thing!’ – a phrase often cited against him.[36] Did Bush have the backbone and self-confidence to take that final big step into the Oval Office?[37] He also lacked Reagan’s carefully crafted homespun eloquence and, although his speech accepting the Republican nomination in July 1988 won praise, it also contained the pledge ‘Read my lips: no new taxes.’ Bush slipped this in to appease the Republican right, to whom he looked unacceptably centrist compared with Reagan. In due course those words would come back to haunt him, but at the time they typified the thrust of his bid for the presidency, which concentrated on economic and social issues, rather than foreign affairs.[38] During a highly personalised, at times truly ugly, campaign the Republicans lambasted their Democratic opponent Michael Dukakis, former governor of Massachusetts, as an effete Harvard liberal who was weak on crime and profligate on spending. On 8 November 1988, number two finally became number one, chalking up a landslide victory by winning forty of the fifty states and 80% of the electoral college vote.[39]

Many people assumed that Bush would largely continue the policies of the outgoing administration, both at home and abroad, but the new president was determined not to be the stand-in for a Reagan third term. In fact the two men had never been particularly close and Bush privately held Reagan in fairly low esteem, as someone who was ‘kind of foolish and simplistic on many issues’. So the handover was really a ‘takeover’, albeit friendly. And, contrary to impressions during the campaign, foreign policy would not take a back seat. What’s more, in diplomacy Bush had a different style and agenda from his predecessor. It was here that the ‘real’ George Bush would step out of Reagan’s shadow.[40]

This fresh approach to foreign affairs was mapped out during the interregnum from November to January. Bush’s two key advisers were James A. Baker III, the new Secretary of State, and Brent Scowcroft, who became national security adviser. Their close relations with the president created a kind of constructive tension, as they acted out different roles in Bush’s diplomacy. Both men agreed that Washington had a strong hand to play in dealing with the Kremlin, but they differed significantly on how to use it.[41]

Baker was a long-time Texan sidekick (born in Houston in 1930, he was six years younger than Bush). The two had been close friends for over thirty years: Baker was almost like a younger brother. He had been a US Marine in his youth, then a successful attorney, before becoming a Washington insider. He went on to organise the election campaigns of Gerald Ford in 1976 and Ronald Reagan in 1984, and served right through Reagan’s two terms as White House chief of staff and then Treasury Secretary. In the view of Dennis Ross, a Washington veteran who was appointed director of the State Department policy planning staff, Baker was a superb instinctive negotiator, with a natural flair for dealing with people and a rare talent for identifying priorities. As regards the Soviet Union, Baker favoured continued and intensive diplomatic engagement. He wanted to test Gorbachev’s sincerity and encourage the Soviet leader into further reforms at home and abroad.[42]

Scowcroft served as the focus for a second group of advisers who were much more sceptical of Gorbachev and his plans, fearing that they might be intended to revitalise Soviet power. Moscow, Scowcroft warned, might ‘smother the West with kindness’ and thus weaken NATO’s resolve and cohesion. For this reason he firmly opposed an early summit meeting between Bush and Gorbachev in 1989, lest it would simply feed into Soviet propaganda. As he reflected later: unless there were substantive accomplishments, such as in arms control, the Soviets would be able to capitalise on the one outcome left – the good feelings generated by the meeting. They would use the resulting euphoria to undermine Western resolve, and a sense of complacency would encourage some to believe the United States could relax its vigilance. The Soviets in general and Gorbachev in particular were masters at creating these enervatingly cosy atmospheres. Gorbachev’s UN speech had established, largely with rhetorical flourish, a mood of heady optimism. He could exploit an early meeting with a new president as evidence to declare the Cold War over without providing substantive actions from a ‘new’ Soviet Union.[43]

Scowcroft and Bush were almost the same age: they had both been airmen but Bush’s service was confined to the Pacific War whereas Scowcroft was a career officer in the post-war US Air Force from 1947 until he joined the Nixon White House in 1972, before becoming Ford’s national security adviser (1975–7). It was during the Ford years that he became closely acquainted with Bush, who was US envoy to China and then director of the CIA. They shared the same world view, one defined by the Second World War, the Cold War and Vietnam. Both believed in US leadership in the world, the centrality of the transatlantic alliance, and the necessity of using force decisively if and when it had to be employed. And both believed in the efficacy of personal diplomacy and the paramount importance of good intelligence. Bush trusted Scowcroft completely. He called him ‘the closest friend in all things’ – on the golf course as much as in the Oval Office.[44] Scowcroft saw his role as the president’s personal adviser and also an honest broker, being free – unlike Baker – from having to represent the interests of a particular government department. And as national security adviser, he was also the nodal point of Bush’s security and foreign policy. Now in the post for a second time, Scowcroft developed his own ‘system’, a highly effective decision-making process. Its hallmarks were regular consultation among the NSC staff, and ruthless discouragement of leaks, with everything channelled through Scowcroft to the president. But, unlike the NSC under Henry Kissinger or Zbigniew Brzezinski in the 1970s, the atmosphere was essentially collegial rather than conspiratorial. And Scowcroft and Baker, despite their inevitable frictions, managed to work productively together.[45]

Taken as a whole, therefore, the Bush administration possessed great expertise in foreign policy, and the president himself cared deeply about these issues. He enjoyed reading briefing papers and memos and, unlike his three immediate predecessors – Ford, Carter and Reagan – brought to the job extensive experience in international affairs. In addition to the posts he held in the 1970s, he had served eight years as vice president, during which he got to know many foreign officials and most heads of government. In terms of personality, Bush was unassuming and cautious but also highly ambitious and self-assured. Though he may not have been a strategic visionary, his statecraft was guided by a clear set of basic convictions and goals. A stable world order needed leadership and, in spite of much pessimism in the 1980s, Bush had no doubt that the United States alone could provide it; he did not see America as being in ‘decline’.

To be sure, in some American circles the narrative of ‘decline’ combined with gloomy talk about a dawning ‘Pacific century’ (with Japan in the vanguard due to its prodigious economic growth) and a potential ‘Fortress Europe’ (an ever more closely economically and politically integrated and protectionist European Community). But the Bush White House focused on what it perceived as the rising popularity and spread of America’s liberal values across the world and on pushing for the creation of a new, truly global trading system (led by the United States) – one that would replace the dying 1947 GATT agreement and include the Soviet Union, China and the Third World.

Bush was confident that the US was actually entering a new era of ascendancy; the twenty-first century would be America’s. The United States, Bush declared expansively in November 1988, just before his election, had ‘set in motion the major changes under way in the world today – the growth of democracy, the spread of free enterprise, the creation of a world market in goods and ideas. For the foreseeable future, no other nation, or group of nations, will step forward to assume leadership.’[46]

These themes of global change and American opportunity were developed more fully in his inaugural address on 20 January, looking out from the West Front of the Capitol across the Mall to the Lincoln Memorial. After the customary invocations of the deity and American history, Bush positioned himself on the cusp of a new era, as yet ill-defined. ‘There are times when the future seems thick as a fog; you sit and wait, hoping the mists will lift and reveal the right path. But this is a time when the future seems a door you can walk right through into a room called tomorrow.’ And Bush was ready to do so. ‘We live in a peaceful, prosperous time, but we can make it better. For a new breeze is blowing, and a world refreshed by freedom seems reborn. For in man’s heart, if not in fact, the day of the dictator is over.’ The new president made no direct reference to the amazing transformations under way in the Soviet bloc and in communist China, but no one could have been in any doubt of what he meant. ‘The totalitarian era is passing, its old ideas blown away like leaves from an ancient, lifeless tree … Great nations of the world are moving toward democracy through the door to freedom.’ And America was the gatekeeper. ‘We know what works: freedom works. We know what’s right: freedom is right.’ The president set out the country’s mission: ‘America is never wholly herself unless she is engaged in high moral principle. We as a people have such a purpose today. It is to make kinder the face of the Nation and gentler the face of the world. My friends, we have work to do.’[47] This was America’s moment and he wanted to seize it.

But where should the work begin? One might have expected that Bush would have opened the door towards Moscow: after Gorbachev’s watershed speech at the UN and with the political transformation under way in Poland and Hungary, much of the world was fixated on the changes in the Soviet Union and the ferment in Eastern Europe. Yet, guided by the scepticism of Scowcroft and also keen to break from Reagan’s cosy relations with Gorbachev, Bush’s presidency began with a deliberate ‘pause’ in superpower diplomacy.[48] With few active agenda items left by the Reagan White House – START I being the notable exception – Bush decided to order a set of studies ‘re-examining existing policy and goals by region, with reviews of arms control as well’. Working out how to deal with Moscow was ‘obviously our first priority’, Scowcroft would later recall, but the reports would take a while to produce. Indeed, the NSC review on the Soviet Union (NSR 3) did not land on the president’s desk until 14 March, the reviews on Eastern (NSR 4) and Western Europe (NSR 5, focused on closer union by 1992) two weeks after that.[49]

Meanwhile, Bush had not only opened the China door but strode right through it. On 25–6 February he met with the Communist Party in Beijing. It was the first time in American history that a new US president had travelled to Asia before going to Europe.[50]

*

Bush, who considered himself an expert on China, was keen to bring Beijing into a ‘Trans-Pacific Partnership’. ‘The importance of China is very clear to me,’ Bush told Brzezinski two weeks after his election. ‘I’d love to return to China before Deng leaves office entirely. I feel I have a special relationship there.’[51] Deng Xiaoping was the mastermind of China’s policies of ‘reform and opening up’ – the drive after Mao Zedong’s death in 1976 to abandon the autarkic planned economy and cautiously enter the global market. By 1989 the diminutive Deng was eighty-four and Bush was anxious to exploit their unusually long-standing personal relationship, which dated back to Bush’s quasi-ambassadorship to China in 1974–5. For Bush, China meant Deng. The president’s fascination with China had less to do with the country per se (its language, landscape or culture) than with its social and economic potential that Deng was in the process of unleashing into the global capitalist economy. Conversely, the Chinese referred to Bush as a lao pengyou – their term for a really trusted ‘old friend’ who is committed to building positive relations and acting as interlocutor between the People’s Republic of China (PRC) and the wider world but who also enjoys a special confidence that permits plain speaking. Those Americans before Bush who had earned such a distinction included Nixon and Kissinger; but neither Carter nor Reagan were considered a lao pengyou.[52]

China’s new course, promoted by Deng from 1978, was one of the transitional moments of the twentieth century. Under his leadership Beijing promoted rapid modernisation through greater engagement in an increasingly interdependent world, particularly with technologically advanced Western Europe and America. Domestically, measures were introduced to make policy more responsive to economic incentives. These included the decollectivisation of agriculture, allowing farmers to make profits; rewards for especially efficient industrial performance; and the promotion of small-scale private business. With an eye on both the global economy and the international power balance, Deng gradually relaxed controls on foreign investment and trade and sought membership of global financial institutions. His stated aim was to accomplish before the end of the century a total socio-economic transformation of his country, which in the 1980s ranked among the poorest third of states in the world. By the time Bush was elected president Deng’s gamble was already paying off. In just over one decade of reform, China’s GDP more than doubled from $150 billion in 1978 to over $310 billion in 1988.[53]

The world’s most populous country was in the throes of an economic revolution which, unlike Soviet Russia under Gorbachev, was very tightly managed by the Chinese Communist Party (CCP) and which also advanced step by step. Not only did Gorbachev’s economic liberalisation begin much later, in 1985 rather 1978, but the concomitant political reforms, which gradually dismantled the Soviet Communist Party’s monopoly on power, amounted to nothing less than a new system of governance. This process in turn stirred up destructive ethnic conflicts in what was a much less homogeneous society than China’s. Whereas in the PRC the process of economic reform was controlled from above, in the USSR perestroika combined with glasnost would eventually undermine the Soviet state.[54]

In the course of this Chinese revolution, the United States played a major role. Although Deng was initially keen to engage with Western Europe, America represented his ultimate model, especially after his eye-opening visit in early 1979 to mark the opening of full diplomatic relations: ‘what he saw in the United States was what he wanted for China in the future’. During a week’s whirlwind tour from Washington DC to Seattle, America’s factories and farms simply ‘bowled him over’. So impressive was US technology and productivity that, by his own admission, Deng could not sleep for several weeks.[55]

The Carter administration was keen for Deng’s reforms to succeed; it also wanted to pull China closer to the USA at a time when détente was eroding and the relationship with Moscow had slipped into a deep freeze amid the ‘New Cold War’. Not only did Carter normalise diplomatic relations with China but he granted ‘most favoured nation’ (MFN) status twelve months later – a crucial precondition for expanded bilateral trade. The PRC joined the World Bank in April 1980, the same month that it took over from Taiwan China’s place on the IMF. Accelerating the momentum, in September 1980 the Carter administration concluded four commercial agreements: on aviation, shipping, textiles and expanded consular representation. Announcing these, Carter called the Sino-American relationship ‘a new and vital force for peace and stability in the international scene’ which held ‘a promise of ever-increasing benefits in trade and other exchanges’ for both countries.[56]

Reagan took up Carter’s policy and pursued it with even greater vigour. One of the priorities of his new ‘global strategy’ was the integration of the Pacific Rim into the world economy. Within that enlarged market, China was potentially the biggest player, so its successful opening up would offer exceptional opportunities for US trade and investment. There was also a strategic dimension. The drive for economic modernisation would align China with the capitalist order and make it a more robust bulwark against the Soviet Union. In this vein, the Reagan administration offered Deng in 1981 a ‘strategic association’ with the USA – effectively a de facto alliance. So at a time when Cold War tensions ratcheted up, Sino-American security cooperation expanded. Beijing got US weapons technology, while coordinating with the American anti-communist campaigns in Afghanistan, Angola and Cambodia.[57] Although Reagan himself visited China in 1984, he was happy to make as much use as possible of his vice president’s old-friend status with the Chinese. Bush paid two week-long visits to Beijing in May 1982 and October 1985. On the second occasion he was particularly bullish about Sino-American trade: ‘The sky’s the limit, the door’s wide open,’ he told a news conference, adding that he found ‘much more openness’ now than three years before. Of course, continued progress depended on the Paramount Leader, now eighty-one. Observers were keenly aware that, in the interval between Bush’s first and second trips to China, three gerontocrats had passed from the scene in the Kremlin. But Bush cheerfully told the press of Deng’s words to him: ‘The vital organs of my body are functioning very well.’[58]

The evolving Sino-American relationship was proving a win-win situation. In 1983, the Reagan administration had taken the crucial step of liberalising Cold War controls on trade, technology and investment, allowing the private sector to engage with China at minimal cost to the American taxpayer. Deng, for his part, was desperate to tap every kind of American know-how. Between 1982 and 1984 export licences doubled and sales of high-tech goods such as computers, semiconductors, hydro-turbines and equipment for the petrochemical industry rose sevenfold from $144 million in 1982 to $1 billion in 1986.[59] Out of this grew American joint ventures with China, in areas such as energy exploration, transport and electronics. Consumer goods were another important sector for collaboration, with Coke and Pepsi, Heinz, AT&T, Bell South, American Express and Eastman Kodak among the high-profile US corporations represented.[60] In all these ways the US government acted as low-cost facilitator and gatekeeper for American private enterprise, using natural market forces to try to draw China out of its old shell during the course of the 1980s. In a dozen years of reform. Beijing and Washington became significant trading partners: US–China bilateral trade grew from $374 million in 1977 to nearly $18 billion in 1989.[61]

By the end of the Reagan administration Washington viewed Beijing with almost a sense of triumph. Secretary of State George Shultz described China’s ‘long march to the market’ as a ‘truly historic event – a great nation throwing off outmoded economic doctrines and liberating the energies of 1 billion talented people’. When Bush took office, therefore, it seemed axiomatic that Deng’s economic reforms were fully embedded and would go from strength to strength. The question now in Washington was how soon economic change would generate political change – akin to the transformations in the Soviet bloc under Gorbachev. Like a succession of American leaders since the era of Franklin Roosevelt and Cordell Hull, Bush tended to assume that one form of change would lead to the other: democratisation in China therefore seemed not a question of whether but when.[62]

Yet the consequences of Deng’s economic reforms were double-edged. They stirred popular desire for a more open society but also provoked mounting discontent by the late 1980s. During Mao’s Cultural Revolution a whole generation had lost out on higher education, and when Deng set China on course to catch up with the developed and developing world, frustrated radicals turned Beijing, Shanghai, Wuhan and other university cities into hotbeds of dissent. This occurred just when inflation hit unprecedented levels (8.8% in 1985) as the command economy was eased. The regime embarked on cautious political reforms and allowed intellectuals and academics a freer rein. Fang Lizhi, astrophysicist and vice chancellor of the University of Science and Technology in Hefei, became celebrated in the West for his advocacy of human rights and his support of student protest. And journalist Liu Binyan gained notoriety after he famously stated that ‘the economic reform is a very long leg in China, while the political reform is a very short one. One can’t proceed without being tripped up by the other.’ By way of explanation, he added: ‘The student movement […] exploded because political reform had hardly begun.’[63]

China’s leadership was not ready for democracy. Spasms of political openness were followed by harsh crackdowns when protests got out of hand. The problem wasn’t simply in the streets or on the campuses, it was also eating away at the party itself in a battle between hardliners and reformers. In a backlash against ‘bourgeois liberalisation’, conservative elders forced out the reformist party general secretary, Hu Yaobang, in January 1987.[64] There was a further challenge. The ageing Deng knew he had to hand over soon to the next generation. He ensured that Hu was replaced by another moderate, Zhao Zhiang, who in the autumn, at the CCP Congress, pushed through a watered-down programme of political reform. This resulted in the retirement of nearly half the Central Committee members – a major step in rejuvenating the party. Retirees included Deng himself who retained only the crucial post of chairman of the Military Affairs Committee. A temporary calm was established between the rival factions of the CCP and the Politburo’s vital Standing Committee, which hung in uneasy balance between reformists led by Zhao and conservatives headed by Li Peng.[65]

During 1988 the inflation rate rose to an unprecedented 18.5%[66] and student protests at price hikes, overcrowding and corruption hit new heights. Things got even worse in 1989. Media reports and images of the political transformation under way in the Soviet satellite states galvanised the protestors, and the impending seventieth anniversary of China’s fabled student uprising against the humiliations imposed on the country by the Versailles Treaty in 1919 – the Fourth of May Movement – also loomed large.[67] Deng – revealing that he worried more about the contagion of the Eastern European and Soviet reforms than Western political ideas – stated in a speech on 25 April 1989: ‘This is not an ordinary student movement but a turmoil … Those influenced by Yugoslav, Polish, Hungarian, and Soviet liberalism have destabilised our society with the objective of overthrowing the Communist leadership, which will endanger the future of our country and our nation.’ The CCP still had no intention of loosening its grip on society or allowing political pluralism in the manner of Gorbachev.[68]

This, however, did not seem to bother George Bush. He had faith in Deng as a progressive leader, whereas Gorbachev was still an unknown quantity and the Soviet Union much more of an existential threat to America and NATO. So, once he became president, there seemed no reason for any kind of ‘pause’ in Sino-American relations. On the contrary Bush, as he had told Brzezinski in November 1988, was keen to consolidate and advance his ‘special relationship’ with Deng and China as soon as possible.

There was also another pressing concern on Bush’s mind. Nothing about China could ever be considered without taking Sino-Soviet relations into account. Washington, Moscow and Beijing formed a strategic triangle whose dynamics were always in flux. Bush was well aware that, a year before he assumed office, Mikhail Gorbachev had already formally proposed a summit meeting with the Chinese leadership – the first since Khrushchev and Mao had met in 1959 on the brink of the Sino-Soviet split that brought the two countries to the verge of war ten years later.

Gorbachev’s overture reflected his desire for normal relations between the world’s two largest communist nations but it was also driven by the need for international stability so as to concentrate on reforms at home. Deng, in turn, had always been clear about China’s conditions for such a summit: 1) that Moscow reduce its military presence along the Sino-Soviet border; 2) that the Soviets withdraw their troops from Afghanistan; and 3) that the Kremlin end support for the Vietnamese occupation of Cambodia. By the end of 1988 the Chinese were sufficiently satisfied with Soviet concessions to issue a formal invitation for Gorbachev to come to Beijing in May 1989 for summit talks with Deng. The visit was intended to symbolise Sino-Soviet rapprochement after three decades of estrangement and even antagonism.[69]

Gorbachev did not know Deng personally. He had never been to China and was certainly not a lao pengyou. Twenty-seven years Deng’s junior, Gorbachev had few memories of Sino-Soviet relations before the split, which had occurred when he was only in his twenties. Nevertheless, like Bush, he had prioritised a breakthrough with China ever since becoming general secretary. Yet Deng was wary. Although he welcomed closer economic links with the USSR, he did not appreciate Gorbachev’s enthusiasm for political reforms and even spoke of him as an ‘idiot’ for putting politics before economics.[70] For his part, Gorbachev remained sceptical of China’s reform programme in the absence of a major political overhaul, which to his mind was required for a full and successful perestroika. And so he kept downplaying Chinese reforms and indeed prophesied their failure. He also dismissed the Chinese as mere imitators. ‘They all now claim they started perestroika before us,’ he scoffed. ‘They are adopting our approaches.’ Gorbachev’s lofty attitude reflected both a traditionally dismissive Soviet stereotyping of the PRC and also his own competitive, almost messianic, ambition that perestroika – as proclaimed on the title page of his book Perestroika – was not just ‘for our country’ but ‘for the entire world’.[71]

In fact Gorbachev appeared to see himself as the new Lenin. He claimed that his country was the leading state of the socialist system and, as his aide Georgy Shakhnazarov put it, one of the ‘greatest powers or superpowers of the modern world, upon which depends the fate of the world’. From this perspective, predominant among Kremlin policymakers and especially Gorbachev’s own entourage, China was still a secondary power, despite its remarkable recent rise from poverty and backwardness. Moscow itself had always craved recognition from the West to which it looked, at times neurotically, as the sole benchmark against which to measure its own successes. And in this bigger quest for international status, it was almost necessary to deride China’s experience and achievements.[72]

This was not, of course, the way the relationship was viewed in Beijing. Deng was adamant that China not be seen as Moscow’s ‘younger brother’ – as Stalin cynically treated Mao. And with a view to resetting Sino-Soviet relations, Gorbachev was at pains to assure the Chinese he did not harbour any such views: China, he said, had outgrown such a role. Their mutual edginess, however, was a reminder that thirty years of alienation could not be transcended overnight. And the Chinese leaders were quietly watching and drawing conclusions from what seemed to them an utterly chaotic Soviet situation.[73]

So Sino-Soviet relations were at a particularly delicate moment at the beginning of 1989, with the Gorbachev–Deng summit scheduled for May. In Washington, on the third point of the triangle, Bush and Scowcroft were keen to get to Beijing ahead of the Soviets. Even though the Cold War was on the wane, the old verities of Nixon-era competitive triangularity remained a strategic imperative. Bush and his advisers feared that the smooth-talking Gorbachev would be able to charm the Chinese, as he had done in Europe, ending conflict on their joint borders and burying the ideological hatchet. As Scowcroft put it: ‘We anticipated that he might attempt a rapprochement between Moscow and Beijing, and would have liked to be certain it did not come at our expense. There was no way, however, to justify a trip to China in the first quarter of the first year of the president’s term.’[74]

Then fate came to Bush’s aid. Hirohito, the emperor of Japan, died on 7 January 1989.

*

The president’s attendance at Hirohito’s funeral in Tokyo on 24 February meant a great deal to the Japanese. Not only was Bush the head of state of Japan’s great ally and protector, he was also a veteran of the Pacific War in which Hirohito had been the official leader of one of America’s Axis enemies. The visit therefore symbolised the remarkable reconciliation between their two states since 1945. Yet it also mattered in other ways. The presence of the US president prompted other world dignitaries to come as well, further raising the profile of the occasion, and it gave Bush the chance to engage in funeral diplomacy. He held over twenty one-to-one meetings on the margins of the ceremonies, with figures such as François Mitterrand and Richard von Weizsäcker, the presidents of France and West Germany. Tokyo was a perfect opportunity for Bush to take the temperature of world politics without becoming entangled in the paraphernalia of high-profile summitry.[75]

Above all, the unforeseen trip to Japan offered an ideal pretext to visit China. As soon as Bush was inaugurated, Scowcroft met with Chinese ambassador Han Xu to start detailed planning. Time was too short to set up a full-dress state visit, so instead a ‘working visit’ was arranged – a trip without any specific agenda except for the president to reconnect with China’s senior leaders and to reaffirm his commitment to the Asia-Pacific region.[76] Just before Bush flew from Tokyo to Beijing, he and Japan’s prime minister Noboru Takeshita compared notes. It was ‘important for the US and Japan to help the modernisation of China’, Takeshita told Bush. And he stressed that improved Sino-Soviet relations were not expected to ‘pose any threat to Japan’. The president, for his part, sought to reassure Japan by emphasising that, when he eventually unveiled his policies on the USSR and arms control, they would not have any detrimental effect on Japan or China. Overall, Bush’s main message was: don’t worry, we remain a staunch ally of Japan.[77]

Happy returns: George and Barbara in the Forbidden City

On arriving in Beijing on the evening of 25 February, Bush was warmly received at the Great Hall of the People by Chinese president Yang Shangkun, who again highlighted Bush’s special stature as a lao pengyou. In a cordial forty-five-minute chat, Yang called Bush’s first presidential visit to Beijing (and his fifth trip to China since his serving as US envoy in 1974–5) ‘very significant’. There was plenty of personal flattery, of the sort that Chinese leaders lavished on their ‘special friends’. President Yang threw in lines like ‘you’ve made great contributions to the development of Sino-US relations and to cooperation between our two countries … I think this shows that you, Mr President, pay much attention to our bilateral relationship … Personally, as I have told Ambassador Lord many times, if I could vote, I would vote for Bush.’[78]

But behind all the sweet talk there was substance as well. Both sides made clear their commitment to deepening the bilateral relationship in and for itself – not just to counterbalance Soviet power. ‘I feel the relationship we have now is not based on some facet of Soviet relations,’ Bush declared, ‘but on its own merits. For example, we now have cultural, educational and trade relations. It is not just based on worry about the Soviets, although we still do to a degree.’ Yang agreed: ‘We are two big countries, located on opposite sides of the Pacific Ocean. So the friendly cooperation between our two countries will promote cooperation in the Pacific region and in the world as well. This is most important for the maintenance of world peace, stability and security.’[79]

All this was a curtain-raiser to the meeting that Bush really wanted, with China’s diminutive Paramount Leader.[80] He talked with Deng for an hour on the morning of 26 February in a room off the Great Hall of the People. Bush was at pains to offer assurances that he had not rushed to Beijing in order to steal a march on Gorbachev, but the two leaders spent much of their time circling around the great imponderable of where the Soviet Union was going. Deng spoke at length about history, emphasising that the two countries which had caused China the most suffering and ‘humiliation’ over the last century and a half had been Japan and Russia. Even though Japan cost China ‘tens of millions of lives’ and ‘incalculable’ financial damage, the Soviet impact had been much more profound because they acquired 3 million square kilometres of Chinese territory. Given that background, Deng wondered, even if his summit with Gorbachev proved successful and relations were normalised, what would follow? ‘Personally, I think it is still an unknown quantity,’ he said. ‘The fact is there are many accumulated problems. What’s more they have deep historical roots.’[81]

Bush echoed Deng’s feeling that one man could not change history. ‘Gorbachev is a charming man, and the Soviet Union is in a state of change. But the byword for the US is caution … Our experience tells us that you cannot make broad foreign policy decisions based on the personality or aspirations of one man. You need to consider the trend of the whole society and country.’[82]

At the end, Deng brought this point much closer to home. ‘With regard to the problems confronting China, let me say to you that the overwhelming need is to maintain stability. Without stability, everything will be gone; even accomplishments will be ruined.’ Looking hard at Bush, he added: ‘We hope our friends abroad can understand this point.’ Bush did not blink: ‘We do.’ Deng’s message was clear. Whatever one thought about perestroika and glasnost, about freedom of choice in Eastern Europe and grand proclamations about universal values, there would be no Gorbachevs in China. Human rights and political reform were not appropriate subjects for discussion, even with a lao pengyou. Bush got the message and had no intention of challenging it. The two leaders understood each other. ‘All right,’ said Deng, ‘let’s go to lunch.’[83]

Bush left Beijing optimistic that important groundwork had been laid for what he called a ‘productive period’ in diplomatic relations, despite the turbulence in China’s domestic affairs. The president remembered appreciatively ‘the warm and genuine handshakes between old friends’. But more pragmatically he also felt that he had been able to speak frankly with the Chinese leadership[84] and that the two sides could develop a practical working relationship based on a ‘real level of trust’. Bush had no illusions that anything would be easy with Beijing and therefore lobbied for good communication on all issues, but he recognised that criticism should not be expressed in public, particularly about human rights. ‘I understood that strong words and direct views were best exchanged between us privately, as in this visit, not in press statements and angry speeches.’[85]

Returning to Washington from his first foreign trip as president, Bush reflected on what he had learned. Back at Andrews Air Force Base on 27 February he told the assembled press that his whirlwind tour of Japan, China and South Korea had underscored for him America’s stature as a present and future ‘Pacific power’. From those four days of intensive discussions, what stuck in his mind was that ‘the world looks to America for leadership’. This, he asserted, was ‘not just because we’re militarily strong, not just because we have the world’s largest economy, but because the ideas we have championed are now dominant. Freedom and democracy, openness, and the prosperity that derives from individual initiatives in the free marketplace – these ideas, once thought to be strictly American, have now become the goals of mankind all over Asia.’[86]

This was a striking ideological clarion call from a man who was not a natural rhetorician. Less than three months after Gorbachev’s grandstanding performance at the UN, the new US president was putting down his own markers. The Soviet leader liked to present his new socialism as the answer not only for Russia but also for the whole world. Now Bush was making a counterclaim for American values, almost as if the ideological Cold War was still raging. Although that February evening at Andrews he talked particularly about the USA in Asia, by the middle of April he was also speaking in similar tones about Eastern Europe.

*

The president had already made clear to Weizsäcker in Tokyo on 24 February ‘we don’t want Gorbachev to win a propaganda offensive’. As Atlantic allies ‘we must stay together’.[87] Six weeks later, on 12 April, he developed his thinking when talking with NATO secretary general Manfred Wörner. He said he intended to strengthen the Alliance’s solidarity by taking a leading role. He was worried that ‘Gorbachev had dominated the headlines in Europe, causing strains over NATO defense issues’ – in particular undermining support in West Germany for short-range nuclear missiles. Now was the time, said the president, to ensure that NATO would not ‘unravel’. Wörner agreed: he saw the upcoming NATO summit in late May as a ‘unique opportunity’ in a truly ‘historic’ situation. The challenge was that ‘although we are successful, public perception is that Gorbachev is driving history’. It was up to Bush to ‘turn this public perception around’. NATO should not just challenge Moscow on arms control but ‘stress the political battleground’, pushing for ‘a Europe of self-determination and freedom, free of the Berlin Wall and the Brezhnev Doctrine’. In this endeavour NATO looked for American ‘ideas, concepts and cooperation’ because the other allies would not be able to ‘deliver much’. Bush concurred. Gorbachev had, ‘like a kind of surfer, caught a wave of public support’. It would be important at the upcoming NATO summit to find ‘agreement on a broad vision of our own’.[88]

The president was now ready for ‘the vision thing’. In a carefully planned series of major speeches during April and May, he gradually unveiled his grand scenario for a Europe emerging from the Cold War. The first speech was deliberately staged in Hamtramck, a predominantly Polish–American suburb of Detroit, on 17 April – twelve days after Poland had unveiled major constitutional reforms: the creation of the Senate and the office of the president, as well legalisation of the free trade union Solidarity. These major structural changes were the result of two months of round-table talks between the opposition movement and the communist regime under General Wojciech Jaruzelski. Democratic elections would follow later in the summer. The ‘ideas of democracy’, as Bush put it, were clearly ‘returning with renewed force in Europe’, with Poland in the vanguard – hence the otherwise unlikely venue of Hamtramck.

Picking up themes from his inaugural address, Bush reflected on the passing of totalitarianism, the spread of freedom and the right to self-determination. ‘The West can now be bold in proposing a vision of the European future,’ he declared. ‘We dream of the day when there will be no barriers to the free movement of peoples, goods, and ideas. We dream of the day when Eastern European peoples will be free to choose their system of government and to vote for the party of their choice in regular, free, contested elections … And we envision an Eastern Europe in which the Soviet Union has renounced military intervention as an instrument of its policy.’ Bush’s refrain about ‘dreams’ and ‘visions’ fleshed out his comments five days earlier to Wörner. He was driven by a growing conviction that America, as the leader of the West, now had an unprecedented opportunity to apply its statecraft to the reshaping of Europe. ‘What has brought us to this opening?’ he asked. ‘The unity and strength of the democracies, yes, and something else: the bold, new thinking in the Soviet Union, the innate desire for freedom in the hearts of all men.’ The president proclaimed that ‘if we’re wise, united, and ready to seize the moment, we will be remembered as the generation that made all Europe free’.[89]

Scowcroft called the Hamtramck speech the administration’s ‘first major step on Eastern Europe’. Although he admitted that it received ‘scarcely a glance’ in the US, Bush’s words attracted much greater attention in Europe and the USSR, where Pravda was indeed rather favourable, singling out the president’s positive evaluation of Soviet reforms and the prospects for better superpower relations.[90]

By May the administration’s sluggish review of Soviet policy was finally gathering pace. On the 12th Bush used the commencement ceremonies at Texas A&M University in his adopted home state to publicise something of the new strategy for superpower relations, which he summed up in the key concept ‘Beyond Containment’. In other words, the president wanted to transcend the defensive posture that had characterised US policy at the height of the Cold War. Here was a more assertive Bush: the cautious bystander on the margins of the Reagan and Gorbachev summit at Governors Island the previous December now had a clear sense of where he wanted to go:

We are approaching the conclusion of an historic post-war struggle between two visions: one of tyranny and conflict and one of democracy and freedom. The review of US–Soviet relations that my administration has just completed outlines a new path toward resolving this struggle … Our review indicates that forty years of perseverance have brought us a precious opportunity, and now it is time to move beyond containment to a new policy for the 1990s – one that recognises the full scope of change taking place around the world and in the Soviet Union itself. In sum, the United States now has as its goal much more than simply containing Soviet expansionism. We seek the integration of the Soviet Union into the community of nations.

Bush also set out the terms on which the USSR would be welcomed back ‘into the world order’. Fine rhetoric from Gorbachev was not sufficient – ‘promises are never enough’. The Kremlin must take some concrete ‘positive steps’. Top of the list were to reduce Soviet forces (proportionate to legitimate security needs), provide support for self-determination, ‘tear down the Iron Curtain’ and find diplomatic solutions with the West to resolve regional disputes around the world, such as in Afghanistan, Angola and Nicaragua. Taking these steps would make possible a qualitatively new relationship between the two superpowers.[91]

And yet, as Bush admitted, Soviet military capabilities remained ‘awesome’. So deterrence still remained vital and this demanded a strong NATO – the theme of Bush’s speech on 24 May in New London, Connecticut, to the US Coast Guard Academy. There he outlined future US military strategy and arms-control policy for the next decade. ‘Our policy is to seize every – and I mean every – opportunity to build a better, more stable relationship with the Soviet Union, just as it is our policy to defend American interests in light of the enduring reality of Soviet military power.’ He acknowledged that, ‘amidst the many challenges we’ll face, there will be risks. But let me assure you, we’ll find more than our share of opportunities … There’s an opportunity before us to shape a new world.’

A new world was possible because ‘we are witnessing the end of an idea: the final chapter of the communist experiment. Communism is now recognised … as a failed system … But the eclipse of communism is only one half of the story of our time. The other is the ascendancy of the democratic idea’ – evident across the world from trade unionists in Warsaw to students in Beijing. ‘Even as we speak today,’ he told the young American graduands, ‘the world is transfixed by the dramatic events in Tiananmen Square. Everywhere, those voices are speaking the language of democracy and freedom.’[92]

The Coast Guard speech completed Bush’s public exposition of his administration’s new strategy toward the European cockpit of East–West relations ahead of the NATO summit in Brussels on 30 May.[93] His visionary statements about peace and freedom, about global free markets and a community of democracies, give the lie to later claims that his foreign policy was aimless, merely reactive and ‘too unwilling to move in untested waters’. Above all, he was repeatedly emphasising the place of US leadership in the world and asserting what the administration regularly referred to as the ‘common values of the West’.[94] As Bush had said in that scene-setting cameo on Governors Island, he intended to take his time and act prudently in an era when the fundamentals of international relations had been shaken as never before since 1945. ‘Prudence’ would indeed remain a watchword of Bush’s diplomacy but this did not preclude vision and hope. Those speeches of April and May 1989 – often neglected by commentators amid the dramas of the second half of the year – make the ambition of his foreign policy abundantly clear.

But converting ambition into achievement was a different challenge. And his first test was particularly demanding. The NATO summit in Brussels was unusually high profile because it coincided with the fortieth anniversary of the Atlantic Alliance and because it was imperative to come up with an eye-catching response to the potpourri of dramatic arms-reduction proposals Gorbachev had tossed out in his UN speech. To make matters worse, NATO governments had been unable to agree in advance on a joint position, mainly because of fundamental disputes about short-range nuclear forces (SNFs) – those with a range of less than 500 kilometres. And, at a less visible level, the arguments surrounding the NATO summit may be seen as marking a subtle but significant shift in America’s alliance priorities in Western Europe – away from Great Britain and towards West Germany.[95]

Britain, represented by Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher – the notorious ‘Iron Lady’ – demanded rapid implementation of a 1985 NATO agreement to modernise its SNFs (eighty-eight Lance missile launchers and some 700 warheads). Her fixation was with their deterrent value and NATO’s defensibility. The coalition government of West Germany, where most of these missiles were stationed, instead pressed the USA to pursue negotiations on SNF reduction with the Soviet Union, building on the success of the superpower 1987 treaty to eliminate all their intermediate nuclear forces (INFs) worldwide. Foreign Minister Hans-Dietrich Genscher – leader of the junior coalition partner the Free Democrats (FDP) – even lobbied, like Gorbachev, for the total abolition of SNFs. This was known as the ‘third zero’ – building on the ‘double zero’ agreement for the abolition of INFs in Europe and Asia. For Thatcher, relatively secure in her island kingdom, these weapons were an instrument of military strategy but for Genscher and for the German left they were a matter of life or death, because Germany would be the inevitable epicentre of a European war. Kohl considered Genscher’s position as far too extreme but he not only needed to appease his coalition partner and calm the domestic public mood by supporting some kind of arms-reduction talks, he also had to navigate around ‘that woman’, as he called Thatcher, and keep the Alliance strong.[96]

Both the British and the Germans had been manoeuvring ahead of the summit. Thatcher met Gorbachev on 6 April in London. On a human level, the two of them had got on famously ever since their first encounter in December 1984, before he became general secretary, when she proclaimed that Gorbachev was a man with whom she could ‘do business’.[97] At their meeting in 1989 the personal chemistry was equally evident but so were their fundamental differences on nuclear policy. Gorbachev launched into a passionate speech in favour of nuclear abolition and ‘a nuclear-free Europe’ – which Thatcher totally rejected – and he vented his frustrations with Bush for not responding more positively to his disarmament initiatives. The prime minister, playing her preferred role as elder stateswoman, was at pains to reassure him: ‘Bush is a very different person from Reagan. Reagan was an idealist who firmly defended his convictions … Bush is a more balanced person, he gives more attention to detail than Reagan did. But as a whole, he will continue the Reagan line, including on Soviet–American relations. He will strive to achieve agreements that are in our common interest.’

Gorbachev jumped on those last words: ‘That is the question – in our common interests or in your Western interests?’ The reply came back: ‘I am convinced in the common interest.’ Her subtext was clearly that she was the one who could broker the relationship between the two superpowers.[98]

Privately, however, Thatcher was worried about the new US president. She had developed a close, if sometimes manipulative, rapport with ‘Ronnie’ and had felt secure about the centrality of the much-vaunted Anglo-American ‘special relationship’ in US foreign policy.[99] With Bush, the situation was less clear. It appeared that the new administration’s ‘pause’ also entailed a review of relations with Britain. And she felt that the State Department under Baker was biased against her and inclined to favour Bonn rather than London.[100] Her suspicions were not unfounded. Bush, a pragmatist, disliked Thatcher’s dogmatism and certainly did not intend to let her run the Alliance. Both he and Baker found her difficult to get on with, whereas Kohl seemed an agreeable partner.[101]

The problem in Bonn was not on the personal level but the political, because of the deep rift within the coalition. In several phone conversations during April and May, Kohl tried to reassure Bush of his loyalty to the transatlantic partnership and that he would not let the SNF issue ruin the summit. His language was almost desperate – a point not concealed even in the official American ‘telcon’ record of their talks. ‘He wanted the summit to be successful … He wanted the president to have a success. It would be the president’s first trip to Europe as president. The president was a proven friend of Europeans and, in particular, of the Germans.’[102]

The pre-summit bickering in Europe did not faze Bush. He knew that Kohl’s aim was ‘a strong NATO’ and that the chancellor had ‘linked his political existence to this goal’.[103] But the prognostications before the summit were distinctly bleak. ‘Bush Arrives for Talks With a Divided NATO’, the New York Times headlined on 29 May. The paper claimed that Bonn’s insistence on reducing the threat of SNFs to German territory raised fears in Washington, London and Paris of nothing less than the ‘denuclearisation’ of NATO’s central front. Such was the gulf, the newspaper noted, that no communiqué had been agreed in advance, which meant that NATO’s sixteen leaders would ‘have to thrash it out themselves’ at the summit. One NATO delegate confessed, ‘I honestly don’t know if a compromise is possible.’[104]

The president, however, had something up his sleeve when he arrived in Brussels. He presented his allies with a radical arms-reduction proposal not on SNFs but on conventional forces in Europe. This had not been easy to hammer out in Washington but fear of an alliance crisis in Brussels enabled Bush to bang heads together. What the president dubbed his ‘conventional parity initiative’ of 275,000 troops on each side would mean the withdrawal of about 30,000 Americans from Western Europe and about 325,000 Soviet soldiers from Eastern Europe. This was to be agreed between the superpowers within six to twelve months. Bush’s initiative was intended to probe Gorbachev’s longer-term readiness to accept disproportionate cuts that would eliminate the Red Army superiority in Eastern Europe on which Soviet domination of their satellite states had always depended. But more immediately, according to the New York Times, it was meant to ‘bring about a dramatic shift in the summit agenda’, thereby ‘swamping the missile discussion’. And this indeed proved to be the case. After nine hours of intense debate the allies accepted Bush’s proposals on cuts to conventional forces in Europe and especially his accelerated timetable. In return, the United States committed itself to ‘enter into negotiations to achieve a partial reduction of American and Soviet land-based nuclear missile forces’ as soon as the implementation of a conventional-arms accord was ‘under way’. This deal kept the Genscherites happy because of the prospect of rapid SNF negotiations, while Thatcher and Mitterrand – representing the two European nuclear powers – were gratified that there had been no further erosion of the principles of NATO’s nuclear deterrence per se. And it also suited Bush: keen to lower the conventional-warfare threat in Europe, he had been adamant that on the issue of nukes there should be ‘no third zero’.[105]

So the NATO summit that had seemed so precarious ended up as a resounding success. ‘An almost euphoric atmosphere’ surrounded the final press conference. Kohl declared ebulliently that he now perceived ‘a historic chance’ for ‘realistic and significant’ progress on arms control. He could not resist poking fun at his bête noire, Thatcher, who, he said, had come to Brussels taking a very hard line against any SNF negotiations and fiercely opposing concessions to the Germans. ‘Margaret Thatcher stood up for her interests, in her temperamental way,’ the chancellor remarked. ‘We have different temperaments. She is a woman and I’m not.’[106]

The remarkably harmonious outcome of the Brussels meeting – ‘we were all winners’, proclaimed Kohl[107] – was a big boost for NATO at forty. Indeed, he felt it was the ‘best kind of a birthday present’ the Alliance could have.[108] But it was also a huge boon for Bush, who had been under attack at home for failing to give leadership to the Alliance and for surrendering the diplomatic initiative to Gorbachev. Now, however, with his compromise package he had turned the entire situation around. As Scowcroft reflected with satisfaction, after this ‘fantastic result’ the press ‘never returned to their theme of the spring – that we had no vision and no strategy’.[109] Brussels, stated an American reporter, was ‘Bush’s hour’.[110]

As soon as the NATO press conference was over, the president travelled on to a sunlit evening in Bonn, basking in the warm glow of his success.[111] At a state dinner that night in a grand eighteenth-century restaurant, the president toasted another fortieth anniversary – that of the Federal Republic itself. ‘In 1989,’ he declared expansively, ‘we are nearer our goals of peace and European reconciliation than at any time since the founding of NATO and the Federal Republic.’ He added: ‘I don’t believe German–American relations have ever been better.’[112]

The following morning, 31 May, the Bush–Kohl caravan sailed on down the Rhine to the picture-book city of Mainz, capital of the Rhineland-Palatinate, Kohl’s home state.[113] ‘The United States and the Federal Republic have always been firm friends and allies,’ the president announced, ‘but today we share an added role: partners in leadership.’[114]

This was a striking phrase, testimony to the maturation of the American–West German relationship over the previous forty years – made ever sharper by the downgrading at the summit of Thatcher and by implication of London’s ‘special relationship’. To speak about Bonn as Washington’s ‘partner in leadership’ definitely stuck in her gullet: as she sadly admitted, it ‘confirmed the way American thinking about Europe was going’.[115]

Whereas Thatcher fixated on the partnership aspect of what Bush was saying, in his Mainz speech the president focused much more on what it meant to lead. ‘Leadership’, he declared, ‘has a constant companion: responsibility. And our responsibility is to look ahead and grasp the promise of the future … For forty years, the seeds of democracy in Eastern Europe lay dormant, buried under the frozen tundra of the Cold War … But the passion for freedom cannot be denied forever. The world has waited long enough. The time is right. Let Europe be whole and free … Let Berlin be next – let Berlin be next!’[116]

Two years before, Bush’s predecessor Ronald Reagan had stood before the Brandenburg Gate and called on the Soviet leader, ‘Mr Gorbachev, tear down this wall.’[117] Now in June 1989 a new US president was throwing down the gauntlet once again, mounting a new propaganda offensive against the charismatic Soviet leader. ‘Let Berlin be next’ was in one way headline-grabbing rhetoric, but it revealed that the administration was already beginning to grapple with the issue of German unification. As Bush said in his Mainz speech, ‘the frontier of barbed wire and minefields between Hungary and Austria is being removed, foot by foot, mile by mile. Just as the barriers are coming down in Hungary, so must they fall throughout all of Eastern Europe.’ Nowhere was the East–West divide starker than in Berlin. ‘There this brutal wall cuts neighbour from neighbour, brother from brother. And that wall stands as a monument to the failure of communism. It must come down.’

Despite his emphasis on Germany, Bush’s vision remained much broader. The will for freedom and democracy, he insisted yet again, was a truly global phenomenon. ‘This one idea is sweeping across Eurasia. This one idea is why the communist world, from Budapest to Beijing, is in ferment.’[118] By June 1989, Hungary was undoubtedly on the move but here change was occurring peacefully. On the other side of the world, however, the forces of democratic protest and communist oppression collided violently and with dramatic global consequences in China’s Forbidden City.

*

On 15 May, just before noon, Mikhail Gorbachev landed at Beijing’s airport to begin a historic four-day trip to China. Descending the steps of his blue-and-white Aeroflot jet, he was greeted by the Chinese president Yang Shangkun. The two men then walked past an honour guard of several hundred Chinese troops in olive-green uniforms and white gloves. A twenty-one-gun salute boomed in the background.

The long awaited Sino-Soviet summit showed that relations between the two countries were returning to something like ‘normal’ after three decades of ideological rifts, military confrontation and regional rivalries. The Soviet leader certainly viewed his visit as a ‘watershed’. In a written statement issued to reporters at the airport, he remarked: ‘We have come to China in the springtime … All over the world people associate this season with renewal and hope. This is consonant with our mood.’ Indeed, it was anticipated that Gorbachev’s visit could seal the reconciliation of the two largest communist nations at a time when both were struggling through profound economic and political changes. ‘We have a great deal to say to each other as communist parties, even in practical terms,’ observed Yevgeny Primakov, a leading Soviet expert on Asia, ahead of the meeting. ‘This normalisation comes at a time when we are both studying how socialist countries should approach capitalism. Before, we both thought that socialism could be spread only by revolution. Today,’ he added, ‘we both stress evolution.’ There were fears in Asia and America that this summit meeting might even presage a new Sino-Soviet axis, after years when the United States had been able to capitalise on the rift between Moscow and Beijing.[119]

Gorbachev arrived in a city gripped by political upheaval. For over a month students from across China, but especially from Beijing, had been on the streets. Their frustrations against the authorities had been simmering for several years but the immediate trigger was the death of Hu Yaobang, former general secretary of the Chinese Communist Party (1982–7) – the man who in 1986 had dared to suggest that Deng was ‘old-fashioned’ and should retire. Instead Deng and the hardliners had forced out Hu in 1987, who was then lauded by the students as a champion of reform. In the weeks after Hu died on 15 April 1989, more than a million people turned out to protest in Beijing – denouncing growing social inequality, nepotism and corruption and demanding democracy as an all-purpose panacea. What started out as law-abiding protest quickly swelled into a radical movement. And the stakes rose even higher for both sides, after the party newspaper the People’s Daily, in an editorial on 26 April, characterised the demonstrations as nothing less than ‘turmoil’ and denounced the students as ‘rioters’ with a ‘well-planned plot’ to cause anarchy. They were accused of displaying unpatriotic behaviour, of ‘attacking’ and even ‘rejecting’ the Chinese Communist Party and the socialist system.[120]

On 13 May, two days before Gorbachev’s arrival in the capital, a thousand students began a hunger strike in Tiananmen Square, bedding down on quilts and newspapers close to the monument honouring the nation’s heroes. The Soviet leader’s visit was a pivotal moment for the young Chinese protestors, for it offered an unprecedented opportunity to air their grievances while the eyes of the world were upon them. They carried banners in Russian, English and Chinese. One read ‘Welcome to a real reformer’; another ‘Democracy is our common dream’.[121] Gorbachev – a household name from the media – represented to them everything the Chinese leaders were not: a democrat, a reformer and a changemaker. Their aim was to take their case straight to him – over the heads of the regime – while embarrassing their leaders into making concessions. The students delivered a letter with 6,000 signatures to the Soviet embassy asking to meet with Gorbachev. The response was cautious. The embassy announced that the general secretary would talk with members of the public but it gave no details about who and when.[122]

New dawn for China?

The CCP leadership was caught in a cleft stick. For weeks the summit talks had been meticulously prepared: the Chinese government wanted everything to unfold without a hitch. Instead, the centre of their capital had been turned into a sea of demonstrators chanting to the world media ‘You have Gorbachev. And who do we have?’[123] The massive student protests were therefore a major embarrassment, especially considering the presence of no less than 1,200 foreign journalists, there to cover the summit but now taking every opportunity to interview protestors and broadcast live pictures of the chaos into which Beijing had descended. And the government could do nothing to stop them, for fear that repression would be beamed around the world. It was, as Deng tersely admitted, a ‘mess’. He told insiders: ‘Tiananmen is the symbol of the People’s Republic of China. The Square has to be in order when Gorbachev comes. We have to maintain our international image.’[124]

On Sunday 14 May, the day before the summit talks, the students made clear that they had no intention of complying with appeals to their patriotism by the Chinese authorities, who had called on them to clear the Square. On the contrary, some 10,000 held a vigil in the middle of Tiananmen; by daylight on Monday the crowd had swollen to an estimated 250,000. Top party officials spoke repeatedly with student leaders, promising to meet their demands for dialogue and warning of grave international embarrassment for China if they did not desist. All this was to no avail. In fact, the students’ obduracy forced a last-minute shift in Chinese protocol – changing the whole dynamic of the summit.[125]

The grand red-carpet entrée for Gorbachev up the sweeping steps of the Great Hall of the People that faces Tiananmen Square had to be abandoned. Instead there was a hastily arranged welcome ceremony at Beijing’s old airport and an incognito drive through backstreets and alleyways to enter the National People’s Congress building by a side door. Only when safely inside would Gorbachev enjoy a lavish state banquet hosted by President Yang.[126]

The situation was equally delicate for Gorbachev. The only appropriate response, it seemed, was to keep completely out of China’s internal politics and pretend that everything was running normally. But privately the Soviet delegation was shocked. Largely in the dark, they wondered whether China was falling apart. Maybe the country was in the midst of a wholesale ‘revolution’, perhaps on its political last legs? Gorbachev tried to act with appropriate ‘reserve and judiciousness’, as he put it later, but as soon as he saw the situation first-hand he felt they should leave for home as quickly as possible.[127] Obliged to speak to the press once during his visit, he offered only vague answers. He dodged questions about the protests – admitting he had seen the demonstrators with their banners demanding Deng’s resignation but saying that he would not himself assume ‘the role of a judge’ or even ‘deliver assessments’ about what was going on.[128] Of course, he said, he was personally for glasnost, perestroika and political dialogue but China was in a different situation and he was in no position to be ‘China’s Gorbachev’. Indeed, he had told his own staff on arriving that he was not keen to take the Chinese road, he did not want Red Square to look like Tiananmen Square.[129]

Conversely, the Chinese leadership did not want Beijing to go the way of Budapest or Warsaw. The visit of the prime champion of communist reform provoked intense debate within the CCP. On 13 May Deng had made clear his dogmatic hard-line position to the politically reformist Zhao Ziyang. ‘We must not give an inch on the basic principle of upholding Communist Party rule and rejecting a Western multiparty system.’ Zhao was not convinced: ‘When we allow some democracy, things might look chaotic on the surface; but these little “troubles” are normal inside a democratic and legal framework. They prevent major upheavals and actually make for stability and peace in the long run.’[130]

Prime Minister Li Peng took a position similar to Deng, with a preconceived and highly negative view of the man from the Kremlin and his reform agenda: ‘Gorbachev shouts a lot and does little,’ Li wrote in his diary. And by eroding the party monopoly on power he had ‘created an opposition to himself’, whereas the CCP had kept sole control and thereby ‘united the great majority of officials’. Li also blamed glasnost for triggering ethnic unrest inside the USSR, especially the Caucasus, and for stirring up the political upheavals in Eastern Europe. He warned that such recklessness might lead to the total break-up of the Soviet empire and spread this contagion to China itself. Deng and Li spoke for most of the inner circle, which was extremely wary of their Soviet visitor – especially given the inspirational effect he clearly had on his youthful Chinese fan club.[131]

Like Bush three months earlier, on 15 and 16 May Gorbachev met with China’s senior figures. But unlike Bush’s experience, there were no warm recollections of past times together; no intimacy or small talk. In fact, even though Yang and Li had lived for a while in the USSR as students and spoke Russian quite well, there was no personal connection between Gorbachev and his Chinese interlocutors. But, as with Bush, it was the encounter with Deng that really mattered to Gorbachev.

‘Gorbachev 58, Deng 85’[fn1] read some of the banners in the streets, contrasting the youthfulness and dynamism of the Russian leader and the conservatism of his ‘elderly’ Chinese counterpart, who would be 85 in August. Gorbachev was keen to make a good impression on Deng: trying to be tactful and deferential – for once, inclined to listen rather than talk. To let the older man speak, he reasoned, ‘is valued in the East’. The Chinese were equally sensitive to style and symbolism. They wanted to avoid all bear hugs or smooching of the sort that communist leaders so often lavished on each other. Instead they were keen to see the ‘new’ Sino-Soviet relationship, symbolised by a respectful handshake. This would be appropriate to international norms and also underline the formal equality now being established between Beijing and Moscow.[132]

A friendly grip? Deng with Mikhail and Raisa

Deng and Gorbachev met for two hours in the Great Hall of the People on 16 May. The first few minutes were televised live so they could announce to the world the official normalisation of their relations. The catalyst, Deng said, had been when Gorbachev assumed power in 1985 and began to reassess Soviet foreign policy, moving away from the Cold War with the West and conflicts with other countries. He particularly praised Gorbachev’s speech at Vladivostok in July 1986, when the Soviet leader had made a major overture to China. ‘Comrade Gorbachev, all the people of the world, and I myself, saw new content in the political thinking of the Soviet Union. I saw that there might be a turning point in your relations with the United States and it might be possible to find a way out of the confrontation and transform the situation into one of dialogue.’ Since then, he added, Gorbachev had gradually removed or reduced the three big obstacles: Afghanistan, the Sino-Soviet border disputes, and then the war in Cambodia. As a result they had been able to normalise both state and party relations between the USSR and PRC.[133]

In public, therefore, all was sweetness and light. But once the TV cameras had left, Deng changed his tone. ‘I would like to say a few words about Marxism and Leninism. We have studied it for many years.’ Much of what had been said in the past thirty years had ‘turned out to be empty’, he observed. The world had moved on from the days of Marx, and Marxist doctrine must move as well. Gorbachev remarked that ‘Thirty years did not pass in vain … by contrast, we rose to a new level of comprehension of socialism’ and, he added, ‘now we study Lenin’s legacy more attentively’. But, Deng interjected, Leninism also had to move with the times, not least because ‘the situation in the world is constantly changing … he who cannot develop Marxism–Leninism taking into consideration the new conditions is not a real Communist’. Deng’s thrust seemed to be that ideology had to evolve in the light of changing national and international circumstances – ‘there is no ready-made model of any kind’ – but that a socialist ideological framework remained essential to avoid the chaos of pragmatism and mere experimentation.[134]

Here was a coded but clear critique of Gorbachev’s approach to reform in the ‘construction of socialism’, but the Soviet leader – seeking to remain deferential – chose to ignore it, agreeing instead with his Chinese counterpart that they ‘must now draw a line under the past, turning one’s sights to the future’. Yes, said Deng, ‘but it would be incorrect if I did not say anything today about the past’. Each side, he added, had ‘the right to express their own point of view’ and he would start the ball rolling. ‘Fine,’ said Gorbachev, only to be on the receiving end of a long and rambling monologue by the aged Chinese leader about the damage and indignities inflicted on his country over the course of the twentieth century. Deng listed in turn the territorial depredations by Britain, Portugal, Japan, tsarist Russia and then the USSR under Stalin and Khrushchev – and especially, after the Sino-Soviet split, the Soviet military threat along China’s own border. Though dismissing the ideological quarrels of the past, Deng conceded ‘We were also wrong.’ But he clearly laid overwhelming blame for their bilateral tensions at the Kremlin’s door: ‘the Soviet Union incorrectly perceived China’s place in the world … the essence of all problems was that we were in an unequal situation, that we were slighted and oppressed’.[135]

Eventually Gorbachev got his chance for a few words. He said that he saw things differently but did accept ‘a certain culpability and responsibility on our part’ for the very recent past. All the rest – especially the territorial shifts of the early twentieth century – belonged already to history. ‘How many states have disappeared, and new ones have appeared? … History cannot be rewritten; it cannot be remade anew. If we took the road of restoring past borders on the basis of how things were in the past, which people lived in which territory, then, in essence, we’d have to redraw the entire world. That would lead to a worldwide scuffle.’ Gorbachev stressed his belief in geopolitical ‘realities’ – the ‘principle of the inviolability of borders gives stability to the world’ – and reminded Deng that his own generation had grown up ‘in the spirit of friendship with China’.

These mollifying words seemed to snap the old man out of his historical reverie. ‘This was just a narrative,’ Deng muttered. ‘Let us consider that the past is over with.’ ‘Good,’ replied Gorbachev. ‘Let’s put an end to this.’ After some final vague words about the ‘development’ of their relations, the meeting came to a conclusion. It was as if they had settled the past, but without any clear sense of the future.[136]

This was indeed the case. When Gorbachev had tried to discuss Sino-Soviet trade and joint economic projects with Li Peng, he had made no progress. He could offer the USSR’s usual export staples – oil and gas – but the Chinese were not particularly interested. When asked for Soviet investment, Gorbachev was in no position to provide anything. And as for advanced technology, especially IT, Li made clear that China looked to the United States and also Japan. There were no other substantive talks.[137] In fact, on his last day in Beijing Gorbachev was largely marooned in a guest house on the outskirts – unable, as originally scheduled, to reach the Forbidden City or attend the opera because of the protests. After a short visit to Shanghai, he returned home on 19 May with very mixed feelings about the whole trip: real satisfaction about the normalisation of relations – ‘a watershed event’ of ‘epoch-making significance’ – but also profound uncertainty about the future not only of Sino-Soviet relations but of the People’s Republic itself.[138]

The moment Gorbachev had left Beijing, Deng turned his mind to sorting out the students. Their brazen refusal to leave Tiananmen voluntarily had humiliated the Paramount Leader but, while his Soviet guest was around, Deng’s hands had been tied. Now his anger boiled over. The Chinese capital had become virtually paralysed with over a million protestors sitting in the Square and marching down the boulevards. The students had been joined by workers, shopkeepers, civil servants, teachers, peasants – even recruits from Beijing’s police academy dressed in their uniforms.[139] Order was crumbling; the regime itself seemed in danger.

Over the weekend of 20 May, Deng declared martial law in Beijing. The government brought in thousands of troops armed with machine guns and backed by tanks, tear gas and water cannons.[140] It imposed tight media censorship and forced out Zhao, the liberal chief of the party, because of his conciliatory approach to the protestors. The hardliners were now in charge. But it would take another two weeks of heightened tension before the crisis was resolved. The mere presence on the streets of the People’s Liberation Army was not enough: the men had in any case been briefed not to cause bloodshed. The students, certainly, were not cowed and they used techniques of non-violence to keep the troops at bay. Even though their numbers had diminished by late May to perhaps 100,000, they continued to hold the Chinese communist leadership hostage, both politically and ideologically.[141]

State power and human vulnerability

What the protestors stood for was summed up, at least for the global media, in the ‘Goddess of Democracy’. This ten-metre-high white pâpier-mâché and styrofoam statue resembling New York’s Statue of Liberty was erected on 29 May at the heart of the Square in front of the Imperial Palace. Press photographs showed it as if eyeing defiantly the great picture of Mao. Democracy – on the US model – had become the celebrated symbol of the demonstrators’ demands. The Chinese government issued an official statement ordering the statue to be taken down, calling it an ‘abomination’ and declaring ‘this is China, not America’.[142]

Beside himself with frustration, Deng finally ordered the military to use force on those who, he said, were trying to subvert the nation. His justification was that China needed a peaceful and stable environment to continue along its reform path, to modernise and open up to the capitalist world. But reform, he insisted, did not mean doing away with four key principles: upholding socialism, maintaining the CCP’s leadership and party monopoly, supporting the ‘people’s democracy’, and adhering to Marxist–Leninist–Maoist philosophy. Pure ideology, enforced by autocratic party rule, was there to stay.[143]

At dawn on Sunday 4 June, tens of thousands of Chinese soldiers flooded Tiananmen Square and the surrounding streets, firing their sub-machine guns into crowds of men and women who refused to move out of the way. Scores of students and workers were killed and wounded. Several thousand on the edge of the mayhem left the Square peacefully, though still defiantly waving their university banners. Their encampment was then destroyed: armoured personnel carriers ran over the tents, ruthlessly driving over individuals who had chosen to stay put. When some of the protestors retaliated by toppling army vehicles and stoning the Great Hall of the People, the soldiers used tear gas and truncheons. Soon the city’s hospitals were inundated. ‘As doctors, we often see deaths,’ said one medic at the Tongren Hospital. ‘But we’ve never seen such a tragedy like this. Every room in the hospital is covered with blood.’[144]

The precise death toll remains impossible to establish: estimates vary from 300 to 2,600. Chinese state news on 4 June exulted in the crushing of a ‘counter-revolutionary rebellion’ and highlighted the casualties among police and troops. The demonstrators were soon airbrushed out of China’s official history. But what really mattered was that the country’s brief and traumatic battle for democracy had been immortalised by the world’s media. In addition to the reports of the carnage and the civilian deaths, images emerged of the crackdown that became truly iconic – fetishised by reformers around the world as symbols of China’s lost 1989. The two most notable icons were the photo of a lone man apparently defying a line of tanks, whose fate remains tantalisingly unknown. He would become the classic emblem of global 1989 – the power of the people. And the Goddess of Democracy captured in an eye-catching way what the protestors had struggled for. On the morning of 4 June the statue was quickly reduced to shards and then washed out of the Square by the clean-up troops amid the debris of a failed revolution. But the world would not forget.[145]

Tiananmen – The tanks take over

And so China reinvented communism – by force. In the process, as the tragedy was played out in real time on TV, the students became identified in the Cold War context with Western ideals of freedom, democracy and human rights. The Chinese government’s use of tanks against unarmed students also evoked memories of 1968, not just student protests around the world but the suppression of the Prague Spring by the Red Army – which had shaken European communism to its core. Deng was now widely seen as the villainous enemy of freedom and many asked whether Gorbachev would stay true to his UN speech, when he had renounced the Brezhnev Doctrine and championed ‘freedom of choice’. With unrest mounting in the Soviet bloc and the USSR itself, would Gorbachev go the way of Deng? Would the tanks now roll in Eastern Europe?

*

Five days later Moscow issued a limp statement of ‘regret’ over the bloodshed and expressed the ‘hope’ that common sense and continued reform would prevail in the PRC. Soviet government spokesman Gennady Gerasimov admitted that Soviet officials were surprised at the brutality with which the Chinese leaders put down the student demonstrators. ‘We hadn’t expected this.’[146] Privately, Gorbachev told Kohl that he was ‘dismayed’ by developments in China, but did not elaborate further.[147] For him the stand-off in Beijing corroborated his long-held view that Deng’s approach to reform was bound to create tensions and that political liberalisation was the only way to resolve such tensions without spilling blood. So the Soviet leader became ever more convinced that his strategy, aimed at avoiding violence and building a ‘mixed economy’ without the extremes of capitalist privatisation and social inequality, was the only sensible way forward. In short, for Gorbachev economic reform had to be complemented by political reform – whatever that would mean.[148]

Others in the Soviet Union wanted Gorbachev to openly condemn the Chinese government. The radical politician Boris Yeltsin and the human-rights advocate Andrei Sakharov decried Deng’s actions as ‘a crime against the people’ and drew parallels between the Chinese crackdown and the Soviet military’s ‘repression’ of demonstrations in Tbilisi, Georgia, in April, only weeks before Gorbachev went to Beijing. (Interestingly, Deng had cited that incident to his own people as an example of good discipline.) But Gorbachev had no intention of emulating Yeltsin and Sakharov. He was not about to sacrifice the hard-won gains of his personal diplomacy for the sake of abstract principles.[149] China was too important to the USSR to risk alienating Deng by what both sides would have agreed was ‘interference in internal affairs’.

Bush’s reaction to Tiananmen was similarly cautious. The Americans had not been surprised by the turn of events – James Lilley, the new US ambassador in Beijing, had been predicting a crackdown for weeks and the president himself had been careful not to make any encouraging noises to the demonstrators to avoid inflaming passions.[150] He told reporters on 30 May: ‘I’m old enough to remember Hungary in 1956, and I would want to do nothing in terms of statement or exhortation that would encourage a repeat of that.’[151]

In private the president had sent Deng a letter three days earlier appealing to him frankly as an old friend and warning against ‘violence, repression and bloodshed’, lest this damage Sino-American relations.[152] Deng took no notice. On 4 June Bush tried to reach him by phone but Deng simply refused to take the call. It was a blatant snub: even a lao pengyou had no clout when it didn’t suit China.[153]

Deng clearly believed he could risk the crackdown. He predicted that the West would soon forget, and in any case they knew that trade with China was too important to sever relations altogether. Indeed, Deng had been careful to reassure Washington about his deep concern for their mutual relations. The Chinese leader was not wrong in his assumptions. The signals from Washington were mixed. On the one hand, Bush ‘deplored’ Deng’s decision to use force against peaceful demonstrators[154] and suspended military sales and high-level official contacts with China. He also offered humanitarian and medical assistance to anyone who had been injured in the Tiananmen tragedy. But, on the other hand, he had no intention of severing diplomatic relations or pressing for tough sanctions, from which only ordinary people would suffer. Given his personal bond with Deng and his faith in the magnetic attraction of capitalism, Bush sought to avoid any confrontation that would jeopardise a blossoming Sino-American relationship in the long run. China in Bush’s eyes had come such a long way. If he acted too harshly, he might feed the anti-reformist, hard-line elements in Beijing and set the clock back – something he wanted to avoid at all costs. But if he was seen as acting too softly, the communist regimes in Eastern Europe including the USSR might feel encouraged to use force against their political opponents. The problem was that his room for manoeuvre was severely limited – especially at home where Congress was calling for stricter sanctions and the human-rights lobby wanted to punish the ‘butchers of Tiananmen’ and denounced Bush as the ‘appeaser’ of Beijing.[155]

Juggling these various pressures, and having publicly defended presidential pre-eminence in foreign policy against congressional encroachment, on 21 June Bush tried again to reach out to Deng. This time he sent a handwritten letter composed, he said, ‘with a heavy heart’. He appealed to their ‘genuine friendship’, stressed his respect for Deng personally, and even trumpeted his own ‘great reverence for Chinese history, culture and tradition’. He made it clear that he would not dictate or interfere but appealed to Deng not to ‘let the aftermath of the tragic recent events undermine a vital relationship patiently built over the past seventeen years’. Mindful of the 4 June snub, the president added, ‘I would of course welcome a personal reply to this letter. This matter is too important to be left to our bureaucracies.’[156]

This time personal diplomacy worked. Bush got a reply within twenty-four hours – sufficiently positive that at the beginning of July Bush asked Scowcroft to smuggle himself into China for talks with Deng and Li. It was an epic adventure story reminiscent of Kissinger’s Marco Polo visit to Beijing in July 1971. They set off at 5 a.m. on 30 June 1989 from Andrews Air Force Base, travelling on a C-141 military cargo plane ‘in which had been installed what was euphemistically called a portable “comfort pallet”, a huge box containing bunks and place to sit’. The aircraft could be refuelled in the air, avoiding the need to land anywhere en route, and their official destination was Okinawa but that was amended on the way. All USAF markings had been removed and the crew started in military uniforms but changed to civilian clothes before arriving in Beijing. The mission was so secret that Chinese military air defence had not been informed. Fortunately, when they saw an unidentified aircraft entering Chinese airspace near Shanghai and asked whether they should shoot it down, the call went right through to President Yang Shangkun who told them to hold their fire. The American party landed safely at lunchtime on 1 July and spent the rest of the day recovering from their ordeal at the State Guest House.[157]

Scowcroft’s conversation with Deng on 2 July in the Great Hall of the People set the parameters for future policy on both sides – so much so that it’s worth setting out their positions in detail.[158] Deng started by saying that he had ‘chosen’ Bush as a special friend because, ever since they first met, he had found him ‘trustworthy’. Of course, the problems in Sino-US relations could not be ‘solved by two persons from the perspective of being friends’, the Chinese leader said. So Deng was pleased that Bush had sent Scowcroft ‘as his emissary’. It showed that Bush understood the complexities of the situation. He had taken ‘a wise and cool-headed action – an action well received by us’. And so, ‘it seems there is still hope to maintain our originally good relations’.[159]

Nevertheless, in Deng’s view, the blunt truth was that ‘on a large scale the United States has impugned Chinese interests’ and ‘hurt Chinese dignity’. That for him was the ‘crux of the matter’. Some Americans who were keen for the PRC and its socialist system to be overthrown had helped stir up ‘counter-revolutionary rebellion’. And because the US had tied the knot, to borrow from a Chinese proverb, Deng insisted ‘our hope is that in its future course of action the United States will seek to untie the knot’. In other words, it was up to Bush to remedy the situation.

His government, Deng added, was determined to put down ‘the counter-revolutionary leaders’ in line with ‘Chinese laws’. And he insisted that ‘China will by no means waver in its resolution’. Otherwise, he asked rhetorically, ‘how can the PRC continue to exist?’ Deng left Scowcroft in no doubt that any interference in China’s internal affairs would not be tolerated and he warned Congress and the US media not to add more fuel to the fire. Indeed, he expected Washington to find a ‘feasible way and method’ to settle their differences regarding the events of Tiananmen.[160]

Scowcroft responded with the studied courtesy that always mattered in America’s relations with China. He spoke at length about the personal bond between Bush and China and his own depth of feeling for the country. He tried to underline the strong US investment in the steady ‘deepening’ of its relations with Beijing since 1972, from which both sides had benefited strategically and economically, as well as on a human level. He also stressed the significance of his visit. ‘Our presence here after a trip of thousands of kilometres, in confidence so as not to imply anything but an attempt to communicate, is symbolic of the importance President Bush places on this relationship and the efforts he is prepared to take to preserve it.’[161]

Having echoed Deng’s emphasis on the importance of personal friendship, Scowcroft then inserted the irreducible American agenda. ‘It is into this bilateral climate of deepening cooperation and growing sympathy that the events of Tiananmen Square have imposed themselves.’ He explained that the president had to cope with his electorate’s emotional reaction. This was America’s ‘internal affair’ – touching on its people’s fundamental values which Bush in turn shared to a significant degree. In other words, the president stood by his commitment to ‘freedom’ and ‘democracy’ that he had enunciated in his inaugural address. And, by thereby defending America’s stance on human rights, he could not be seen to visit Beijing in person because that would confer a legitimacy on Deng’s regime which the bloodshed in Tiananmen had removed. But, Scowcroft told Deng, Bush wanted to ‘manage events in a way which will assure a healthy relationship over time’. And he was ‘very sensitive to Chinese concerns’. Back-channel diplomacy was therefore the only way to ‘restore, preserve and strengthen’ the bilateral relationship.[162]

Deng did not reply directly. Instead, he emphasised three maxims that drove China. First, ‘I think one must understand history,’ Deng said. China had fought a twenty-two-year war costing 20 million lives – a conflict waged by the Chinese people under the leadership of the Communist Party. Indeed, he told Scowcroft, ‘if one should add the three-year war to assist Korea against US aggression then it would be a twenty-five-year effort’. Second, he underlined the sanctity of China’s independence: a country that would not allow itself to be directed by another nation ‘no matter what kind of difficulties should crop up in our way’. China would follow its own course for development regardless of the ‘macro international climate’. As for the third fundamental: there existed ‘no other force’ except the Chinese Communist Party that could represent China. This had been proved over ‘several decades’.[163]

Scowcroft had a similar discussion with Li. Reflecting later, he sensed a deep rift and a ‘clash of cultures’[164] which could not at the moment be bridged, but the clandestine trip had served its main purpose: to maintain channels of communication and thus quietly preserve economic ties. Bush noted in his diary, ‘I kept the door open.’[165]

The Kremlin and the White House therefore reacted cautiously to Tiananmen. But behind the scenes their thinking was now in flux. In different ways Gorbachev and Bush had focused on relations with China in the early months of 1989 – both making high-profile visits to Beijing – but there was little that could be done, at least for the foreseeable future, in view of the Chinese communist leaders’ hard-line response to revolution.[166] In mid-1989 Gorbachev and Bush were both recalibrating their policies.

The Soviet leader, it must be said, was still inclined to look east. Discussing Tiananmen with the Indian prime minister, Rajiv Gandhi, in Moscow on 15 July 1989, Gorbachev brushed aside emotive talk about the death toll, remarking ‘politicians have to be careful in these matters. Especially when we are talking about a country like China. About a country with a population higher than 1 billion people. This is a whole civilisation!’ Looking for positives, he even felt that China’s estrangement amidst world outrage about the ‘Tiananmen massacre’ had a silver lining: Beijing now needed friends and this might give Moscow and New Delhi a real opportunity at a time when Deng had become really fed up with Bush’s procrastination. ‘The Americans want everything to go badly here, or even worse than that. So we need to put hope mainly in ourselves.’ And also, he mused, perhaps in other sympathetic countries undergoing the tribulations of modernisation and development. ‘Yesterday we spoke to the minister of science and technology of the PRC. We talked about cooperation. He is well disposed.’ Gorbachev reminded Gandhi about their previous talks about ‘the triangle’ – a new framework of trilateral cooperation between the Soviet Union, India and China. ‘Perhaps now is the exact moment when they are truly interested in ties with you and with us?’[167]

Gorbachev’s musings were symptomatic of the uncertainties of the international scene in the confusing summer of 1989. Yet others in his entourage viewed Tiananmen in the light of more immediate challenges in Europe. Vladimir Lukin, the head of Gorbachev’s planning staff, warned that the events of 4 June showed that the PRC leadership was drifting ‘more and more obviously towards the group of socialist countries with traditional ideology’ – meaning East Germany, Cuba, Romania and North Korea – ‘and, at the same time, treats with fear and suspicion those countries which are reforming the administrative-bureaucratic system’ – in other words Poland and Hungary. This, said Lukin, ‘of course is an unpleasant fact but it would be incorrect not to take it into account in our contacts with the Chinese’. Rather than trying to build an overt Asian axis, he advocated a posture of ‘well-wishing reserve’ towards Beijing, devoid of any flamboyant gestures. Such a policy would allow the Soviet Union ‘to pass through the current difficult period without spoiling relations with official Beijing’. And it would have the additional advantage of securing ‘the respect of the most advanced sections of the Chinese people’ who, he predicted, would doubtless play a role during the ‘not so distant period after Deng’ and would support ‘our forward movement in the “Western direction” of our foreign-policy activity’. This was a striking admonition. Lukin not only warned that China had now aligned itself firmly with the rearguard not the vanguard of communist reinvention – though he clearly thought the Deng era was coming to an end – but he also explicitly saw Russia’s future as lying not in Asia but with Europe and the Western world.[168]

Amid all the furore about Tiananmen, it is easy to forget that 4 June was not just a landmark moment for China. That was the day when Solidarity came to power in Poland. So democracy was also on the march in Eastern Europe. Quite literally, indeed, because it was just four weeks earlier that Hungary’s communist government had taken the fateful step of cutting open its barbed-wire border with Austria. That breach offered a loophole to the West, particularly for East Germans who had the right of citizenship in the Federal Republic. At a time when China was walling itself into a new hybrid model – communist-controlled embryonic capitalism – the Iron Curtain was coming apart in Europe. This was a challenge to the Cold War order as a whole – and one that only the two superpowers could address. After pussyfooting around Mikhail Gorbachev for half a year, George H. W. Bush had no choice but to engage.

Chapter 2
Toppling Communism: Poland and Hungary

The 4th of June 1989. That Sunday was not just a turning point in China’s modern history but also a landmark date for Poland and for Eastern Europe’s evolution out of the Cold War. Many observers proclaimed it as the day of Poland’s first ‘free’ and democratic elections since the Second World War.

Yet that wasn’t quite right: Poland’s exit from communist dictatorship began with a rigged vote gone wrong. The Polish Communist Party – locked since 1980 in an enervating power struggle with the Solidarity trade union movement – conceded the demand for elections in the hope of controlling the process of reform. This was intended to be the reinvention of communism, Polish-style. As US reporter John Tagliabue observed, General Wojciech Jaruzelski, the party leader, wanted to ‘use the vote to sweep reform-minded leaders into key posts’ and ‘sweep away apparatchiks resistant to change so that new blood can be pumped into the party’ – as Gorbachev had tried to do in the USSR.[1] The regime’s resort to democracy was largely a facade. All one hundred seats of the upper house, or Senate, were openly contested, but this was the case for only 161 (35%) of the 460 seats in the all-important lower house (Sejm). The rest were reserved for the communists (38%) and fellow-traveller parties (27%). What’s more, thirty-five seats of the communists’ quota were allotted to prominent government and party officials. These candidates faced no challengers and were put on a special, separate ‘national list’. The only ‘choice’ open to voters was to cross out as many names from the various lists as they wished. The regime knew some people would do so but did not expect this on a large scale: hence its requirement as regards the special ‘national list’ that each candidate gain the support of 50% of voters. On the face of it, then, there was no reason to believe that the Polish Communist Party’s monopoly on power would be threatened by this tepid experiment in democracy.[2]

In fact, many people that Sunday had their eyes on what was happening to ‘democracy’ on the other side of the world: a story not of ballots but of bullets. Press and TV were full of Tiananmen, six hours ahead of Warsaw and twelve in advance of Washington. British journalist and commentator Timothy Garton Ash, in the Polish capital to cover the elections, sat that morning in the makeshift offices of the recently founded opposition daily Gazeta Wyborcza (motto ‘Nie ma wolności bez Solidarności’, ‘There’s no freedom without Solidarity’). But he and his Polish friends became mesmerised by footage of dead or wounded Chinese protestors being carried out of the Forbidden City.[3] The New York Times that morning featured a front-page banner headline ‘TROOPS ATTACK AND CRUSH BEIJING PROTEST; THOUSANDS FIGHT BACK, SCORES ARE KILLED’. Tucked away at the bottom of the page, a small box entitled ‘The Polish Vote’ noted: ‘Some say that, four years hence, the opposition will be in control.’[4]

In fact, change in Poland was only hours away. Although official results were not expected until a few days later, it was clear by that evening that the opposition would win virtually all the seats in the Senate. What’s more, in the elections for the Sejm, millions of voters defied the government by crossing out huge numbers of names on the official list, so that dozens of key party functionaries – including the prime minister, the defence minister and the minister of internal affairs – failed to get over the 50% hurdle. This was a stunning outcome: Solidarity had outpolled the communists. Not only was the election a slap in the face for the party, it also undermined the foundations of effective government. The regime had lost control of its reinvention of communism. The people were taking over.

And yet the mood across Poland was not exuberant on that sunny evening. The populace appeared unsettled. Solidarity leader Lech Wałęsa expressed anxiety about the implications of what seemed like a landslide for his trade union movement: ‘I think that too big a percentage of our people getting through would be disturbing.’ After a decade of bruising struggle with the regime, he was wary of how the Jaruzelski government would react. Party spokesman Jan Bisztyga warned: ‘If feelings of triumph and adventurism cause anarchy in Poland, democracy and social peace will be seriously threatened.’ He added darkly, ‘Authorities, the coalition and the opposition cannot allow such a situation.’[5]

Garton Ash witnessed how the Solidarity leaders ‘plunged into fevered discussions, tortuous negotiations, and late-night cabals’ – their reaction to the polls ‘a curious mixture of exaltation, incredulity, and alarm. Alarm at the new responsibilities that now faced them – indeed the problems of success – but also a sneaking fear that things could not continue to go so well.’[6] That fear, of course, was heightened by the news from China. Both Solidarity and reform communist leaders had been suddenly and painfully reminded of what could happen if violence broke out – not least given the presence of some 55,000 Red Army troops on Polish soil.[7] And so they did everything possible to avoid it.

The Solidarity leadership now realised that it must dare to engage in national politics – to move beyond its original role of ‘the opposition’ and take on the responsibilities that came with electoral success. The government, too, was stunned by the results. It had solicited a qualified vote of confidence from the people, who instead had delivered a damning verdict on more than four decades of communist rule sustained by the external force of Soviet military power. With Poland entering uncharted waters, both sides were being forced to work together – fearful of risking another Tiananmen if they did not. Solidarity and the communists were seemingly bound in a community of fate – incapable of acting for Poland without each other.

In Moscow, Gorbachev and his advisers were shocked by the news from Warsaw. They had expected that perestroika-style reforms would be met with gratitude in the satellite states, enabling reform communists to stay in charge. The Soviet leadership put the result down to Polish peculiarities. After all, as aide Andrei Grachev remarked, the Poles were the ‘weak link’ in the Soviet bloc. What happened in Poland would most likely stay there.[8] Gorbachev, therefore, stuck to the principles he had enunciated before the UN. The Brezhnev Doctrine was dead; ‘freedom of choice’ was now paramount. The Polish people had spoken. So be it – as long as Poland remained a member of the Warsaw Pact.[9]

No one foresaw the cascade of falling dominoes that would follow Poland’s electoral revolution. But the problems had been gestating for years.

*

In retrospect, the whole Soviet bloc seems like a house of cards. First, because it was rooted in the presence of the Red Army ever since the end of the Second World War. Soviet control of these territories had developed incrementally – rapidly in the Polish case, more slowly, for instance, in Czechoslovakia – but single-party communist regimes tied to Moscow were essentially imposed by force. In 1955 that iron fist was covered with a thin velvet glove in the form of an international alliance among independent states, ostensibly mirroring NATO and colloquially known in the West as the Warsaw Pact, but this was in fact a convenient cover for Soviet dominance. In 1956 the pact backed up the Red Army when it put down the anti-communist protests in Budapest; in 1968 it did the same to crush the Prague Spring. Ultimately the bloc was held together by fear of the tank. Of course, the United States was the unquestioned hegemon of NATO, essential provider of nuclear security and using bases on Allied soil. But, if Western Europe was part of an American ‘empire’, this was empire both by ‘invitation’ and by ‘integration’. In Eastern Europe, however, the Soviet bloc was always ‘empire by imposition’.[10]

What also held the satellite states together (under the umbrella of Comecon, the Council of Mutual Economic Assistance, founded in 1949) was common adherence to concepts of economic planning that emanated from Moscow. ‘The Plan’ set government targets for total production, for performance within each industry and indeed each factory and farm, thereby eliminating market forces but also personal incentives. Building on wholesale nationalisation programmes pushed through after 1945, the Plan promoted rapid industrialisation and urbanisation of hitherto largely agrarian societies and initially led to a sharp growth of living standards and welfare provision for much of the population. But these gains were soon exhausted and by the 1970s the inflexibilities of the command economies became palpable. Resentment grew about the paucity and poverty of consumer goods. Because the bloc was intended to be autarkic, it was also largely sealed from Western imports, even during the détente years of the 1970s. By then the system was surviving to a great extent thanks to infusions of Western credits and the subsidised price of Soviet oil. A decade later, as the West’s IT revolution was taking off, the inefficiencies of Comecon and the fragility of the Soviet bloc generally seemed transparent.[11]

These grave structural flaws notwithstanding, the ‘revolution of 1989’ was in no way preordained. Neither CIA analysts nor international relations theorists predicted the bloc’s sudden disintegration in 1989.[12] The turmoil of that year was not simply the culmination of popular discontent and protest in the streets: transformation was instigated in part by national leaders, in struggles between reformers and conservatives. There was ‘revolution from above’ as much as ‘revolution from below’. Moreover, national leaders operated in an international context – responding to signals initially from Gorbachev and later from the West. In view of this lateral dynamic we might even speak of a ‘revolution from across’. And one of the most crucial ‘across’ factors that would determine the success or failure of reform would be the actions of the Red Army – because the Soviet military presence was the fons et origo of the bloc as a whole.

Yet 1989 was not just simply a bloc-wide uprising against the Soviet ‘empire by imposition’. Change resulted from specific circumstances in individual states, with their different societies, cultures and religions. The catalysts occurred at different times and unfolded at different speeds, driven by diverse national and local circumstances. Many of their roots lay in long-simmering grievances; and many of the historical reference points came from earlier revolutions, not just in the communist era (Berlin, 1953; Poznan, 1956; Budapest, 1956; Prague, 1968) but also going back, say, to 1848 or 1918.

In the case of Poland[13] nationalist resentment against alien rule was channelled through the Catholic Church, which held a unique position of authority there compared with anywhere else in the bloc. For centuries the church had embodied Polish values against both Russian Orthodoxy and Prussian Protestantism, especially at times when Poland had been erased from the map during various periods of partition. In the communist era, it successfully retained its independence from the state and ruling party and functioned as almost an alternative ideology. The election of the charismatic cardinal Karol Józef Wojtyła in October 1978 as the first Polish pope (John Paul II), and his triumphal visit to his homeland the following June, elevated him into an alternative leader who championed human rights and freedom of speech yet who, by virtue of his office, was now resident in the West. Such were his authority and aura that the regime was left virtually impotent as the people discovered a surrogate voice.[14]

Poland also had another well-organised force capable of standing up to the state. Solidarity, the independent trade union, had been formed in 1980 during a rash of strikes that spread along the Baltic coast of Poland from Gdańsk north to Gdynia and then west to Szczecin in response to massive price rises imposed by the government. The crucible of the movement was the Lenin Shipyard in Gdańsk, Poland’s leading port, where some 20,000 workers and their families formed a significant and cohesive force of resistance, and the leader who emerged was Lech Wałęsa, a forceful and feisty workers’ organiser, who became an international icon with his big, bushy moustache. After months of unrest, the regime – now led by General Wojciech Jaruzelski who, unlike his predecessor, had Moscow’s full backing – eventually imposed martial law in December 1981. It was a crackdown Polish-style, but at least there was no Warsaw Pact intervention akin to Prague 1968. Political deadlock ensued. The authorities were unable to eliminate Solidarity, but the outlawed union was in no position to overthrow the government either.[15]

The Polish economy continued in spiralling decline until another round of price hikes in winter 1988 as part of what the government described as a broad programme of economic and political change. But while retail prices jumped 45% in the first quarter of 1988, in the case of household fuel going up 200%, much of the programme ground to a halt almost as soon as it had begun.[16] During the spring and summer strikes and protests spread across the country, enveloping all branches of industry – from the shipyards to the buses, from steelworks to coal mines – at a time when Gorbachev was encouraging reform from Moscow and spurring Jaruzelski into further ‘socialist renewal’. When a new wave of strikes in August paralysed Poland’s key export industries, especially coal and steel, the government’s facade of self-confidence began to crack. ‘A very powerful thing came out of the last strike,’ said Wieslaw Wojtas, the leader at Stalowa Wola, the heart of Poland’s steel industry and epicentre of the 1988 strikes. He and his fellow workers had had the audacity to end the August strike by marching through the city, together with 30,000 of the city’s 70,000 residents, to the local Catholic church. ‘We broke the barriers of fear,’ he declared proudly. ‘And I think the authorities realised we won.’[17]

Wojtas was right. Now that the fear of the tank had dissipated, the Poles could no longer be forced into silent submission. Jaruzelski agreed to discuss economic, social and political reforms. Round-table talks opened in February 1989 with Solidarity, the church and communists sitting as equals around the same bagel-shaped table.[18] On 5 April they reached an agreement that would amend the 1952 constitution and take the Polish polity a long way towards representative government, including a restored upper house to complement the Sejm. What’s more the former would be chosen entirely by free elections, thereby paving the way for the legalisation of Solidarity and the election of 4 June.

Poland – Refolution at the round table

Wałęsa had called off the strikes in September 1988, in return for Jaruzelski’s commitment to round table discussions.[19] Popular protests would never be repeated on such a large scale. From the autumn of 1988 what happened in Poland was ‘entirely an elite-managed crisis, with the masses only stepping onto the political stage to cast their votes, on June 4 and 18, 1989’, bringing to an end the communist monopoly on power.[20] Indeed this was an elite affair on both sides, with the deals largely hammered out between ruling and opposition leaders. Hence commentator Timothy Garton Ash’s neologism ‘refolution’, signifying reform from above prompted by revolutionary pressure from below.[21]

In Hungary in 1988–9, the dynamic was similar though the logic and pace of the narrative were different. There was no rash of strikes to act as a catalyst, and no trade union movement or rallying around the church; instead the crucial trigger was a power struggle within the party elite. In May 1988 the ailing János Kádár, now in his mid-seventies, who had held power since his installation by the Kremlin in 1956, was finally toppled. His departure opened the door for a new generation of communists, all of them in their forties or fifties and mostly reformers.[22] Their outlook was defined by the complex legacy of November 1956, when Soviet tanks had rumbled into the capital, Budapest, to put down popular demonstrations against Russian oppression and to overthrow a reformist communist government that had committed itself to free elections and the country’s withdrawal from the Warsaw Pact. In the bloody crackdown, an estimated 2,700 Hungarians died and 20,000 were injured.[23]

After the Soviet tanks rolled in, the Kremlin expected its puppet Kádár to sort out the mess. His first move was to send some 20,000 people to prison and execute 230, including the ringleaders of the ‘counter-revolution’ (the Soviet bloc’s official description of this popular insurrection). Imre Nagy, his predecessor, was tried in secret, hanged in the prison yard, and then buried face down in an unmarked grave with his hands and feet tied by barbed wire. Although no mourning or commemoration was allowed in Hungary, Nagy became a cult figure for Hungarians and in the West.[24]

Kádár, having proved his loyalty to Moscow, gradually and quietly jettisoned Marxist dogma and allowed a measure of free enterprise. The command economy was loosened to free many goods from price controls and to introduce a new programme for agricultural collectivisation, including revised household plot regulations that permitted people to grow food for the market on private land.[25] This was the origin of Hungary’s so-called ‘goulash economy’ of the 1960s – officially termed the ‘New Economic Mechanism’.[26] Kádár’s economic and political reforms made possible rising living standards and a relatively relaxed ideological climate. He also cautiously opened up Hungary socially; Western radio broadcasts were no longer jammed and the restrictions on travel across the Iron Curtain were relaxed. In 1963, 120,000 Hungarians travelled to the West, four times more than in 1958. All this made the country one of the most prosperous and tolerant states in the Soviet bloc.[27] Kádár became a popular figure – at least for the moment.

By the mid-1980s, however, overshadowed by Gorbachev, the aged Hungarian leader had passed his sell-by date. Certainly that was the view of the younger generation of his party who were keen to embrace the new ideas and dynamism emanating from the Kremlin. Kádár had lost the appetite for change, rather like the Moscow gerontocrats from the Brezhnev era in the early 1980s. During 1987 Kádár tried to shore up his own position as party secretary by appointing to the premiership Károly Grósz, a party functionary with conservative credentials. But Grósz defied Kádár and sided with the reform faction, whittling down state controls and subsidies and encouraging private entreprise. In a climate of slackening financial discipline Hungary acquired the highest per capita debt in Eastern Europe.[28]

Amid the deepening crisis, dissidents grew in confidence, creating with the acquiescence of the party a profusion of opposition groups. It was these new political forces that increasingly set the political agenda. In response, communist reformers defeated the conservatives and replaced Kádár as party general secretary with Grósz at a special party conference in May 1988; the young economist Miklós Németh took over as prime minister from Grósz in the autumn. The strategy of the reformers – like that of their Polish counterparts – was for the party to retreat and renew itself without relinquishing control. As in Poland, these hopes would prove illusory. Hungary would become the bloc’s second domino.

By February 1989 the government’s attempt to co-opt the opposition had failed. What emerged was a kind of competitive cooperation. Many of the opposition groups had evolved into political parties and the Communist Party felt obliged to declare its support in principle for Hungary’s transition to a multiparty democracy. Indeed the party soon abandoned the formal Leninist principle of ‘democratic centralism’, which had legitimised its monopoly on power. Within this fraught political process, historical memory also played a part.[29] The 15th March was traditionally Hungary’s national day – commemorating the outbreak of the abortive nationalist revolt of 1848 against the Austrian empire, which had eventually been crushed by troops of its ally, the Russian tsar Nicholas I. During the communist era, all celebration of that day had been banned for fear of generating anti-Russian protests, but in 1989 the reformist government – hoping to appease the opposition through a collective commemoration and thereby garner credit for its current political course – declared that 15 March would again be a national holiday. However, the government-sponsored event on the steps of the National Museum was dwarfed by a throng of no less than 100,000 people who took to the streets that morning to re-enact 1848.[30]

In this heady atmosphere the regime’s opponents felt emboldened to form an opposition round table (ORT). Eight of these came together, seeking to unify around a clear negotiating strategy in the face of the regime’s own reform agenda. This seemed essential in order to give Hungary’s opposition the same kind of weight and influence as Solidarity had achieved in Poland. After some weeks of haggling about how to conduct the talks, negotiations between the ORT and the government began in earnest on 13 June, and then in secret (again unlike Poland).[31]

Three days later, on 16 June – the thirty-first anniversary of Imre Nagy’s execution – the opposition disinterred his remains and finally gave him and several other prominent figures of the 1956 revolution a public funeral in Heroes Square in the centre of Budapest, amid crowds that even the government admitted topped 200,000. The whole funeral was screened on state television, and was attended by four reformist members of the ruling Communist Party, led by Prime Minister Németh. Not that it did them any good. A twenty-six-year-old spokesman for the ‘Federation of Young Democrats’ by the name of Viktor Orbán paid tribute to Nagy as a man who, though a communist, ‘identified himself with the wishes of the Hungarian nation to put an end to the communist taboos, blind obedience to the Russian empire [sic] and the dictatorship of a single party’. Gesturing at the four communist leaders present, he continued scathingly, ‘we cannot understand that those who were eager to slander the revolution and its prime minister have suddenly changed into great supporters and followers of Imre Nagy. Nor can we understand that the party leaders, who made us study from books that falsified the revolution, now rush to touch the coffins as if they were charms of good luck.’ A note of malice had crept into the proceedings: Orbán’s remarks signalled a sharp rejection of the reform-communist narrative of managed transformation and national reconciliation, and it anticipated the spirit of resentment and the purge mentality that would come to suffuse Hungarian politics.[32]

Nagy’s reburial catalysed strong anti-Soviet, anti-communist nationalism at the grass roots – rather like the papal visit to Poland, but in this case through memory politics instead of religious fervour. Both of these political transformations were largely shaped by specific national experiences, and were also contained within national boundaries. Yet they occurred at much the same time and each fed on and into the other. What was happening in both Poland and Hungary represented extrication from dictatorship through the creation of new institutional structures for new regimes. In addition, there was also a wider diffusion of revolutionary ideas,[33] even beyond Eastern Europe. Indeed it is telling that the conservative hardliners in Beijing likened this to a contagion emanating from Poland and Hungary.[34] In due course the ‘disease’ of economic reform combined with political democratisation[35] would spread as the year went on, infecting the bloc from Estonia on the Baltic coast to Bulgaria on the shores of the Black Sea.

But contagion affecting a plethora of communist states was not the only dynamic of 1989. In one of these countries, Hungary, reform had the power to act as a solvent for the whole Soviet bloc and indeed for Cold War Europe itself.

*

This became clear on 27 June 1989, in a graphic image that rapidly made its way around the globe: two men, smartly dressed in business suits but standing in open country, wielded bolt cutters to nip holes in a rusty barbed-wire fence. The duo – Hungarian foreign minister Gyula Horn and his Austrian counterpart Alois Mock had travelled specially to the Austria–Hungary border to send a deliberate signal. Side by side, cutting through the wire fence, they seemed to be conveying the good news that the division of post-war Europe was coming to an end.

Horn and Mock cut the Iron Curtain

It was, of course, something of a public-relations stunt. When Horn proposed the fence-cutting ceremony, Németh jokingly replied: ‘Gyula, do it, but hurry up – there isn’t much barbed wire left.’[36] In reality, the two governments had started to remove the border installations, including watchtowers and alarm system, on 2 May and the actual decision to do so dated back to the end of 1988 when Németh, as part of his package of reforms, had scrapped the budget for the maintenance of the whole decrepit system. The alarm was still going off – around 4,000 times a year, but mostly caused by rabbits, deer, pheasants and the occasional drunk. The bankrupt government did not have the money to repair it and, in any case, earlier that year travel restrictions for Hungarians had been lifted entirely: twelve months on, by the end of 1988 6 million Hungarian tourists had travelled abroad, mostly to the West.[37]

Németh checked his decision to take down the iron fencing around his country with Gorbachev when visiting Moscow on 3 March and the Soviet leader raised no objection: ‘We have a strict regime on our borders, but we are also becoming more open.’ But, as Németh admitted to Gorbachev, the situation was more complex for Budapest, because the only remaining purpose of the fence was to catch citizens from East Germany who were trying to escape illegally to the West via Hungary. ‘Of course,’ he therefore added, ‘we will have to talk to the comrades from the GDR.’[38]

The East German regime, led by Erich Honecker since 1971, received the news of the border opening with a mixture of anger and anxiety. Anger, because the Hungarians had done it alone – with Gorbachev’s blessing but without consulting the rest of the Warsaw Pact allies. And real anxiety because any East German with valid travel documents to Hungary could conceivably escape the bloc into Austria and then on to automatic citizenship in West Germany. In other words, Hungary would become a fatal loophole in the Iron Curtain that the GDR had struggled so long to preserve in order to maintain its political existence.

Nevertheless, when Hungary began the removal in early May the East German defence minister General Heinz Kessler appears to have still been relatively unstressed. He told Honecker that his Hungarian counterpart General Ferenc Kárpáti had assured him that the dismantling was being done ‘entirely for financial reasons’ and that Hungary would obviously continue to secure the border through more watchtowers and ‘intensified patrols’ with sniffer dogs. Kárpáti, of course, was following instructions from Németh who had told him to play for time and keep things vague with East Berlin. ‘If we start to explain the full situation we’ll give ourselves away and get into even worse trouble.’ Crucially, Kessler took Kárpáti at his word and dutifully reported to Honecker that the dismantling of the 260-kilometre border fence was intended as a gradual process that would last until the end of 1990, at a rate of about four kilometres a week, and starting in the vicinity of four of the eight border crossings. Hungary, he explained, was undertaking this ‘cosmetic venture’ in a timely manner to advance good neighbourly relations with Austria and as part of a general relaxation of tensions in Europe.[39]

With barbed wire disappearing every day, however, East Berlin remained on edge. Honecker sent his foreign minister Oskar Fischer to Moscow to complain, only to be told by Shevardnadze that the GDR had to resolve this matter directly with Hungary.[40] And so East Germany found itself alone, without any support from Moscow – sandwiched between a reforming Poland in the East, its capitalist German rival in the West and an ever more liberal and open Hungary further south.

Initially, as Kárpáti had promised, Hungarian border guards did detain East German ‘fugitives’ at those first de-fenced sections near border checkpoints. The Iron Curtain seemed to be holding. But, as news got out and especially after seeing the images of Horn and Mock on 27 June, people felt increasingly emboldened. And so, as the weeks wore on, the so-called ‘green border’ (the dismantled sections farther away from the crossings and therefore less thoroughly patrolled) offered better opportunities for escapees. By August some 1,600 East Germans had successfully taken this route to reach the West.[41]

The Honecker regime did its level best to keep all this out of the papers and off the TV. But it was too late. East Germans had got the message: Hungary was their gateway to freedom.

*

Hungary’s simmering international crisis was also the top item on the agenda when Gorbachev met Kohl in Bonn on 12 June 1989 for his first state visit to the FRG since he took office.[42] ‘We are watching the developments in Hungary with great interest,’ the chancellor declared. ‘I told Bush that as far as Hungary is concerned, we are acting on the basis of an old German proverb: let the church remain in the village. It means that the Hungarians should decide themselves what they want, but nobody should interfere in their affairs.’ Gorbachev agreed: ‘We have a similar proverb: you do not go to somebody’s monastery with your charter.’ They both laughed. ‘Beautiful folk wisdom,’ exclaimed Kohl.

Then the Soviet leader became more sombre. ‘I am telling you honestly – there are serious shifts under way in the socialist countries. Their direction originates from concrete situations in each country. The West should not be concerned about it. Everything moves in the direction of a strengthening of the democratic basis.’ Here was Gorbachev’s endorsement of socialist renewal on a national level. But he also issued a guarded warning to Kohl, mindful of pressures on the chancellor to offer financial support to opposition groups in the Soviet bloc. ‘Every country decides on its own how it does it. It is their internal affair. I think you would agree with me that you should not stick a pole into an anthill. The consequences of such an act could be absolutely unpredictable.’

Rather than get into that argument, Kohl simply said that there was ‘a common opinion’ in the USSR, the USA and the FRG that ‘we should not interfere with anybody’s development’. But Gorbachev wanted to underline his point. If anyone tried to destabilise the situation, he said, ‘it would disrupt the process of building trust between the West and the East, and destroy everything that has been achieved so far.’[43] Next day, 13 June, he and Kohl signed no less than eleven agreements expanding economic, technological and cultural ties and a joint declaration affirming the right of peoples and states to self-determination – a significant step, especially from the German perspective.[44]

Yet the ‘Bonn Declaration’ was much more. It was the centrepiece of a state visit whose primary importance for the West Germans was the symbolic reconciliation of two nations whose brutal struggle had left Germany and Europe divided. It defined what both deemed to be a new and more promising phase in Soviet–West German relations. This was reflected in the conclusion expressing ‘the deep, long-cherished yearning’ of the two peoples ‘to heal the wounds of the past through understanding and reconciliation and to build jointly a better future’.[45]

Gorbachev and Kohl: A toast to peace and understanding

Buoyed up by the achievement and the atmosphere, the two men really bonded over the course of three days. They talked in private on a total of three separate occasions. And in contrast to the usually stilted meetings between a Western leader and a communist, they developed the confidence to exchange very candid assessments of their ‘mutual friends’. Both of them respected Jaruzelski; both were keen to support Poland’s transformation under his leadership and also Hungary’s reform course, as long as the latter was not spinning out of control. Each of them had problems with the diehard socialist regime of Erich Honecker, and neither could stand Nicolae Ceaușescu. In Kohl’s opinion the old dictator had plunged his country into ‘darkness and stagnation’; Gorbachev called Romania ‘a primitive phenomenon’, akin to North Korea, ‘in the centre of civilised Europe’.[46]

As human beings they also developed a real closeness, sharing childhood memories and reflecting on their families’ wartime sufferings: ‘There is not a single family’ in either country, said Kohl quietly, ‘whom the war did not touch’.[47] He told Gorbachev that his government saw the visit as marking nothing less than ‘the end of hostilities between Russians and Germans, as the beginning of a period of genuinely friendly, good neighbourly relations’. He added that ‘these are words supported by the will of all the people, by the will of the people who greet you in the streets and squares’. Without doubt, this was another striking feature of the visit. Gorbachev had been welcomed ecstatically in West Germany – the little Rhineland towns, as much as the Ruhr steelworks he visited, were all mobbed with people shouting ‘Gorby, Gorby.’ The conversation between the leaders became increasingly intimate. ‘I like your policy, and I like you as a person,’ confessed Kohl; ‘let’s communicate more often, let’s call each other on the phone. I think we could accomplish many things ourselves without delegating to the bureaucracies.’ Gorbachev agreed: he felt that mutual trust was growing ‘with every meeting’.[48]

On their last evening, after a long and relaxed dinner in the Chancellery bungalow, Kohl and Gorbachev, with only a translator in tow, wandered into the park and down the steps to the Rhine. There they sat on a low wall, chatting occasionally to passers-by, and gazing at the Siebengebirge hills beyond. Kohl never forgot this moment. The two men imagined a comprehensive reordering of Soviet–German relations to be codified in a ‘Grand Treaty’[49] that would open new perspectives for the future. But Kohl warned that it was impossible as long as Germany remained divided. Gorbachev was unmoved: ‘The division is the result of a logical historical development.’ Kohl did not let go. On that balmy night, in a haze of wine and goodwill, he sensed a not-to-be-missed opportunity. Pointing to the broad, steadily flowing Rhine, the chancellor mused: ‘The river symbolises history. It’s nothing static. Technically you can build a dam … But then the river will overflow and find another way to the sea. Thus it is with German unity. You can try to prevent unification, in which case we won’t experience this in our lifetimes. But as certainly as the Rhine flows towards the sea, as certainly German unity will come – and also European unity.’

Gorbachev listened and this time he did not demur. That evening on the bank of the Rhine, so Kohl thought looking back, was truly a turning point in Gorbachev’s thinking and also in their whole relationship. As they parted the two men hugged each other. An unlikely combination, perhaps: the stocky Kremlin leader and the massive, six-foot four, 250-pound chancellor. But the feeling was real: a political friendship had been born.What’s more, for Gorbachev West Germany had become what he called Moscow’s ‘major foreign partner’ – after the United States – and was therefore playing nothing less than a ‘global role’.[50]

Kohl could now bask in the glow of hugely successful state visits in quick succession from each of the superpower leaders – Bush and Gorbachev. He told the press exultantly: ‘within three weeks the two most powerful men from two different systems visited Germany. This new era brings new responsibilities to Germany’, and also, he added, ‘for peace’.[51]

Gorbachev’s evaluation of the summit was also warm and positive. ‘I think we have come out of a period of Cold War, even if there are still some chills and drafts,’ he announced before leaving. ‘We are simply bound to a new stage of relations, one I would call the peaceful period in the development of international relations.’ He even suggested that the Berlin Wall could ‘disappear when those conditions that created it fall away. I don’t see a major problem here.’ This was a scarcely veiled snub to the Honecker regime. And, alluding to the division of Germany itself, he stated ‘we hope that time will resolve this’. But while speculating about the end of one great geopolitical barrier, Gorbachev also aired his fears of a new, ‘impenetrable wall across Europe’ – referring to the European Community’s plans for a totally integrated single market by 1992. ‘So far we have not heard the economic or political arguments convincing enough to dispell such apprehensions.’ Here is a reminder that in June 1989 the process of ‘European integration’ seemed like a way of deepening the division between the two halves of the continent, rather than a unifying force of the sort that Gorbachev envisaged when he spoke of a ‘Common European Home’ stretching from the Atlantic to the Urals.[52]

For Gorbachev, Bonn was part of a series of visits around Europe in mid-1989 during which – like Bush with his speaking tour in the spring – the Soviet leader presented his evolving ideas about the new Eastern Europe that was emerging through his programme of political and economic restructuring.

In Paris three weeks later, he developed the line taken with Kohl on Poland and Hungary, insisting that communist countries ‘now in transition’ would ‘find a new quality of life within a socialist system, a socialist democracy’ as the ‘process of democratisation’ ultimately transformed all of Eastern Europe. In other words, what was going on within the Soviet bloc was reconstruction not deconstruction. Yet, pointing to the historical connections between 1789 and 1917, he declared that perestroika was also a ‘revolution’. Speaking to a packed and eager audience of professors, writers and students in the Sorbonne – a venue he had specially requested – Gorbachev felt like the intellectual that he yearned to be. He philosophised about the fundamentally ‘new global problems facing mankind at the end of the twentieth century’ to which his ‘new thinking’ provided answers. He warned the West not to expect Eastern Europe’s ‘return to the capitalist fold’ or to cherish ‘the illusion that only bourgeois society represents eternal values’.[53]

Lurking beneath these comments was Gorbachev’s real irritation with those addresses Bush had delivered in April and May. He did not see any ‘realism’ or a ‘constructive line’ in those statements and in fact found them ‘quite unpleasant’, he told Kohl in Bonn. ‘Frankly speaking, those statements reminded us of Reagan’s statements about the “crusade” against socialism.’ Like Reagan, Bush ‘appealed to the forces of freedom, called for the end to the “status quo”, and for “pushing socialism back”. And all this’, Gorbachev fumed, ‘at a time when we are calling for the de-ideologisation of relations. Unwillingly, questions come to mind – where is Bush genuine, and where is Bush rhetorical?’[54]

When the topic came up between Mitterrand and Gorbachev on 5 July in the Elysée Palace, the French president did not mince words about his own quite different views. ‘George Bush would conduct a very moderate policy even without congressional constraint because he is conservative.’ In fact, he added, Bush ‘has a very big drawback – he lacks original thinking altogether’. Mitterrand’s frustration about his own lack of influence and France’s diminished status in global affairs was palpable. He also felt sidelined by the active European diplomacy of Bush and Kohl – a theme to which I will return in chapters four and five. Conversely, the Soviet leader must have relished the Frenchman’s dig at the foot-dragging US president as much as he appreciated Mitterrand’s profession of ‘faith in the success of perestroika’.[55]

Nevertheless, determined to take the initiative from the ‘crusading’ Bush and regain the moral high ground, the Soviet leader pulled out the stops when speaking to the Council of Europe in Strasbourg. Declaring that ‘the post-war period and the Cold War are becoming a thing of the past’, Gorbachev offered an eye-catching disarmament package, proposing cuts in Soviet short-range nuclear missiles ‘without delay’ if NATO agreed, and the ultimate goal of eliminating all these weapons. Mindful of recent Alliance arguments over the ‘third zero’, he mischievously claimed that the USSR was holding fast to its ‘non-nuclear ideals’, while the West was clinging on to its dated concept of ‘minimum deterrence’.

The Soviet leader also elaborated on his vision of a Common European Home. This ruled out ‘the very possibility of the use or threat of force’ and postulated ‘a doctrine of restraint to replace the doctrine of deterrence’. He envisaged, as the Soviet Union moved towards a ‘more open economy’, the eventual ‘emergence of a vast economic space’ right across the continent in which the ‘eastern and western parts would be strongly interlocked’. He continued to believe in the ‘competition between different types of society’ and saw these kinds of tensions as ‘creating better material and spiritual conditions of life for people’. But he was looking forward to the day when ‘the only battlefield would be markets open for trade and minds open to ideas’.

Admitting that he had ‘no finished blueprint’ in his pocket for the Common European Home, he reminded his listeners of the work of the 1975 Helsinki Conference on Security and Cooperation in Europe (CSCE), when thirty-five nations had agreed common principles and values. It was now time, he declared, for the present generations of leaders in Europe and North America ‘to discuss, in addition to the most immediate issues, how they contemplate future stages of progress towards a European Community of the twenty-first century’. At the cornerstone of Helsinki 1975 were the two superpowers and, Gorbachev believed, that situation had not changed. ‘The realities of today and the prospects for the foreseeable future are obvious: the Soviet Union and the United States are a natural part of the European international and political structure. Their involvement in its evolution is not only justified, but also historically conditioned. No other approach is acceptable.’[56]

Gorbachev returned home via Romania, where he led a Warsaw Pact meeting that formally and publicly renounced the Brezhnev Doctrine – in other words cementing his statements in New York and more recently Strasbourg that force would not be used to control the development of individual socialist states. Combined with Gorbachev’s PR offensive of drastic, unilateral Soviet force reductions in Eastern Europe and his express desire for the Warsaw Pact states to make progress with NATO countries on producing a conventional arms accord by 1992,[57] this was another deeply worrying moment for Honecker and the other hardliners in the bloc – Ceaușescu and Miloš Jakeš of Czechoslovakia – especially considering that they had used the summit to lobby vehemently for Warsaw Pact military intervention in Hungary. Champions of repression and intransigence, they must have felt that the Kremlin was abandoning them.[58] Gorbachev certainly left his fellow communist leaders in no doubt what he thought about the dinosaurs among them. He stressed that ‘new changes in the party and in the economy are needed … Even V. I. Lenin said that new policies need new people. And this does not depend on subjective wishes any more. The very process of democratisation demands it.’[59]

The Soviet leader left Bucharest on 9 July, just as the president of the United States was arriving in Warsaw. Each superpower was putting down markers on a Europe in turmoil.

*

Bush had been alarmed by the Soviet leader’s peace offensive around Europe, not least because America’s NATO allies appeared to be in the grip of some kind of ‘Gorbymania’ which made them susceptible to Soviet blandishments about arms reduction. His own European tour – to Poland and Hungary ahead of the G7 meeting in France – had been planned in May but it was now all the more imperative, in order to ‘offset the appeal’ of Gorbachev’s message.[60]

Indeed, before even setting off for Europe, Bush made a point of quickly and strongly rebuffing Gorbachev’s Paris proposals: ‘I see no reason to stand here and try to change a collective decision taken by NATO,’ he declared, and reiterated that there would be no talks on SNFs until agreement had been reached in Vienna on reducing conventional forces in Europe, an area in which the USSR was vastly superior. He wrote sarcastically in his memoirs about Gorbachev’s attempt to persuade the West that it ‘need not wait for concrete actions by the Soviet Union before lowering its guard and military preparedness’.[61]

That said, Bush did not want his European trip to be about scoring points off Gorbachev. The president had already laid down his own ideological principles in the spring and, far from wishing to mount a ‘crusade’, he was sensitive both to the volatile situation in Eastern Europe and to Gorbachev’s delicate political position at home. He did not intend to ‘back off’ from his own values of freedom and democracy but was acutely conscious that ‘hot rhetoric would needlessly antagonise the militant elements within the Soviet Union and the Pact’. He even worried about the impact of his own presence, regardless of what he said. While wanting to be what he called a ‘responsible catalyst, where possible, for democratic change in Eastern Europe’, he did not want to be a stimulus for unrest: ‘If massive crowds gathered, intent on showing their opposition to Soviet dominance, things could get out of control. An enthusiastic reception could erupt into a violent riot.’ Although he and Gorbachev were jockeying for position, the two leaders agreed on the importance of stability within a bloc that was in flux.[62]

Bush and his entourage arrived at Warsaw’s military airport around 10 p.m. on 9 July. It was a humid summer evening as they descended from Air Force One to be greeted by a large official welcoming party. Jaruzelski was in the forefront but, for the first time ever during a state visit, representatives of Solidarity were also present. No spectators were allowed near the plane, but en route from the airport to the government guest house in the city centre, where George and Barbara Bush would be staying, thousands of people lined the streets, three or four deep, waving flags and giving the Solidarity ‘V’ for victory symbol. Others leant from the balconies of their apartments, throwing down flowers onto the passing motorcade. The mood, contrary to Bush’s fears, was that of a friendly welcome, not a political demonstration.[63] In fact, this was typical of the whole trip. There were no massed throngs cheering in adulation – nothing like Pope John Paul II in 1979 or Kennedy in Berlin in 1963. The public mood seemed uncertain, characterised by what American journalist Maureen Dowd called a mixture of ‘urgency and tentativeness’ as Poles contemplated a strange future in which the ‘jailors’ and those they had jailed would now have to try to govern together.[64]

Bush and Jaruzelski managed to turn their scheduled ‘ten-minute cup of coffee’ in the morning of 10 July into an extended and frank conversation that lasted almost an hour. Their tour d’horizon spanned Polish politics and economic reforms, US financial aid, superpower relations, the German question and Bush’s vision of ‘a united Europe without foreign troops’.[65] The president’s meeting with Prime Minister Mieczysław Rakowski – a veteran communist journalist until he was suddenly appointed premier the previous September – was similarly businesslike and also opened up some of the complexities underlying the glib word ‘reform’. Poland’s ‘chief problem’, Rakowski explained, was to ‘introduce reforms while avoiding serious unrest’. Privatisation would be an important step but he warned it would take ‘a full generation’ before Poles accepted the Western-style ‘stratification of wealth’ that would necessarily follow. What Polish people did not need, he added, was an American ‘blank check’ – in other words ‘untied credits’ from the West. Instead he hoped Bush could encourage the World Bank and IMF to display flexibility about the staggering of debt repayments. Rakowski conceded his party’s ‘economic errors of the past’ but insisted that these ‘constitute a closed chapter’ and that Polish leaders now understood the need to turn the page. Bush promised that the West would help but stated that he had no intention of supporting the radical, indeed frankly utopian, demands by the labour unions that would ‘break the Treasury’. In that way Bush stood closer to the aims of Polish communist reformers including Jaruzelski and Rakowski, who sought managed economic cooperation with the USA and the West, than to Wałęsa and the opposition, who wanted immediate and large-scale direct aid to ease the pain of transition and thus maintain popular support.[66]

The president did talk about economic aid when he addressed the Polish parliament on the afternoon of the 10th, but what was grandly described as his ‘Six-Point Plan’ received a mixed reception. To be sure, the need was clear: Poland’s debt to Western creditors in summer 1989 stood at around $40 billion, with the country’s growth rate barely above 1% while inflation was running at almost 60%. But although Bush promised to ask the US Congress for a $100 million enterprise fund to invigorate Poland’s private sector, he hoped that the rest of the aid package he proposed ($325 million in fresh loans and a debt rescheduling of $5 billion) would come from the World Bank, the Paris Club, the G7 and other Western institutions.[67] It was all a bit vague and certainly nothing like the $10 billion that Wałęsa, for one, had requested. Nor did it even come close to the $740 million in aid that Reagan, at the height of the Cold War, had offered the communist government before martial law was declared in December 1981.[68] That, of course, was prior to the USA’s foreign debt going through the roof as a result of Reaganomics – from $500 billion in 1981 to $1.7 trillion in 1989.[69] Certainly the public reaction in Poland was almost openly critical. ‘Very little concrete material’, a government spokesman complained, and ‘too much repeated emphasis on the need for further sacrifices by the Polish people’. So much for popular hopes in Poland of a ‘mini-Marshall Plan’. While Bush saw himself as being ‘prudent’, Scowcroft told journalists defensively that the value of the aid was ‘political and psychological’ as much as ‘substantive’.[70]

Next day Bush flew to Gdańsk to meet Wałęsa for lunch at his modest but cosy two-storey stucco house on the outskirts of the city. This was a deliberately informal, down-home affair. George and Barbara chatted with Lech and Danuta as ‘private citizens’, because the Solidarity leader had not stood for election and therefore had no official political role now. Looking around the rooms, the president was struck by the ‘lack of modern appliances and furnishings that most American families take for granted’. ‘Stylish waiters’ borrowed from a nearby hotel and a ‘fancy’ Baltic meal served on silver salvers did not cover up those realities. After more of what Bush described as Wałęsa’s ‘uncertain and unrealistic’ financial requests, backed by lurid warnings of ‘a second Tiananmen in the middle of Europe’ if Polish economic reforms failed, the president was happy to escape from their uneasy get-together and drive to the Lenin Shipyard to address 25,000 dockworkers. He considered standing outside the factory gate in front of the monument commemorating the forty-five workers killed by the security forces during the 1970 strikes – three anchors nailed to giant steel crosses – the ‘emotional peak’ of his Polish trip. Bush felt ‘heart and soul, emotionally involved’ as he spoke, with a ‘heady sense’ that he was ‘witnessing history being made on the spot’.[71]

Trumping Lenin in Gdańsk – Bush with Wałȩsa

His trip to Poland had been brief (9–11 July) but it underlined the magnitude of the political and economic problems that had to be surmounted. One presidential adviser told the press, it would ‘take hundreds of millions of dollars, from us and lots of other people, and even that won’t guarantee success’.[72]

That evening Bush arrived in Budapest during a heavy thunderstorm. He and Barbara were driven straight to Kossuth Square – named for the leader of Hungary’s failed revolution of 1848 and one of the centres of the 1956 uprising against Soviet rule. As the motorcade pulled into the square in front of the Parliament building it was greeted by a huge mass of people, some 100,000 strong – a crowd in an ebullient mood, full of expectation, despite being drenched by the rain. Bush, too, was very excited. It was the first ever visit of an American president to Hungary.[73]

The rain continued to fall while Hungary’s president Bruno Straub droned on for a full quarter-hour of plodding introductions. When Bush finally got a chance to speak, he waved away an umbrella, dispensed with his notecards and made a few extempore remarks ‘from the heart’ on the changes taking place in Hungary and on its reform-minded leadership. Just as he finished, the evening sun broke through the dark clouds. There was another special moment. Out of the corner of his eye, Bush noticed an elderly lady near the podium who was soaked to the skin. He took off his raincoat (which actually belonged to one of his security agents) and put it round her shoulders. The spectators roared with approval. Then Bush plunged into their midst, shaking their hands and shouting good wishes. Scowcroft noted: ‘The empathy between him and the crowd was total.’[74]

Next day, 12 July, Bush followed a similar script to his Warsaw visit. He was careful not to be seen associating with any opposition-party officials too closely. Indeed his meetings with both opposition and Communist Party figures were behind closed doors while in public he expressed his support for the communist reformers who now ran the government. Still, the difference in overall atmospherics between Budapest and Warsaw was clear: Hungary had enjoyed for two decades ‘more political freedom – nightclubs feature biting satirical sketches about the government – and more economic energy, with food markets piled high with fruits and vegetables, than the other Warsaw Pact countries’.[75]

In his talks with Bush, Prime Minister Miklós Németh emphasised his firm belief that the Hungarian Socialist Workers’ Party (HSWP) could ‘renew itself and will be able to, through electoral means, gain a dominant position in the coalition. The danger is that if the HSWP is defeated, the opposition is not yet ready to rule.’ Bush agreed. As regards the ‘political system for Hungary’, the president stated that ‘the principles articulated by the prime minister are ones that Americans support’ and promised that he would ‘do nothing to complicate the process of reform’. Being inclined toward stability, Bush believed that it was the reform communists who were uniquely equipped to successfully engineer a gradual exit from Moscow’s orbit.[76]

In Hungary – unlike Poland where the political situation was rather precarious in the wake of the elections – the question was not whether reform would proceed but how fast and on whose terms. Currently the reform communists were driving the transformation, and they did so with confidence. Internationally Hungary had more room for manoeuvre than Poland, a strategically more pivotal country for the Soviet Union. And Budapest also knew that it benefited from following in Warsaw’s slipstream. Poland had clearly managed to get away with its reform course by staying within the Warsaw Pact, and the Hungarian reformers also saw this as the best path – especially after Gorbachev had held firm to his non-interventionist position in the Bucharest summit. (Leaving the Warsaw Pact had been the step too far by Hungary in 1956.)

Understanding the new rules of the game, Hungarians were also willing to test the limits of the possible. In fact, they had done so already with the dismantling of the barbed wire. As Imre Pozsgay – effectively Hungary’s deputy prime minister under Németh – explained to Bush, there were only two situations that might attract Soviet intervention: ‘the emergence of civil war’ or ‘a Hungarian declaration of neutrality’. The former he deemed unlikely: he was sure Hungary would undergo a ‘peaceful’ transformation. And the latter was simply ‘not possible’ for Hungary: as in Poland’s case, Hungary’s Warsaw Pact membership was non-negotiable to avoid provoking the Kremlin. Bush entirely agreed that Hungarians should not have to choose between East and West. What was important, he declared, was ‘for Soviet reforms to go forward’ while the United States did not ‘exacerbate Gorbachev’s situation or make the Hungarian course more difficult’.[77]

Bush found the reformers’ buzz and energy infectious. Quite contrary to a Poland that had seemed drab, subdued and worried about its new political pluralism, Hungary, opening rapidly towards the West, seemed really full of vitality. And Bush conveyed this in his speech at Karl Marx University on the afternoon of 12 July. ‘I see people in motion,’ he said. ‘I see colour, creativity, experimentation. The very atmosphere of Budapest is electric, alive with optimism.’ Bush wanted his words to act as an accelerator of the process of change ahead of the multiparty elections, so the country would not get stuck in half-measures. ‘The United States will offer assistance not to prop up the status quo but to propel reform,’ he declared, before reminding his audience that here, as in Poland and across the bloc, simple solutions did not exist: ‘There are remnants of the Stalinist economy – huge, inefficient industrial plants and a bewildering price system that is hard for anyone to understand, and the massive subsidies that cloud economic decisions.’ But, he added, ‘the Hungarian government is increasingly leaving the business of running the shops to the shopkeepers, the farms to the farmers. And the creative drive of the people, once unleashed, will create momentum of its own. And this will … give each of you control over your own destiny – a Hungarian destiny.’[78]

In spite of this passionate rhetoric, as in Warsaw the president offered relatively meagre economic aid: $25 million for a private-enterprise fund; $5 million for a regional environmental centre; the promise of ‘most favoured nation’ status as soon as Hungary liberalised its emigration laws. He also made much about sending a delegation of Peace Corps volunteers to teach Hungarians English.[79]

His audience listened quietly but intently throughout the address. The most emotional moment was Bush’s comments on ‘the ugly symbol of Europe’s division and Hungary’s isolation’ – the barbed-wire fences that, he said, were being ‘rolled and stacked into bales’. Bush declared grandly: ‘For the first time, the Iron Curtain has begun to part … And Hungary, your great country, is leading the way.’ What’s more, with the Soviet Union withdrawing troops, he promised, ‘I am determined that we will work together to move beyond containment, beyond the Cold War.’ He ended ringingly with the invocation: ‘Let us have history write of us that we were the generation that made Europe whole and free.’ It won him a standing ovation.[80]

*

On Thursday 13 July, as Bush flew from Budapest to Paris for the G7 summit, he and Scowcroft reflected on the ‘new Europe being born’. During the flight the president also shared his impressions with members of the press corps, huddled around him on Air Force One. He said he had come away with ‘this real acute sense’ of the change that was taking place in Eastern Europe – a change he described as ‘absolutely amazing’, ‘vibrant’ and ‘vital’. He declared his determination to ‘play a constructive role’ in that process of change. The meetings, especially with the Hungarian leaders, had been ‘very good, very frank’. Warming up, Bush added, ‘I mean it was with emotion, and it wasn’t your traditional “I’ll read my cards, and you read your cards” kind of diplomacy.’ There had been ‘an intensity to it, a fervour to it’ that, he said, ‘moved me very much’.[81]

The president had no idea what lay ahead and so he remained cautious, but he was certainly encouraged by what he had seen. ‘I am firmly convinced that this wave of freedom, if you will, is the wave of the future,’ said Bush buoyantly. To some, it seemed that he was too cautious and overly sympathetic to the communist old guard. Yet others, including his deputy national security adviser Robert Gates, argued that the president was playing a more complex game. While preaching democratic freedoms and national independence to the crowds, he talked the language of pragmatism and conciliation to the old-guard leaders – in a deliberate attempt to ‘grease their path out of power’.[82]

Certainly, the challenge faced by his administration was to encourage reform in Eastern Europe without going so far and fast as to provoke turmoil and then a backlash. A fraught economic transition could easily result in inflation, unemployment and food shortages – all of which would force reform-oriented leaders to reverse course. Above all, Bush wanted to be sure to avoid triggering a Soviet reaction – possibly a crackdown in the style of 1953, 1956 and 1968. The key to successful change in the Soviet bloc was Soviet acquiescence, and Bush was keen to make it easy for Gorbachev to provide this. ‘We’re not there to poke a stick in the eye of Mr Gorbachev,’ he told the reporters. ‘Just the opposite – to encourage the very kind of reforms that he is championing and more reforms.’[83]

Fresh from witnessing revolutionary change, Bush arrived in a city obsessed with commemorating revolution. 14 July 1989 would mark the bicentenary of the fall of the Bastille, the starting point of France’s quarter-century roller coaster of demotic politics and imperial autocracy. French president François Mitterrand was determined to impress his international guests with an extravagant celebration of French grandeur – and his own quasi-regal position. Yet, given the dramatic upheavals in Eastern Europe, France’s historical pageant had particular resonance in July 1989.

As soon as Bush arrived, he was whisked off to the Place du Trocadéro opposite the Eiffel Tower. He sat with the six other leaders of the major industrialised nations, together with over twenty leaders from developing countries in Africa, Asia and the Americas, for a ceremony to commemorate the 1789 Declaration of the Rights of Man. Actors read excerpts from the declaration and quotations from the revolutionary leaders, wreaths were laid at a stone inscription of the document and 500 doves were released into the blue Paris sky. Mitterrand’s intent was clear: France’s pioneering revolution was to be remembered not for the blood in the gutters but for its enduring values: liberté, fraternité, égalité. Then followed an evening at the brand-new, gleaming mammoth Opera House in the Place de la Bastille, on the site of the once-dreaded royal prison. On this occasion too Mitterrand’s special twenty guests were present, together with the leaders of the G7 – as they were for the Bastille Day Parade the next morning, when the French president put on a massive display of France’s ‘world class’ military prowess down the Champs-Elysées. Nobody could mistake the implicit message: the Fifth Republic was still a power with global reach. Watching 300 tanks, 5,000 troops and a mobile nuclear missile unit go by along Paris’s grand boulevard, Scowcroft couldn’t help being reminded of ‘a Soviet May Day parade’.[84]

Mitterrand’s friends from the Third World really irritated the Americans. After all, the Paris G7 economic summit had been prepared especially to deal with the pressing issues of debt relief and the global environment. But the US delegation emphatically did not want to get the G7 meeting conflated with an impromptu North–South gathering on the margins of the French national celebrations, especially after the debtor countries had already seized the spotlight in Paris to appeal for relief from the developing world’s $1.3 trillion debt. The White House worried about the risk that in such an ex tempore meeting between creditors and debtors, as advocated by France, the ‘South’ as a bloc would dress up their demands to the ‘North’ as ‘reparations’ for years of colonial ‘exploitation’, laced with Marxist–Leninist-inspired rhetoric. And generally, the US strongly opposed collective debtor action. In its view, debt problems should be resolved country by country and in this vein the Americans announced a $1–2 billion short-term loan to neighbouring Mexico and then picked up the case of Poland.[85]

Given the G7 summit’s central focus on debt relief, General Jaruzelski saw his opportunity and appealed to the Big Seven for a two-year, multibillion-dollar rescue programme on 13 July. Published in all major Polish party newspapers, his six-point programme included seeking $1 billion to reorganise food supplies, $2 billion in new credits, as well as a reduction and rescheduling of Poland’s debt of roughly $40 billion, plus financing for an assortment of specific projects. Significantly, the Solidarity movement endorsed Jaruzelski’s appeal; indeed, Wałęsa had just come out in support of an approved Communist Party candidate for the presidency, which made General Jaruzelski’s victory much more likely – thus helping to end the political deadlock of the post-election weeks.[86]

Still elated by his recent visits, Bush was happy to use Jaruzelski’s financial demands to put Eastern Europe on the top of the summit agenda, wresting the initiative away from Mitterrand and his supporting cast of global little leaguers. But if support for democratic change were to be the centrepiece of the meeting, this meant the summit also had to engage with a less palatable issue for the Americans: the crushed revolution in China. And so the Paris G7 came to be dominated by two burning political issues of the moment – problems that potentially threatened global order.

As soon as the summit got under way on the afternoon of Friday 14 July – in the new glass pyramid entrance of the Louvre – the leaders started by arguing over how far they should go in condemning China. Most Europeans, led by the French president, wanted to punish the PRC with exemplary sanctions, but Bush (as well as Prime Minister Thatcher, who was worried about the fate of Hong Kong[87]) urged them to be prudent. The US president wanted as little damage as possible to the Sino-American relationship that was so important to world peace. Yet he was going out on a limb in Paris, because the US Senate voted that very day by eighty-one to ten to impose more stringent US sanctions against the PRC.

Japan’s prime minister Sosuke Uno, Asia’s sole voice among the G7, also urged caution. Tokyo did not want to see Beijing isolated and by default pushed into Moscow’s arms. Moreover, given Japan’s long history of invading China, it lacked the moral high ground to punish Beijing. Japan saw itself in a unique position. If it could keep channels to China open while using its position as America’s key Pacific ally, it might be able to broker the restoration of Sino-American cooperation. Seeing real benefits in this, Bush worked hard with Uno to soften the language on China in the summit communiqué. In the end, the leaders issued a strong condemnation of the PRC’s ‘violent repression’ but they did not announce any additional sanctions and merely urged the Chinese to ‘create conditions which enable them to avoid isolation’.[88]

With the prickly topic of China out of the way, on Saturday the G7 moved quickly to achieve agreement on Poland and Hungary. Their ‘Declaration on East–West Relations’ stated: ‘We recognise that the political changes taking place in these countries will be difficult to sustain without economic progress.’[89] In order to facilitate this progress, they agreed to impose somewhat easier conditions than on a normal IMF loan, by allowing Poland to postpone its $5 billion tranche of foreign debt repayment due in 1989. They also agreed to consider an array of economic aid options for Poland and Hungary (investments, joint ventures, professional training and an infusion of skilled managers), as well as emergency food supplies.

None of this was particularly surprising. What was much more noteworthy and eventually significant was the decision that the economic and food aid for Eastern bloc countries would be coordinated by the European Community – a striking novelty in international politics.[90] Bush got what he wanted. Enlisting support for Eastern Europe endowed his largely symbolic visit to Warsaw, Gdańsk and Budapest with real substance. But he had never intended to bear the burden alone. The G7 had readily bought his concept of ‘concerted Western action’ in support of Poland and Hungary which, Bush hoped, would lift Western engagement with Eastern Europe out of the superpower domain, spread the burden and make possible a larger, more synchronised and less competitive Western effort. The White House also believed that, couched within this broader multilateral framework, US action would look less threatening to the Soviets. Working with and through allies would become a hallmark of Bush’s diplomatic style.

It was Chancellor Kohl who proposed, with prompt agreement from the others, to ask the European Commission to head a group of donor countries to provide assistance to Poland and Hungary. This eventually became the G24: twenty-four industrialised states both from within the EC and outside it. Commission president Jacques Delors – always keen to assume a larger role for himself at the head of this supranational body – was very ready to oversee what was effectively a ‘clearing house for aid’. After all, in 1988 the EC had already established loose links with the Comecon as a trading bloc and Hungary had intimated its desire to work towards an association agreement. So, while the USA was content to take a back seat, the EC gained a position of leadership that signalled its growing political power.

The Eastern European aid package was the first time the European Community had been chosen as a follow-up agency for a G7 decision. It was a harbinger of things to come. Just three weeks earlier in Madrid on 26–7 June the EC had agreed to consummate a closer union – both political and economic – in 1992. And it was no accident that the specific blueprint for tighter economic and monetary union had been mapped out by Delors himself.[91]

Delors had been propelled into the presidency of the European Commission in 1984, following a strikingly effective three-year stint under Mitterrand as France’s finance minister which highlighted his skills as a political broker. He had successfully persuaded his notoriously obstinate boss to temper his socialist Keynesianism with a policy of austerity and fiscal consolidation. This shored up the failing franc and enabled France to remain within the European Monetary System. On the back of these achievements, moving on to Brussels as Commission president, Delors deftly steered the twelve often divergent members of the European Community towards the signing of the Single European Act in 1986, which embodied a firm commitment to move towards full economic and monetary union (EMU). Delors undoubtedly saw EMU as a way to advance the cause of European integration but he was not an avid federalist, passionate about a United States of Europe. His objections, both pragmatic and philosophical, to European federalism also help to explain his caution about highly centralised approaches to decision-making when developing the embryonic ‘Euro Area’. In 1988, at the EC Council meeting in Hanover, European leaders authorised Delors to chair a committee of central-bank governors and other experts to propose concrete stages towards EMU. Here, again, he showed his ability to forge compromises between proponents of different economic approaches, in particular building bridges between France and Germany.[92]

And so at Madrid in June 1989 it was agreed by the leaders of the EC 12 to launch the following year the first stage of EMU – completion of the single market by 1992. This would involve abolition of all foreign-exchange controls, a free market in financial services and strengthening of competition policy – which entailed a radical reduction in state subsidies. The other prong of this policy was the reinforcement of social cohesion, which involved freedom of movement between states and guaranteed workers’ rights. Achieving the single market with enhanced cohesion was top priority for this new and exciting chapter in the history of the Community. And with it came a visibly greater role in international affairs for the EC – and its Commission president. This was evident when Bush made a point of meeting Delors in Washington in June, two weeks before Madrid and five weeks ahead of the G7.

The meeting was intended to signal that the United States took seriously the Community and the ‘EC 92’ project (US shorthand for the transformation of the EC into the EU).[93] Keen to head off the danger of an economically protectionist Fortress Europe, Bush and Baker made it quite clear that America wanted to see the completion of the single European market linked with real progress in the so-called Uruguay Round negotatiations on a new agreement about global tariffs and trade – one that would replace the crumbling Cold War GATT system. Delors agreed that the EC 92 and global trade talks had to run together: if the Uruguay Round were not successful, it would not be possible for the Community to meet its EC 92 objectives. In fact, he emphasised, ‘it would be a contradiction for the Uruguay Round to fail and EC 92 to go forward’. The sticking points on all this, however, were French agriculture, because of the country’s entrenched farm lobby, and Japan, with its strong export economy but heavily protected domestic market. Delors hoped that ‘in the future the US, EC, and Canada could jointly put pressure on the Japanese’.[94]

Although apparently emerging as an independent actor, the EC always relied for its effectiveness on the key member states. Delors, for all his ambition, never forgot this. And the most significant economic power in the EC was the Federal Republic, so it was vital to work closely with Kohl. Bush, of course, knew this; and he also understood well that the German–American axis was one way of engaging with the West European engine. After all, the chancellor was genuinely supportive of EMU: as Delors told Bush, ‘Kohl reinforces the goals of the European Community.’ Of course, there was now a danger in the summer of 1989 that further Western European integration might be derailed by the incipient disintegration of Eastern Europe. Yet here again Germany was pivotal.

This became clear during the Paris G7 summit over the question of how to channel aid to Poland and Hungary. It was Kohl who sponsored the idea of the EC as the conduit for Western financial assistance. For the chancellor – ever mindful of the German question – this route offered several advantages. First, West Germany (like America) was keen to maintain the momentum of change within the Eastern bloc but he wanted to keep the process peaceful and avoid bloodshed. A concerted Western economic initiative could prevent anarchy and forestall Soviet military intervention. Second, if the FRG sheltered under the EC umbrella, nobody could blame Kohl going it alone – edging away from West, cosying up to the East and even asserting German power in ways that raised the spectre of the Kaiser and the Führer.

What’s more, unlike Bush, Kohl was ready to put a substantial sum of money on the table. He had already told Bush on 28 June that he intended to offer Hungary an additional DM 1 billion (nearly $500 million) of ‘fresh money’, on top of a loan without conditions of the same amount that he had granted in 1987. Even if the fine print made clear that this funding was actually loans and credits for buying German goods and services rather than direct aid, the sum involved was forty times more than what the president himself had offered Budapest. The chancellor was also very keen to help Poland bilaterally, but this was currently on ice because the aid question was entangled with the position of the German minority in Poland – a sensitive matter for the Poles and for the political right in the FRG. This controversy, rooted in unsettled territorial legacies of the Second World War, was another reminder of the FRG’s limits as an independent international actor. The deadlock over a deal also frustrated Kohl’s aspiration to go to Warsaw. Initially planned for the summer to follow on the heels of Mitterrand and Bush, his state visit to Poland would not take place until 9 November.[95]

Delors and the G24 moved fast because Warsaw and Budapest feared that economic collapse might undermine democratic reform. Officials made a distinction between Hungary and Poland, however, since only the latter had requested short-term food aid to combat severe shortages. Hungary’s twenty-four-page wish list concentrated on better terms of trade with the industrialised world and the liberalisation of foreign investment. The Poles, of course, would come in for similar consideration once their immediate food crisis was resolved. On 18 August, as part of a $120 million package including meat, cereals, citrus fruit and olive oil, the EC announced its first delivery of 10,000 tons of beef to Poland, to arrive in early September. A further shipment of 200,000 tons of wheat stored in Germany, as well as 75,000 tons of barley from France and 25,000 tons from Belgium, were soon to follow – with 500,000 more in the pipeline. The idea was that the Polish government would sell the free food to the people and then reinvest the profits in their economies, especially the private farm sector. This arrangement was formalised in a counterpart fund agreement the G24 negotiated. The role played by EC/G24 in the late summer of 1989 would provide a template for further Eastern aid packages in the future.[96]

So, in the end, it was Brussels, not Washington, which oversaw Western support for change in Central and Eastern Europe. This somewhat undercut Bush’s claims that it was he and the United States who were ‘propelling’ reform in Poland and Hungary. Although his rhetoric had grown bolder since the spring, Bush’s actions revealed his preference for evolution over revolution, privileging stability and order, backed by a deliberate policy of burden-sharing with allies.[97] A mild recession in the USA and a legacy of debt from the Reagan years that had dramatically increased the federal budget deficit reinforced Bush’s apprehensions about the dangers of anarchy in a Europe that might become a bottomless pit for US dollars. The president was therefore pleased with the outcome of the G7 summit. What worried him most was a letter that Mitterrand read out on Bastille Day at the very start of their meeting.

*

The letter came from Gorbachev – it was the first time that a Soviet leader had written officially to the G7. And, it was also the first time the USSR had proposed not only expanded economic cooperation but even direct Soviet participation in such efforts.

‘The formation of a cohesive world economy implies that the multilateral economic partnership be placed on a qualitatively new level,’ Gorbachev wrote. ‘Multilateral East–West cooperation on global economic problems is far behind the development of bilateral ties. This state of things does not appear justified, taking account of the weight that our countries have in the world economy.’ That, he said, was the logical extension of his programme of domestic economic restructuring. ‘Our perestroika is inseparable from a policy aiming at our full participation in the world economy,’ he stated. ‘The world can only gain from the opening up of a market as big as the Soviet Union.’[98]

As with all of Gorbachev’s words, the rhetoric was impressive, even compelling. There was no mistaking the Soviet leader’s keenness to join the G7. But Bush was wary about the Soviets. Their reforms had not yet advanced far enough to warrant full membership in the top club of free-market economies.[99] And he could see that Soviet involvement would mostly be of benefit to Moscow. Yet Gorbachev’s letter, widely quoted in the international press, was impossible to ignore. The absence of the Soviet leader was felt throughout the summit, just as it had been during Bush’s visits to Warsaw and Budapest. Tiananmen was another ghost at the feast – an ugly reminder of what could happen if democratic reform went wrong.

After the summit ended on Sunday morning, 16 July, Bush chatted with Baker and Scowcroft on the steps of the Paris embassy overlooking the garden; they discussed their impressions and experiences of the past few days. Suddenly the president announced that the time had come for him to meet at long last with Gorbachev – speaking, as Scowcroft later recalled, ‘in that way he has when his mind is made up. Neither Baker nor I remonstrated with him. Baker had never been as negative as I about an early Gorbachev meeting, and I no longer felt so strongly about it.’[100]

It looked like a spontaneous impulse, but in fact Bush had been mulling over this for several weeks. Particular impetus came from the West Germans. On 6 June, in the Oval Office, FRG president Richard von Weizsäcker had warned Bush about the implications of the recent turbulence in Poland and Hungary. ‘It would be useful if the US had quiet talks with Moscow about the future of Eastern Europe,’ he said. The West European allies would do the same based, as he put it, ‘on the values of the Atlantic Alliance’ and the FRG would act within this framework to avoid any impression of an independent Ostpolitik.[fn1] Weizsäcker returned to the same point later in the conversation, warning Bush more bluntly that ‘in their foreign relations, the Soviets are approaching a time that is totally unknown to them, and they are legitimately worried’. He added firmly: ‘The West needs to talk to Moscow to alleviate these fears.’ The US president did not respond directly but segued to China, observing that he ‘had the feeling that the Soviets are saying “there but for the grace of God go I”. They may be worrying that reform could affect them in the same way.’[101]

The impressions gleaned from this conversation were reinforced on 15 June when Chancellor Kohl – immediately after his talks with Gorbachev in Bonn – called Bush on the phone to convey his impressions. The Soviet leader, he said, had been in ‘good shape’ and relatively ‘optimistic’, showing himself keen to support Polish and Hungarian reform efforts. But Kohl kept coming back to one issue: Gorbachev was ‘seeking ways of establishing personal contact with the president’. Laying it on thick, the chancellor claimed that he and Gorbachev had ‘talked for quite some time about the president’. It was clear, said Kohl, that Gorbachev had a ‘general suspicion towards the United States’ but also that he had ‘greater hope for establishing good contact with Bush than he had with President Reagan.’ At an intellectual level, Kohl insisted, Gorbachev saw ‘eye to eye with the president’ and wanted to ‘deepen contacts with the US and Bush personally.’ Kohl urged sending direct and personal messages to Gorbachev from time to time. This, he declared, would ‘signal the president’s confidence, which is a key word for Gorbachev, who places a high premium on “personal chemistry”’. Bush probably took it all with a pinch of salt – at the end, to quote the official US record, he merely ‘thanked the chancellor for his debrief and said he had listened very carefully’ – but the main point clearly registered.[102]

At the weekend Bush had a chance to reflect on the week’s events. On 18 June, three days after talking with Kohl, he wrote in his diary: ‘I’m thinking in the back of my mind what we should do about meeting with Gorbachev. I want to do it; but I don’t want to get bogged down on arms control.’ Bush hoped that ‘some cataclysmic world event’ might occur to give him and Gorbachev the chance to ‘do something that shows cooperation’ and in the process ‘talk quietly’ without raising expectations of some dramatic breakthrough on arms control. In short, the president wanted a chat not a summit.[103]

Bush’s visits to Poland and Hungary sharpened his awareness that reform might easily get out of hand and turn violent. He could not forget those images of Tiananmen Square, nor could he ignore Eastern Europe’s ‘traumatic uprisings’ of the past. If Eastern Europe was now in transition, this had to be managed by the superpowers: ‘to put off a meeting with Gorbachev was becoming dangerous’.[104] And Mitterrand had rammed this very point home on 13 July, the eve of the G7, dismissing Bush’s concerns about finding a pretext without raising expectations. The French president said the two of them could ‘simply meet as presidents who had not yet met – to exchange views’.[105]

The pressure from his European allies had become intense but Bush was both stubborn and circumspect: he had to make up his own mind in his own time. By mid-July 1989 he had finally done so. Seven months after his inauguration – having grown into the role of president and with his initial China opening now stalled – his focus was firmly on Europe and he had consolidated his own leadership position at the NATO summit in May and the recent G7. Bush had come a long way from that halting bit-part role on Governors Island in the wake of Gorbachev’s barnstorming performance in Manhattan. He now felt psychologically prepared to tangle with the Kremlin seducer.

This slow and deliberate approach to decision-making was characteristic of the Bush style, so different from that of Reagan, who had been nicknamed ‘the Great Communicator’ and ‘the Cowboy President’. There was no flamboyance or fireworks. Bush’s approach was more measured and pragmatic, based on long experience of government. Some commentators mistook Bush’s understated manner and preference for consultation as signs of weakness – an intimation, even, that America’s power was on the wane. But Bush understood cooperation, collegiality and persuasion to be the hallmarks of leadership and these required personal contact and the building of trust. By the time the G7 was over, Bush knew that these techniques had worked with his Western partners and he felt ready and able to try them out on his superpower counterpart, quietly confident that he could handle Gorbachev’s unsettling mixture of sweet talk and ‘one-upmanship’. Gorbachev had told Reagan that it took two to tango. Bush was now willing to join the dance.[106]

On Air Force One, flying home from Europe, the president drafted a personal letter to Gorbachev to explain how, as he put it, ‘my thinking is changing’. Previously, he explained, he had felt that a meeting between them would have to produce major agreements, especially on arms control – not least because of the hopes of the ‘watching world’. But now, after seeing the Soviet bloc first-hand, holding ‘fascinating conversations’ with other world leaders in Paris, and learning about Gorbachev’s recent visits to France and West Germany, he felt it was vital for the two of them to develop a personal relationship, so as to ‘reduce the chances that there could be misunderstandings between us’.

The president thus proposed an informal, no-agenda encounter, ‘without thousands of assistants hovering over our shoulders, without the ever-present briefing papers and certainly without the press yelling at us every 5 minutes about “who’s winning”’ and whether or not the meeting was a success or failure. In fact, Bush added firmly ‘it would be best to avoid the word “summit”’ altogether. He hoped they could meet very soon but he did not want to put Gorbachev under any undue pressure.

By early August, to Bush’s satisfaction, Gorbachev had replied affirmatively to his proposal. But it would still take several weeks to sort out schedules and location.[107]

*

Meanwhile, change in the once glacial Eastern Europe continued at an astonishing pace. As before, Poland was in the vanguard. The logjam over the new post of president suddenly broke. On 18 July Jaruzelski announced that he would actually be a candidate. Next day the combined houses of parliament met and voted in the general unopposed, albeit after a good deal of arm-twisting of recalcitrant Solidarity parliamentarians by their leaders. Jaruzelski promised to be a ‘president of consensus, a representative of all Poles’. It was, of course, bitterly ironic that this diehard communist and decade-long suppressor of the trade union movement was now appointed Poland’s president in the guise of a ‘reformer’ through a genuinely free vote essentially by those he had previously imprisoned. Many of the Solidarity rank and file were livid. But their political leadership argued that this was the best possible result in order to advance freedom while preserving stability. At the same time Jaruzelski’s narrowest of victories (he gained the necessary majority by one vote) showed who had the real legitimacy and political strength in the land: the freed workers, Solidarity.[108]

The next step was to replace the caretaker government under Prime Minister Rakowski. According to the round-table agreement, Solidarity was meant to stay in opposition while a new communist-led government ran the country. But the dramatic election results of 4 June had made a mockery of that original springtime arrangement. In consequence, the communists now sought a grand coalition with Solidarity (not least to try to shrug off some of the responsibility for the deepening economic crisis). But Solidarity was split over this course; most of their members did not want to participate in a government in which Communists would rule. And in any case, they believed that the June election results had actually given them the mandate to govern the country.

In the event, on 2 August Jaruzelski nominated his fellow communist General Czesław Kiszczak as prime minister. But the latter failed to form a Cabinet – because the Communist Party’s allies, the Peasant Party and Democratic Alliance, refused to cooperate. And so it was Lech Wałęsa who announced that he would put together a Cabinet under the Solidarity banner. With this daring move Wałęsa went way beyond the round-table agreement. What was now a highly volatile political situation was compounded by growing instability in the first weeks of August, amid a new wave of strikes against rampant inflation and food shortages in the industrial south around Katowice and in the Baltic shipyards.

Jaruzelski was in a bind. Should he cave in and accept the accelerating pace of the political transition? Or should he stand firm and dissolve the legislature? New and unconstrained elections would undoubtedly spell total disaster for the communists. The US ambassador in Warsaw warned that Poland was now ‘right on the brink’. If the situation escalated, how long would ‘the decaying power elite fail to defend itself’? How to prevent a conservative backlash? Or even civil war?[109]

Jaruzelski agonised for several days. What tipped him against a hard line was the prospect of political and economic chaos and also quiet but firm pressure from Gorbachev and the Kremlin. Wałęsa also made crucial concessions – promising that Poland would remain within the Warsaw Pact and offering the communists the key ministries of Defence and the Interior, in other words control of the army and the police. Both of these were important gestures to Moscow – or at least to the Moscow of 1956 and 1968, just in case that Cold War past was not as dead as Gorbachev claimed. Under these conditions Jaruzelski decided to take the step that would push Poland’s political system beyond anything being attempted elsewhere in the Eastern bloc – a ‘partnerlike cooperation’ between party and movement. The communist president accepted a Solidarity prime minister.[110]

The editor of the opposition newspaper Gazeta Wyborcza – applying the ‘one for us and one for them’ rule – had a month earlier also proposed this solution in an opinion piece he entitled ‘Your president, our prime minister’. And so the chalice passed to Tadeusz Mazowiecki, a journalist and prominent Catholic layman since the 1950s. From the early days of Solidarity he had been a vital link between the progressive intelligentsia and the militant workers, and had worked as editor of Tygodnik Solidarność, the new Solidarity weekly, before being interned for a year under martial law. In 1988–9 he helped negotiate the end of the mass strikes and the construction of the round-table accords.[111]

On 24 August, Mazowiecki was confirmed prime minister by the Sejm, including the votes of most of the communist deputies, who thus indicated their willingness in principle to serve under him. He had become the first non-communist head of government in Eastern Europe since the early post-war years, yet nobody in the West was too jubilant. ‘A historic step,’ said a US State Department official, but ‘there is no sense of gloating here’ considering the immense economic challenges Mazowiecki faced.[112] In fact, the new Polish leader did not deny this, admitting ‘Nobody has previously taken the road that leads from socialism to capitalism.’[113]

On the plus side, it took only three weeks for the new Polish PM to present his government to parliament – where it was approved unanimously by 402 votes to nil, with thirteen abstentions. Yet it was perhaps symbolic that the sixty-two-year-old Mazowiecki suffered a dizzy spell while delivering his opening speech on 12 September, which forced him to take a break for nearly an hour. When he returned to the stage, to thunderous applause, he joked: ‘Excuse me, but I have reached the same state as the Polish economy.’ After the laughter had died down, he added ‘I have recovered – and I hope the economy will recover too.’ At the end, Mazowiecki stood at the prime minister’s bench ‘as a man of Solidarity’, arms raised in triumph, flashing the two-fingered Solidarity victory sign.[114]

Having fought each other for nearly a decade, Solidarity and communists were now working in uneasy collaboration, while most of the government bureaucracy simply remained in situ, adapting, often eagerly, to new goals and a fresh ethos. In place of the deadlocked triangle of Party–Solidarity–Church the country was now run by a novel configuration of forces: government, parliament and president, with Solidarity’s leading figurehead and strategist Lech Wałęsa looking on – effectively as president-in-waiting.

Although Poland’s ravaged economy had hardly begun to move from the Plan to the market, the first and crucial phase of political transition – guided but not defined by the round-table pact – had been concluded without conflict. There had been no civil war and no Soviet military intervention. This peaceful ‘refolution’ had a dynamic effect not only in Poland but also in other communist-ruled countries, signalling that the once inconceivable was now possible.

As events in Poland unfolded, the superpowers looked on as bystanders. To be sure, the State Department favoured a more adventurous and openly supportive policy. But the White House remained more guarded – placing the onus firmly on Warsaw. ‘Only the Poles can see that they succeed,’ Scowcroft told CNN when asked why the president was not rushing to offer the Poles more aid. ‘We can help, but we can only help if money goes into structures which can make it used properly.’ His message was clear: let’s wait and see. Bush felt it ‘important to act carefully and to avoid pouring money down a rat-hole’.[115]

As for the USSR, Gorbachev appeared to cling to the illusion that the ‘democratising socialism’ of Poland and Hungary had a future. Be that as it may, the Kremlin had neither the will nor the resources to police Eastern Europe in the style of Stalin, Khrushchev or Brezhnev. In any case, Gorbachev was being severely challenged just to hold on to power at home and keep the Soviet Union together. He was now operating within a very different political system, the consequence of the USSR’s first free election since 1917. Having persuaded the Communist Party to abolish the Supreme Soviet and create a functioning parliament, the Congress of People’s Deputies, in March 1989, he found that this triumph of perestroika created a more independent body that gradually undermined his power. As biographer William Taubman observed, he was ‘replacing the old political “game”, at which he excelled, with a new one that he never really mastered’. In the process new nationalist, even secessionist, energies were set loose as more and more power was devolved to the republics. These centrifugal forces emerged dramatically in Georgia – prompting the intervention of the Red Army in Tbilisi in April, when twenty-one people were killed – and became even more visible as far as Europe was concerned in the Baltic States on the USSR’s western rim.[116]

On 23 August, the day before Mazowiecki was confirmed as Poland’s premier, an estimated 2 million people formed a human chain some 400 miles right across Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania to commemorate the fiftieth anniversary of Stalin’s pact with Hitler in 1939 that assigned these three Baltic States, independent since 1918, to the Soviet Union. The ‘Baltic Chain’ or ‘Chain of Freedom’ was a graphic reminder that the USSR and the Soviet empire had been held together by force. Both the Polish Assembly and the Polish Communist Party publicly condemned the Pact, as had Gorbachev himself just a few days before. But none of them was, as yet, willing to grapple with the logical implication of their words. The Pact had pulled not only the Baltic States within the USSR but also much of eastern Poland. Denouncing Stalinist policies was therefore not simply a political act; it was another sign that the Soviet bloc’s burgeoning revolution was also opening up buried questions about European geopolitics – questions that affected basic relations between the superpowers.[117]

And so Poland served almost as the icebreaker of the Cold War in the summer of 1989. Hungary followed in its wake, pursuing its own round-table talks for the reform of the electoral process and the governmental structure. In this case, though, the table was not round but triangular – as befitted the more pointed configuration of Hungarian politics in which the key players were the communists, the opposition parties and the non-party organisations. Having started on 13 June, the three groupings reached agreement on 18 September on the transition to a multiparty parliamentary democracy via fully-free national elections. The plan was that, before the elections, a president would be elected by the old, existing parliament – indeed, there was a certain understanding that Imre Pozsgay was the most likely candidate. Yet, as soon as that idea was aired, the Free Democrats, Young Democrats and Independent Trade Unions broke the consensus, refusing to sign the agreement. Quickly Hungary’s triangular politics began to fragment. The opposition parties started to feud among themselves, while on 7 October the Communist Party (in other words, the Hungarian Socialist Workers’ Party) voted to dissolve and then rebrand itself as the Hungarian Socialist Party led by Rezső Nyers. This proved a fatal move, because the public saw through the cosmetic change. Over the following months, in the run-up to the elections, the ‘new-old party’ would fail to grow in membership, unlike its opposition rivals. Meanwhile some communists around Grósz formed, under the old name, their own ‘new-old’ splinter party which was to become even more marginal in Hungarian political life.[118]

These dramatic shifts left Hungarian politics totally up for grabs. On 18 October the parliament went ahead and passed the constitutional amendments agreed by the national round table, not least renaming the country the ‘Hungarian Republic’ – dropping the word ‘People’s’. Free elections were scheduled for 25 March 1990 and the presidential election for the summer. So Hungary had moved to multiparty politics before becoming a democracy. And for longer than in Poland an old – albeit now reform-oriented – government led by the renamed communists would continue to run political affairs. Whereas in Poland, the 4 June elections were the decisive turning point in the exit from communism, the emotional and symbolic roots of Hungary’s renewal as a nation were dramatised on 16 June, with the reburial of Nagy and the renunciation of 1956.

So the Poles were in the vanguard of democratisation. But this was a process that took place within the boundaries of a single state, just as in the Soviet republics of Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania. It was in Hungary that Europe’s Iron Curtain would be lifted.

*

August was the continent’s main holiday month. Paris almost closed down. Italians cooled off in the coastal resorts of the Mediterranean and the Adriatic. West Germans disappeared to the mountains of Bavaria or to the North Sea coast. In the communist East, sunseekers headed to Bulgaria’s Black Sea beaches or relaxed by the Baltic Sea, while large numbers of East Germans piled into their little, candy-coloured Trabants and drove off to Hungary. The shores of Lake Balaton were a particularly popular destination for those who loved camping. But this year, many campers were planning a one-way trip, having read or seen news reports about the end of Hungary’s barbed-wire border. They glimpsed the chance of slipping into the West. As historian Mary Sarotte has pointed out, the East German secret police, the Stasi, wrote up a ‘surprisingly honest internal summary’ of their citizens’ motives for wanting out of the GDR: lack of consumer goods, inadequate services, poor medical care, limited opportunities for travel, bad workplace conditions, the relentlessly bureaucratic attitude of the state, and the lack of a free media.[119]

Material reasons aside, there was another more political cause for flight. Inspired by the amazing political transformations in Poland and Hungary – countries they knew well and had visited in their hundreds of thousands – many East Germans saw Honecker, by contrast, as an immovable obstacle to progress in their own country. He was ‘giving yesterday’s answers to today’s questions’. Resentment first broke into the open in May when local elections, which many East Germans hoped would be held in the spirit of the USSR’s democratisation, had in fact been as tightly controlled as ever by the party. At the polling station everyone was merely expected to approve the list of candidates put forward by the ruling party. There was no opposition and no choice – other than rejecting candidates, which many did. Those who ‘forgot’ to vote were promptly visited with a helpful reminder from the Stasi. When on election night, 7 May 1989, the results were announced, 98.85% had voted for the official lists. Everything was ‘in order’: that’s at least what state election director Egon Krenz proclaimed.[120]

The election was a travesty and the result obviously bore no relation to the real mood of GDR citizens. They felt conned by this charade of democracy. One of the few protest posters read sarcastically ‘Always on board for election fraud’ (Nie genug vom Wahlbetrug). It was as if East Germans were being treated as children in a playpen, whereas the Poles and Hungarians were allowed to behave like adults – free to voice independent political views and help shape political change for themselves. ‘Many people can no longer tolerate the kindergarten atmosphere, or being constantly led by the nose on all fronts,’ said Reinhard Schult, a leading East German activist. ‘People are leaving East Germany because they have lost all hope of change.’[121] In 1988 a total of 29,000 people from the GDR had legally exited west. In just the first six months of 1989, 37,000 had been granted permission to do so.[122]

Economic prospects and political despair were the ‘push’ factors. On the ‘pull’ side, Hungary’s increasingly porous border with Austria was obviously significant. Yet that in itself was not sufficient because, if people got caught ‘preparing’ or ‘trying’ to run away illegally, the Hungarian authorities were obliged to send them back to the GDR under a secret protocol to a 1969 bilateral treaty. But on 12 June 1989 there was a new legal twist when the Hungarian government started to adhere to the 1951 UN Geneva Convention on Refugees – honouring a commitment it had made in March. This striking substitution of political principles suggested that Hungary might no longer force East Germans back to the GDR: to borrow Gorbachev’s language, the government now placed allegiance to universal values above any obligations to fellow communist states. Rather than being illegal defectors, East German escapees could now hope to obtain the status of ‘political refugee’ in international law and thereby give legitimacy to their flight.[123]

The situation on the ground, however, was still somewhat opaque. The Hungarian bureaucracy had so far not decided on the status of GDR citizens: they argued that those desiring to leave (ausreisewillige DDR-Bürger) were not in the same category as those deemed to be politically persecuted (politisch Verfolgte) under the UN convention. But even if Hungarian border officials were still hindering escape attempts by East Germans, sometimes with firearms as happened on 21 August, the number of those being returned to the GDR security forces or even just notified by name to East Berlin as attempted escapees was dwindling. Clearly close cooperation between the Stasi and the Hungarian security forces (and also those in Poland) was a thing of the past; this was another sign that the bloc was beginning to crumble.[124]

By late August an estimated 150,000–200,000 East Germans were vacationing in Hungary, mostly near Lake Balaton. Campsites were full and roads were jammed. Many GDR visitors had overstayed their originally planned and officially approved two- or three-week holidays. Some were simply hanging around in the hope of dramatic new political developments; others were watching for the right moment to slip through the increasing number of open stretches of border fences through quiet fields or secluded woodland. Hundreds more tried a different route to freedom, squatting in the grounds of the West German embassy in Budapest where they hoped to claim their automatic right to citizenship in the Federal Republic. Whatever their route, the East Germans were becoming a serious refugee problem for Hungary.[125]

The 19th of August would prove a pivotal moment. The MEP Otto von Habsburg – eldest son of the last Austro-Hungarian emperor – together with human-rights activists and the opposition Hungarian Democratic Forum, had planned a party to say ‘farewell to the Iron Curtain’. What became known as the ‘Pan-European Picnic’ was intended as a jolly gathering of Austrians and Hungarians to celebrate freedom on a sunny summer afternoon in meadows near a border crossing on the road from Sopron (Hungary) to Sankt Margarethen im Burgenland (Austria). This was where, several weeks earlier, foreign ministers Horn and Mock had cut open the barbed-wire fence between East and West.[126]

But these modest, local festivities turned into something much more political when, at the last minute, Imre Pozsgay got in on the act as the party’s co-sponsor. He arranged with his old friend István Horváth, the reformist interior minister, as well as Prime Minister Németh, that as a symbolic gesture the border gate would be open for three hours that afternoon. Border guards were instructed to carry no weapons and not to take any action. While the picnic posed no particular legal issues for Hungarian and Austrian citizens, who had permission to travel between their countries, the situation was different for East Germans. Leaflets publicising the event were printed in German and distributed beforehand; these included maps guiding people to the picnic spot and to where they could ‘clip off part of the Iron Curtain’. As a result the little border town of Sopron filled up with some 9,000 people camping or staying in B&Bs, and the West German Foreign Ministry had even dispatched extra consular staff there to ‘assist fellow Germans’. All this added to the pressure on the Hungarian border guards who were now, in effect, being observed by Western diplomats.[127]

Nevertheless most of the East Germans who toyed with escaping were really scared. They did not know about the orders given to the Hungarian soldiers. But then the picnic began. A brass band played, the beer flowed and folk dancers in traditional Hungarian and Burgenlandish attire mingled with the crowd. Some 660 East Germans who attended the picnic took heart that day. As soon as the wooden gate was opened, there was a stampede. They rushed through and, unhindered by the border guards, they entered Austria – surprised and elated. It was the largest mass escape of East Germans since the Berlin Wall went up in 1961. Another 320 managed to cross to freedom elsewhere that weekend.[128]

Such numbers were not in themselves spectacular. Thousands more East Germans stayed behind, hesitating. Over the next few days the Hungarian government increased the number of guards patrolling its western border, which resulted in far fewer refugees reaching the West. Nevertheless, every day more East Germans poured into Hungary. Behind the scenes the FRG government kept pressing the Hungarian authorities to clarify the UN refugee status of the East Germans. But Bonn’s aim was not to turn the flow into a flood – far from it: the FRG was desperate to avoid disorder and instability. Frantic efforts were made to prevent the media getting their hands on an escapee crossing the border or an embassy-occupier (Festsetzer) lest such publicity would fan East German hopes of an easy exit at a time when the FRG had agreed nothing formally with either Hungary or the GDR. And the historic shadow of the Red Army also still loomed in the background. What if the situation suddenly got out of hand? What if a crowd of refugees rioted or some soldiers or secret police panicked and started shooting? Would the Soviets suddenly get drawn in? It was in this edgy atmosphere that the transnational migration crisis gathered momentum. Alarmingly, there was still no international solution.[129]

In the end, however, what forced matters to a head was not the toing and froing on Hungary’s borders but the humanitarian crisis in Budapest. The Németh government realised that it could no longer sit on its hands and watch events unfold: before its eyes the crowd of GDR refugees outside the German embassy was growing every day. Some 800 were now camped out near the building. There were also 181 in the embassy grounds and the mission itself had been forced to close to the public on 13 August. Several emergency reception camps were then created in the vicinity by the Red Cross, the Order of Malta and other aid agencies: in the Budapest suburbs of Zugliget (capacity 600 people) and Csillebérc (2,200 people) and later around Lake Balaton for another 2,000 or so. In all the camps food and water were desperately short. There were not enough toilets and showers, let alone sleeping bags, pillows, clothing and toiletries.[130]

In the intense glare of the world media, Bonn was desperate to alleviate the distress of the East Germans and contain the international crisis. But the two German governments were deadlocked about how to deal with these people. The Honecker regime was obsessed with holding on to communist orthodoxy and not letting the GDR drift into ‘the bourgeois camp’. It took no fewer than six conversations between 11 and 31 August 1989 before East Berlin grudgingly promised Bonn that it would not ‘persecute’ embassy-occupiers and would process applications for exit – but without any commitment to give a positive response for immediate permanent emigration. Meanwhile in East Berlin the pressure for such permits was mounting almost exponentially day by day, because of the GDR’s bureaucracy’s restrictive practices and its citizenry’s alienation in the light of Poland and Hungary’s liberalisation.[131]

To resolve the crisis, the West German leadership took the initiative to deal with matters at the highest level, both with East Berlin and Budapest.[132] Normally East German leavers or escapees – being a German–German matter rather than an issue of ‘foreign’ relations – came under the aegis of the Chancellery. But most refugees were in third countries, moreover in or around FRG embassies, so the Foreign Ministry had to be involved. It was run by the forceful Hans-Dietrich Genscher – a man with his own agenda. Born in 1927 in Halle – a town that became East German after 1945 – Genscher felt he had a personal interest, almost a mission, to sort out this issue, going far beyond the call of duty. What’s more, Kohl headed a coalition government, formed by his own Christian Democrats and the liberal Free Democrats (FDP), whose party leader was Genscher. This made the foreign minister also the political ‘kingmaker’ on whom the chancellor depended for his working majority in the Bundestag. So Kohl had to tolerate a certain amount of independence by Genscher in the handling of this deeply national and highly emotional problem, and their relationship was certainly not devoid of rivalry. The result was something like a dual-track policy as the FRG responded to the refugee crisis in the summer and autumn of 1989. The Foreign Ministry handled Budapest and Gyula Horn (as well as Warsaw and Prague), while the Chancellery dealt with East Berlin and Erich Honecker.[133]

But the German–German track was not much use that summer. The West German mission (or ‘permanent representation’) in East Berlin had also been obliged to close, in part because of the crush of would-be escapees. What’s more, Honecker himself was seriously ill with what proved to be cancer and was largely out of active politics for three months from July to late September, as party underlings began to jockey for power.[134]

So the onus fell on the Hungarian government, amid all the other political and economic problems on its plate, to try to square the diplomatic circle as a human drama unfolded in the muddy, squalid camps. It was obliged now to deal in totally novel ways with the FRG in order to address the crisis at the heart of Budapest. Yet, at the same time, the government had no desire to break entirely and openly with the GDR: Horn did not want to repudiate Hungary’s bilateral secret treaty of 1969 about how to deal with ‘criminal offenders’ who got caught planning or attempting ‘desertion from the Republic’. And he also kept resisting West German pressure to recognise the East Germans officially as ‘refugees’ under international law and to call in the UNHCR to deal with them. In short, his government was in a kind of no man’s land between one international order and another. At the end of his tether, Horn told one of Genscher’s staff: ‘Hungary is in a precarious situation.’[135]

Whatever the protocols of Bonn’s informal dual track, it would take the intervention of Chancellor Kohl to force matters to a head – engaging directly with his counterpart in Budapest, Prime Minister Németh. On 25 August Németh and Horn travelled secretly to Bonn to meet with Kohl and Genscher at Schloss Gymnich, a restored castle and government guest house. In a two-and-a-half-hour meeting followed by lunch, Hungarians and West Germans sought to resolve the matter irrespective of what the East Germans wanted.[136]

Kohl and Genscher convinced their Hungarian visitors that the most sensible way forward was to cooperate wholeheartedly with the West on the issue of East German refugees. It was an emotional moment. Németh assured Kohl that ‘deportations’ back to the GDR were ‘out of the question’ and added ‘we will open the border’ by mid-September. ‘If no military or political force from the outside compels us to act differently, we will keep the border open for East German citizens’ as an exit route. Taking in these words, Kohl had difficulty in containing his emotions. Indeed he was moved to tears.[137]

Németh then went on to agree with Kohl that, such was the severity of Hungary’s economic crisis, he would need the help of the West to get on top of it. By contrast, the GDR could do nothing for Hungary; nor could Gorbachev because of his ‘difficult position’ at home, though Németh said it was important to do everything possible to ‘ensure the success of Gorbachev’s policies’ because that was the only way to keep peace in the bloc. In short, by doing as Bonn wanted with regard to the touchstone issue of the East Germans, Németh seems to have hoped to encourage both Bonn and also Washington to offer Hungary financial support and to develop more extensive trade relations. Kohl did not make any commitments then, but promised to speak to West German bankers (and to Bush). A substantive DM 1 billion financial support package duly followed for Hungary’s democratisation and market reforms – comprising a 500 million credit guarantee by Bavaria and Baden-Württemberg and 500 million from the Federal German government. By the end of the visit Németh had made a fateful decision: Hungary would fully open its border to the West for GDR citizens in return for Kohl’s DM to help his country emerge from the bloc into the Western world.[138]

It was a sign of the times that this deal was struck before Budapest officially informed the Kremlin of its border decision. An intense few days of ‘travel diplomacy’ ensued. But once Horn spoke to Shevardnadze, it was clear that the Soviets were willing to grant the Hungarians a free hand in their actions.[139] And Kohl’s telephone conversation with Gorbachev himself also produced a green light, with the Soviet leader’s laconic, even banal, observation ‘the Hungarians are good people’.[140]

The Hungarians were, however, much less successful in sorting out arrangements with the GDR. In East Berlin on 31 August Horn told Foreign Minister Oskar Fischer he was willing to send the East Germans home if the GDR pledged it would grant the escapees immunity from prosecution and guaranteed their right to emigrate legally. Yet Fischer offered only immunity and kept insisting that upon their return these East Germans would have to ‘pursue their individual exit visas’ with legal assistance but with no promise that permanent exit permits would be automatically granted. He also demanded that Hungary close its borders for East Germans, which Horn rejected. East Berlin also tried to convene a meeting of Warsaw Pact foreign ministers to put pressure on Budapest – but Soviet, Polish and Hungarian officials all objected, arguing that the Pact was not an appropriate forum to deal with the matter. So by 5 September the SED Politburo was reduced to old-fashioned communist bluster, accusing Hungary of ‘doing the bidding of Bonn’ and ‘betraying socialism’.[141]

On 10 September Horn made his public announcement that the Hungarian government would allow East Germans to cross freely into Austria, from where they could continue to the Federal Republic. Hungary, Horn declared, did not want to become ‘a country of refugee camps’ and was determined to ‘resolve the situation on humanitarian gounds’. His deputy Ferenc Somogyi told the international press – carefully choosing his words, delivered in English. ‘We want to open up and diversify relations with Western Europe and the West in general.’ In this vein, Somogyi said, Hungary had accepted a general European attitude and thereby moved ‘closer to the West’, placing ‘absolute primacy on universal humanitarian values’. What’s more, he added approvingly, ‘similar considerations’ now also characterised Soviet policy.[142]

The drama then unfolded on TV screens across the world. From the early hours of 11 September a mass exodus ensued. The East Germans, many of them young people in their twenties and thirties (mainly craftsmen such as bricklayers and masons, plumbers and electricians), poured across the Austrian border in cars, buses and trains. Austrian Interior Ministry officials said that by late that evening 8,100 East Germans had entered Austria en route to West Germany and that the flow was increasing steadily. And with this stream of people, Craig Whitney of the New York Times remarked that the ‘German question’, that ‘dream, or fear, of German reunification, also came alive with them’. He quoted a senior US diplomat: ‘It’s still not going to happen any time soon, but there’s beginning to be serious thought about it. It’s not just a pious platitude any more.’[143]

On 12 September Kohl sent Németh a telegram thanking him for this ‘generous act of humanity’. The same day, the chancellor exploited the euphoric mood in West Germany to full effect at his party convention in Bremen where some Christian Democrats were trying to overthrow him. He declared that it could never be the policy of responsible West German officials to urge East Germans to flee. But ‘it is a matter of course that everyone who comes to us from East Germany will be greeted by us as a German among Germans’. Appealing to national sentiments and presenting himself as a true patriot chancellor, Kohl managed to fend off the leadership challenge and secure reconfirmation as party leader. Not for the first or last time in these turbulent years, international politics reverberated in domestic affairs.[144]

By the end of September, between 30,000 and 40,000 people – far more than even informed circles had ever anticipated – had gone West via this route.[145] The Honecker regime was furious but East Germany was now diplomatically isolated in the Warsaw Pact. Crucially, Moscow hardly protested at all. On the contrary, Gennady Gerasimov, the Foreign Ministry spokesman, merely said that the border opening was ‘a very unusual and unexpected step’ but that it did not affect the USSR directly. That the Soviet Union went along with the Hungarian decision, thereby distancing the Kremlin even further from East Berlin, was a serious blow to the Honecker regime’s morale. There were even question marks over Gorbachev’s much-anticipated attendance at the upcoming fortieth-anniversary celebrations of the GDR’s foundation on 7 October. It was no secret that Gorbachev deeply disliked the ‘scumbag’ (mudak) Honecker, as he told Chernyaev. And the Soviet leader certainly did not want to be seen as supporting Honecker’s hard-line position against more reform-minded East German communists. Indeed, after his triumphant trip to Bonn, he had explained to Honecker in no uncertain terms that the USSR was changing. ‘This is the destiny of the Soviet Union,’ he declared, ‘but not only its destiny; it is also our common destiny.’ Nor was he keen to jeopardise his budding political friendship with Kohl: like Németh, Gorbachev’s policy towards the GDR was now being framed against hopes of West German financial injections, which the chancellor had promised during the Soviet leader’s June visit in Bonn.[146]

Unable to mobilise the Warsaw Pact in its support, the East German government used its own powers to the utmost. During September it imposed severe restrictions on GDR citizens travelling to Hungary. Although many still managed to get through, this policy simply had the effect of diverting the human traffic towards the West German embassies in Warsaw and Prague. By 27 September there were 500 East Germans seeking refuge at the Warsaw embassy and 1,300 in the Prague mission.[147]

Camp out for freedom – East Germans besiege the FRG Embassy in Prague

Prague was particularly hard hit because Czechoslovakia was in any case the transit route for East Germans hoping to head West via Hungary. And the moment East Berlin denied permission to travel to Hungary, GDR emigrants simply stayed in Czechoslovakia rather than returning home. These were people who had so far neither applied for a permanent exit visa to West Germany nor did they have adequate papers to enter Hungary. For fear of being picked up by the Czechoslovak authorities and then deported to the GDR, they hoped to achieve their goal of getting to the West by sitting it out in the grounds of the West German embassy – an eighteenth-century palace in the centre of Prague, whose beautiful park became a squalid and unsanitary refugee camp.

By the end of the month, more than 3,000 people lived in and around the main embassy building, 800 of whom were children. They had four toilets between them. The women and children bedded down at night on foam-rubber pads, while the men slept in shifts in tents spread out incongruously under black baroque statues of goddesses in the once-elegant gardens. Food was at best simple: coffee, tea, bread and jam for breakfast, and a thick soup that the Germans call ‘one-pot’ (Eintopf) for the other meals – served from field kitchens that steamed and smoked behind the wrought-iron garden gates. ‘There’s an occasional orange for every two or three children, for vitamins,’ a young mother said bleakly.[148]

Bonn was desperate to negotiate a deal to release these GDR squatters to the West, and the UN General Assembly on 27–9 September in New York offered Genscher the perfect opportunity. On the margins of the conference he was able to discuss the matter quietly with his Soviet, Czechoslovak and East German counterparts.[149] As a result of Genscher’s pleas, it appears, Shevardnadze pressed East Berlin to ‘do something’ and Honecker, with approval of the Politburo on the 29th, offered Bonn a one-off deal: the embassy-occupiers’ could go West as long as their ‘exit’ to the FRG would be presented as their ‘expulsion’ from East Germany. Honecker would thereby be able to demonstrate that he remained in control by seeming to oust these traitors from his state. To further show that he was orchestrating the whole business, the East German leader insisted that the refugees travel on sealed trains from Prague back to the GDR before being transported to West Germany. Honecker wanted to use the train journey to record the identities of the escapees, so that GDR authorities could confiscate their property. Sealed trains had, of course, a dark historical connotation, summoning up images of Nazi Germany’s transports to the concentration camps. There were also fears that the trains could be stopped in the GDR. Still, the Kohl government agreed to Honecker’s offer because this was at least an arrangement under which the East German escapees were being treated as legal emigrants rather than illegal fugitives – part of the general effort to bring the crisis within the domain of international law and universal humanitarian values.[150]

As soon as Genscher got back to Bonn from New York at dawn on 30 September, he found himself on a mission to implement the plan. With a small team of officials he headed for Prague. Other FRG diplomats set out on a similar mission to Warsaw. Both groups had the daunting task of overseeing an orderly exodus and ensuring that the GDR honoured its grudging concessions. Genscher landed in the Czechoslovak capital in the afternoon, only to learn that – contrary to earlier understandings – he would not be allowed to accompany the refugees on their freedom train. Honecker had now decided that only lower-level West German officials could travel: he did not want the added publicity from the foreign minister’s presence with the freedom riders.[151]

Undeterred, Genscher hurried to the West German embassy. There, an air of excitement had been building up over the course of the day. Suddenly, just after dusk and without any fanfare, Genscher stepped onto the baroque balcony and looked out at the huge crowd beneath him. Visibly moved, he announced ‘Dear fellow Germans, we have come to you to inform you that today your departure to West Germany has been approved.’ That magic word ‘departure’ was enough: the rest of his sentence was drowned in cries of jubilation.[152]

‘It was unbelievable,’ exclaimed a man from Leipzig. ‘Genscher was there like the incarnation of freedom.’ The people at the Prague embassy, some of whom had been there for eleven weeks, began hastily packing. It’s ‘like Christmas and Easter in one shot’, a young man told a journalist before he hurriedly boarded a bus to the train station with his wife and infant child in tow.[153]

For Hans-Dietrich Genscher, this was a hugely emotional moment. The fate of Germans in the GDR was a gut issue for him, in a way it could never have been for Kohl, a man from the Franco-German borderlands of the Rhineland-Palatinate, because Genscher had once literally been an East German refugee himself – he had fled to West Germany in 1952. Genscher had never lost his distinctive Saxon accent. Having started his legal studies in the GDR, he completed them in Hamburg before moving into West German politics.[154] These personal roots explain Genscher’s profound commitment to German unification and also his belief that this should be done through legal agreements as a peaceful embrace of the Soviet bloc. Hence his passion for West Germany’s Ostpolitik, and for the principles outlined in the Conference on Security and Cooperation in Europe, which were enshrined in the Helsinki Final Act of 1975, affirming both the borders of Cold War Europe and also the shared values of universal human rights. His grand ambition was to transcend the Cold War and German division not by unilateral Western actions but by consensual pan-European solutions. Therefore it was an added bonus that he was the one who commanded the show at the Prague embassy, not his ally-rival Chancellor Kohl. Little wonder that Genscher a few days later described that moment on the balcony as ‘the most moving hour in my political career’. The wheel was coming full circle for him, as he encountered the escapees of a younger generation who wanted to take the same path. ‘You can see what people will go through so that they can live like we do,’ he added, ‘not in the material sense, but to have the right to decide for themselves what to do with their lives.’[155]

And so on that night of 30 September, Prague police rerouted normal traffic to allow more than a dozen buses to evacuate the West German embassy. At Prague-Liben train station, just out of town, the throng of exuberant East Germans waiting for their trains grew ever larger. Applause rippled through the crowd at the arrival of West Germany’s ambassador to Czecholsovakia, Hermann Huber. Faces glowed with excitement, they pressed close, hugging and kissing him, even handing their children for a kind of benediction. A knot of Czechoslovak police officers stood at a distance, observing but not interfering. After many delays, six trains finally rolled out of Prague, in the company of a few token West German officials, who hoped to keep people calm.[156]

The trains had to travel for seven hours along the circuitous route from Prague through Schönau, Reichenbach, Dresden, Karl-Marx-Stadt (Chemnitz), Plauen, Zwickau and Gutenfürst. The tensest moments occurred inside the GDR when East German security officials got on the trains. No one could be sure that they wouldn’t try to force the passengers to disembark and end their journey to freedom. But nothing worse happened than recording the names of those leaving and collecting their official identity cards. These moments passed without incident. The train stopped in Dresden and Karl-Marx-Stadt, where more émigrés managed to clamber aboard – without impediment or punishment. Other East Germans gathered along the track to wave as the special trains of the Deutsche Bahn sped past.[157]

When the trains reached FRG territory at Hof in north-eastern Bavaria, hundreds of West Germans packed the station, cheering and waving as each train pulled in. They had stacked up mounds of used clothing, shoes, toys and prams for the newcomers. Some pressed cash into the hands of exhausted parents or gave their children candy bars. For others, it was all too much: they stood silent, weighed down by emotions they could not put into words. In the minds of many older bystanders in this border town, the scene evoked memories of the time they – like Genscher – had gathered up their few belongings after the war to begin new lives in the West.

Although not allowed to participate in the exodus itself, Genscher sensed history in the making and relished his personal role in it. That moment on the embassy balcony in Prague had got him into the limelight of the unfolding unification drama ahead of Kohl, who also coveted a place in history. ‘What has happened shows that we are in a historical period of change which cannot be reversed and will continue,’ Genscher told the press. ‘I hope that the East German leadership realises this and will not isolate itself by refusing to change. Gorbachev is coming and I hope he will convince East Germany that reform lies in its best interests, that reform means more, not less stability.’[158]

But the very opposite happened: Honecker, ill and out of his depth, chose to box himself in. Just days before East Germany’s grand fortieth-birthday celebrations, he felt humiliated, even threatened. The stark images now flickering incessantly across TV screens of innumerable East Germans clambering over fences, besieging trains, overrunning embassies and finally clenching their fists in triumph on West German soil were a glaring indictment of his government.[159]

On 3 October Honecker sealed off all of East Germany from the outside world, even the rest of the Warsaw Pact. This was an unprecedented act. Now, for the first time, the crossing of any of the GDR’s borders required both a passport, possessed by only a minority of citizens, and a specific permit for each trip – documentation that in the current circumstances was highly unlikely to be issued.[160] East Germans were really angry. With the autumn school holidays just around the corner, thousands of East Germans had booked trips either to or through Czechoslovakia. Now with passport- and visa-free travel suspended, they were stuck at the GDR–Czechoslovak border in Saxony. Consequently it was here that demonstrations became the largest anywhere in the GDR. And as the last vents closed, the East German state was turning into a pressure cooker.[161]

Ironically, between 1 and 3 October, yet another 6,000 East Germans had poured into the West German Prague embassy. In all, some 10,000 to 11,000 would-be escapees were in limbo in and around Prague. On a smaller scale similar scenes occurred in Warsaw. And so another series of sealed trains was hastily arranged – whose departure was followed avidly by a multitude of local and foreign TV companies as well as the international press. It took eight trains from Prague to Hof to clear the backlog in Czechoslovakia; two more, carrying 1,445 people, left Warsaw for Hanover.[162] During this latest transit operation, thousands of East Germans – now feeling like prisoners in their own state – flocked to the tracks and stations to watch what became known as ‘the last trains to freedom’. Many hoped to sneak aboard. The situation in Dresden became so fraught that police had use force to clear the station and tracks – overrun by some 2,500 people – and the doors of trains were sealed from the outside. It took until the early hours of 5 October to get three of the trains through Dresden Hauptbahnhof. The rest had to be rerouted through other cities.[163]

Meanwhile, a mob of some 20,000 angry people were left milling around outside on Dresden’s Lenin-Platz (now Wiener Platz) and in the adjoining streets. Police and troops went in hard with rubber truncheons and water cannons to disperse the crowd; the demonstrators fought back, hurling paving stones at the police, in what observers called the worst outbreak of civil disobedience since 1953.[164]

The East German security forces did their rough stuff under the watchful eye of officials from Dresden’s outpost of the Soviet KGB. It may well be that one of them was a young special officer by the name of Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin. As a KGB man, Putin sympathised with Honecker and his crackdown on state-traitors. What most disturbed him – as we know from later statements – was the deafening silence from his political superiors in Moscow. The call from the Kremlin never came: not one soldier of the Red Army was deployed to help the East German comrades reimpose order. The truth was that Gorbachev despised the ailing Honecker and his Stalinist henchmen; totally committed to his mission as a reformer, the Soviet leader abandoned this atrophied country that had no intention of renewing itself. His aide Anatoly Chernyaev lamented in his diary the ‘terrible scenes’ of violence damaging the East German and Soviet regimes alike. The brutal scenes in Dresden, played out in the media, only worsened the split between Honecker and Gorbachev, between East Berlin and its Soviet patron.[165]

By contrast, Honecker – fed up with the man in the Kremlin – turned to another communist ally: the People’s Republic of China. In June his regime expressed effusive support for Beijing’s use of force. The way Deng Xiaoping’s China had simply crushed the ‘counter-revolutionary unrest’ in Tiananmen Square was in Honecker’s mind an example to the whole bloc and a ray of hope for the future of real socialism, given Gorbachev’s failure to slap down protest and subversion.[166] The summer had shown how, as a direct result of the USSR stepping back, the Polish and Hungarian contagion of liberalisation was spreading across Eastern Europe. It had infected the GDR itself, causing first a haemorrhage of people and now, as Dresden demonstrated, unrest on the streets in the once-secure police state. Amid this domestic upheaval, the GDR was determined to shore up the international image of communism. That’s why Honecker sent Egon Krenz, his number two, on a high-profile week-long visit to Beijing, to celebrate the PRC’s fortieth anniversary on 1 October 1989, just days before the GDR’s own fortieth-birthday party. This was definitely a time for solidarity among true communists.

Throughout his trip, Krenz was eager to learn from the Chinese communist leadership about how to deal with protestors and reinforce the status quo.[167] Talking with party secretary Jiang Zemin on 26 September, Krenz expressed his pleasure in visiting an ‘impenetrable bastion of socialism in Asia’ where ‘under the leadership of the Communist Party, the most populous country in the world was freed from its half-colonial chains’. Jiang and Krenz agreed that the events of June 1989 had revealed the true hostile intent behind the Western strategy of ‘so-called peaceful evolution’ in relations with China, exposing it as ‘an aggressive programme of undermining socialism’.[168] Qiao Shi, another top CCP Politburo member and a key figure in implementing martial law, impressed on Krenz how closely he and his colleagues were following events in Europe, especially ‘developments in Poland and Hungary’. While these were a source of alarm, Qiao voiced great satisfaction at the East German refusal to take the same path and his resolve to ‘hold on to socialism’. After all, ‘we are all communists, our life consists of struggle’ – in ‘politics, ideology and the economy’.[169] The Paramount Leader Deng Xiaoping told Krenz emphatically ‘We defend socialism together – you in the GDR, we in the People’s Republic of China.’[170] Krenz in turn declared: ‘In the struggles of our time, the GDR and China stand side by side.’[171] They saw themselves as two beacons of socialism, shining out in a darkening and hostile world.

Krenz was one of very few VIPs on the strikingly meagre official list of foreigners to grace the PRC’s fortieth-anniversary festivities. The rest were minor figures from relatively marginal countries – a Czechoslovak Politburo member, a Cuban Communist Party official and Cabinet ministers from Ecuador and Mongolia. The Soviet Union was represented by the deputy chairman of the Soviet–Chinese Friendship Society. Largely because of international outrage about the 4 June events, no heads of government had come to take part. Even many ambassadors – from the United States, Canada, Western Europe and Japan – stayed away. Krenz, as deputy to the head of a major communist state in Europe, together with his North Korean counterpart Vice President Li Jong-ok, was the most senior foreign friend to sit with the ageing Chinese elite on the rostrum as they looked out over the restored tranquillity of Tiananmen Square. As Deng told Li, ‘When you go home, please tell President Kim Il-sung that China’s social order has returned to normal … What happened in Beijing not long ago was bad, but in the final analysis it is beneficial to us, because it made us more sober-minded.’ Li replied, ‘I am sure President Kim will be very happy about this.’[172]

The foreign dignitaries were treated to a massive fireworks display and a performance of colourful dances by 100,000 flowers of communist youth. Their mood, however, seemed more ‘languid’ than ‘joyous’. And instead of a huge military parade as five years earlier, only a token group of forty-five soldiers goose-stepped in front of the stage to symbolise the power of the state. Given the stiff security, ordinary Chinese could not get within a mile of the birthday party for their ‘People’s Republic’. What’s more, martial law remained in force in Beijing, almost three months since it was imposed at the height of student demonstrations. And so soldiers armed with machine guns continued to patrol the city centre. The tone of the PRC at forty was not, then, one of jubilation; indeed until recently the plans had been for something very low-key and even austere. Yet by October the party, with regained inner confidence, wanted to show and celebrate the fact that it was fully in control. ‘National Day this year is of unusual significance,’ stated Li Ruihuan, a senior politburo member in charge of propaganda. Because, he added, ‘we have just won a victory in curbing the turmoil and quelling the counter-revolutionary rebellion’.[173]

*

Whereas communist China marked its fortieth birthday with what might be called a muted certainty, still shaken by 4 June but discerning a clear path ahead, its German comrades had been planning a grand jamboree for months, only to be faced at the last moment with mounting social upheaval that threatened their political control. The intention was that 6–7 October in East Berlin would be a huge media extravaganza, with parades of the military and party youth, lavish banquets in the glittering Palace of the Republic and endless self-congratulatory speeches. In further contrast to Beijing, most of the leading figures of global communism would be in attendance, above all China’s vice premier Yao Yilin and Gorbachev himself. For Honecker this was to be a huge event, the pinnacle of almost two decades at the top and further recognition of the GDR’s status in the communist world. To ensure that everything went to plan, visits from West Berliners were curtailed for the period of the celebrations while a precisely ‘organised and coordinated’ operation of intelligence sharing and security enforcement was launched to ensure that any attempt at protest was put down immediately. His model, in short, was Beijing not Moscow.[174]

At first all seemed to go according to plan. When Gorbachev arrived at Berlin’s Schönefeld airport on 6 October, he and Honecker put on a public diplay of socialist brotherhood for the cameras. They embraced sweetly before driving into a city ‘festooned with banners and glowing under crisscrossing beams of light’ where they stood shoulder to shoulder late into the night reviewing the massive torchlight parade of 100,000 members of the German communist youth organisation (FDJ). All evening GDR television showed the two leaders smiling and waving at the youthful throng as it flowed down Unter den Linden holding high their flags and torches. Occasionally the Soviet leader drew cheers and chants of ‘Gorby, Gorby!’ from some admiring young Germans. Then to Gorbachev’s astonishment some 300 FDJ members started chanting ‘Gorby help us! Gorby save us!’ – almost as a code word for the reforms they were demanding from their unyielding government. Honecker must have been infuriated at this turn of events, but it was still a minor aberration from an otherwise perfectly orchestrated event in which the two leaders showed themselves in total harmony.[175]

Next morning, however, the atmosphere was very different. Gorbachev again stood beside Honecker, this time on the VIP stand on Karl-Marx-Allee as they watched a military parade – an annual affair which on this occasion was considerably smaller, to demonstrate the Warsaw Pact’s commitment to disarmament. But the Soviet leader now appeared ‘distracted and impatient’ as line upon line of troops marched past: the contrived festivities seemed to be taking their toll on him.[176]

Happy birthday or last rites? East Berlin, 7 October 1989

After the parade, ‘Gorby’ and ‘Honni’ met for almost three hours alone and then with the whole SED Politburo. Little went to plan; in fact Honecker and Gorbachev were simply not on the same page. They ended up talking past each other. Gorbachev, in a typical big-picture performance, enthused about his new thinking and the current ‘revolution within a revolution’ (in other words, not negating October 1917) while also underlining communism’s ongoing historical competition with capitalism, albeit in a changing world. Honecker, on the other hand, heaped praise on the GDR as one of the world’s great economies. Fifteen billion Ostmark had been invested in the microchip industry, including the great state conglomerates Mikroelektronik Erfurt, Carl Zeiss Jena and Robotron Dresden. Systems had been automated and production raised by 300–700%. He left nobody in doubt that he was determined to stick to the old form of state socialism. ‘We will solve our problems ourselves with socialist means,’ he insisted.

Their speeches to the Politburo followed similarly divergent courses. But by now Gorbachev had heard enough. He told his East German audience a story about miners in Donetsk who ‘taught a good lesson’ to the secretary of the regional party: ‘we often see that some leaders cannot pull the cart any more, but we don’t replace them, we are afraid to offend them’. As he looked knowingly around the SED Politburo members, no one could be under any illusions that here was a direct reference to the seventy-seven-year-old hardliner Honecker. ‘If we lag behind, life will punish us straight away,’ he concluded pithily. Later, before the world media, his press spokesman Gerassimov condensed this into what became a celebrated aphorism: ‘Life punishes those who come too late!’[177]

The clock is ticking, Erich! Gorbachev with Honecker

It had been twenty-four hours of mixed messages. Having eventually decided to attend the GDR’s festivities, Gorbachev clearly intended to offer the Soviet Union’s most prized Cold War ally a measured show of solidarity. After the extraordinary images of the recent exodus and escalating popular demands for reform and democracy across the cities of East Germany, Gorbachev’s primary mission was to soothe the frazzled nerves in East Berlin and to help prevent a combination of social frustration and political paralysis from increasing to the point where it could destabilise the East German state. At the same time, however, Gorbachev made clear that Moscow would not interfere in East Germany’s problems – problems, as he put it, that were not merely about ‘sausage and bread’ but about the need for ‘more oxygen in society’ which demanded a totally new approach by the GDR. Ultimately Honecker himself would have to have the courage to undertake political reform. Gorbachev was no longer prepared to prop him up.[178]

As regards the international situation, however, standing on the Cold War front line in the heart of Europe, the Soviet leader was defiant. In his speech during the gala dinner on the 6th, he rebutted accusations that Moscow bore sole responsibility for the continent’s post-war division and he took issue with West Germany for seizing on his reforms to ‘reanimate’ dreams of a German Reich ‘within the boundaries of 1937’. He also specifically rejected demands that Moscow dismantle the Berlin Wall – a call made by Reagan in 1987 and again by Bush in 1989. ‘We are constantly called on to liquidate this or that division,’ Gorbachev complained. ‘We often have to hear, “Let the USSR get rid of the Berlin Wall, then we’ll believe in its peaceful intentions.”’ He was adamant that ‘we don’t idealise the order that has settled on Europe. But the fact is that until now the recognition of the post-war reality has insured peace on the continent. Every time the West has tried to reshape the post-war map of Europe it has meant a worsening of the international situation.’ Gorbachev wanted his socialist comrades to embrace renewal, but he had no intention of dismantling the Warsaw Pact or abruptly dissolving the Cold War borders that had given stability to the continent for the last forty years.[179]

And so, each in his own way, these two communist leaders were hanging on to the past. Gorbachev adhered to existing geopolitical realities, despite the cracks opening up in the Iron Curtain. Honecker clung to the illusion that East Germany remained a socialist nation, united by adherence to the doctrines of the party.

The intransigence of the GDR regime during the celebrations, and the growing social unrest of recent weeks, made for a potentially explosive mix. Within less than two weeks Honecker had been ousted. And only a month after the GDR’s fortieth-birthday party, on 9 November, the Berlin Wall fell without a fight. The Wall had been the prime symbol of the Cold War, the barrier that contained the East German population and the structure that held the whole bloc together. The party of 7 October proved to be a theatre of illusions. Yet there was nothing inevitable about what came next.

Chapter 3
Reuniting Germany, Dissolving Eastern Europe

The 9th of November 1989. Helmut Kohl was beside himself. Here he was, sitting at a grand banquet in the Radziwill Palace in Warsaw with the new leaders of Poland – Mazowiecki, Jaruzelski and Wałęsa – in a wonderfully festive atmosphere, together with a delegation of seventy, including Foreign Minister Hans-Dietrich Genscher and six other ministers of his Cabinet. But all around him people were murmuring ‘Die Mauer ist gefallen!’ (‘The Wall has fallen!’). Throughout that Thursday evening, as the chancellor tried to make polite chit-chat with his hosts, he kept being interrupted – receiving updates on little slips of paper and being called out to take phone calls from Bonn. All the while Kohl was desperately trying to think.[1] He was in the wrong place at the right time – the most dramatic moment of his chancellorship, perhaps of his whole life. What should he do?

Moment of reconciliation: Kohl, Mazowiecki and Genscher in Warsaw

Kohl’s mood had been very different when the dinner started. His five-day visit, in the planning for months, was intended as a milestone in West Germany’s relations with one of its most sensitive neighbours. History hung heavy in 1989. This was fifty years after Hitler’s brutal invasion of Poland, beginning a war that led to the extermination of 6 million Polish citizens (half of them Jewish), the obliteration of the city of Warsaw after the abortive rising of 1944, and the absorption of Poland into the Soviet bloc in 1945. Germany had a lot to answer for, and the process of reconciliation by Bonn had been long and painful. It had been an SPD chancellor, Willy Brandt, who made the first and more dramatic move in December 1970, dropping to his knees in silent remorse at the memorial to the Warsaw Ghetto. Kohl’s trip was the first time a Christian Democrat chancellor had visited Poland. But he was not simply catching up with his political rivals and trying to redress the past; he also wanted to make a statement about the future, about the Federal Republic’s commitment to Poland’s resurrection as a free country in its post-communist incarnation. So the German chancellor had been delighted to sit down at the banquet that evening. Delighted, that is, until he got the news from Berlin.[2]

As soon as the dinner was over, the Germans held a crisis meeting over coffee. The situation was extremely delicate. The Polish leadership wanted to stop Kohl from going to Berlin, warning that this would be taken as a blatant snub. Horst Teltschik, the chancellor’s top foreign-policy adviser, was also hesitant. ‘Too much has been invested in this trip to Warsaw,’ he warned, ‘too much hangs on it for the future of German–Polish relations.’ Among the events on Kohl’s itinerary were a visit to Auschwitz – as an act of penitence for the Holocaust, preceded only once, by Chancellor Helmut Schmidt (also SPD) in 1977 – and a bilingual Catholic Mass in Lower Silesia shared with Mazowiecki, set up as an act of reconciliation with the Poles. The mass was to be held in a place – the Kreisau estate of Graf von Moltke, one of the July 1944 Christian conservative plotters against Hitler – that symbolised a ‘better Germany in the darkest part of our history’, as the chancellor later put it. Kohl giving the kiss of peace to Mazowiecki linked up with his other iconic act of reconciliation: holding hands with Mitterrand at Verdun in 1984. But this gesture in Silesia was also intended to speak, at home, to the Vertriebene – the ever-prickly members on the right of his own party who had been expelled from the eastern German territories when these were absorbed into the new Poland (and the Soviet Union) after 1945.[3]

Upon leaving the Radziwill Palace, Kohl rushed to the city’s Marriott Hotel, where the West German press corps was staying, to answer their questions. And he remained for several hours because only in a Western hotel was it possible to see the news on German TV and to access a sufficient number of international phone lines. At midnight, when he spoke once more to the Chancellery, staff there confirmed that the crossing points in Berlin were opened. They also conveyed a sense of the massive flows of people and the joyous atmosphere in the once-divided city. Putting down the phone, the chancellor – pumped up with adrenalin – told the journalists that ‘world history is being written … the wheel of history is spinning faster’.[4]

Kohl decided to return to Bonn as soon as diplomatically feasible. ‘We cannot abort the trip,’ he observed, ‘but an interruption is possible.’ Next morning, 10 November, he placated his Polish hosts with a Brandt-style visit to the Warsaw Ghetto and a promise that he would be back within twenty-four hours. By the time he left Poland together with Genscher and a handful of journalists at 2.30 p.m., his destination had changed. While at the Ghetto Memorial, Kohl had received more disturbing news. Walter Momper, the SPD mayor of West Berlin, was organising a major press event, featuring his fellow socialist and former chancellor Willy Brandt, on the steps of the city hall (Schöneberger Rathaus) at 4.30 p.m. that very day. Brandt – the mayor of West Berlin when the Wall went up in August 1961 and then the celebrated chancellor of Ostpolitik – was now going to hog the limelight as the Wall came down. With barely a year to go before the next Federal elections, Kohl could not afford to be upstaged – especially when an earlier CDU chancellor, Konrad Adenauer, had been conspicuously absent from Berlin during those fateful days in 1961 when the eastern half of the city was walled in.

It was all very well to want to go to Berlin. But getting there in November 1989 was no simple business. West German aircraft were not permitted to fly across GDR territory or land in West Berlin because of the Allied four-power rights – another legacy of Hitler’s war. So Kohl and Genscher flew circuitously through Swedish and Danish airspace to Hamburg before boarding a plane specially provided by the US Air Force for the flight to Berlin. Both men used the journey to frantically scribble their speeches. As much as they were partners, they were in the end also political rivals jockeying for position. After this humiliating diversion, they landed at Tempelhof, right in the centre of the city, just as the celebration at the Schöneberger Rathaus was about to begin. Sharing the spotlight with Brandt, they addressed a crowd of 20,000 and world media on the very steps from which, in 1963, President John F. Kennedy had declared ‘Ich bin ein Berliner.’[5]

That evening, three key figures of FRG politics each put his own spin on the momentous events of the last twenty-four hours. Brandt, in keeping with his Ostpolitik strategy of ‘small steps’, talked of the ‘moving together of the German states’, emphasising that ‘no one should act as if he knows in which concrete form the people in these two states will find a new relationship’. Genscher opened his address by emotionally recalling his roots in East Germany, from which he fled after the war: ‘My most hearty greetings go to the people of my homeland.’ He was much more emphatic than Brandt about the underlying fact of national unity. ‘What we are witnessing in the streets of Berlin in these hours is that forty years of division have not created two nations out of one. There is no capitalist and there is no socialist Germany, but only one German nation in unity and peace.’ But, as foreign minister, he was anxious to reassure Germany’s neighbours, not least the Poles. ‘No people on this earth, no people in Europe have to fear if the gates are opened now between East and West.’[6]

Chancellor Kohl spoke last. While the sea of Berlin lefties had cheered Brandt and Genscher, they had no patience with the bulky conservative Catholic politico from the Rhineland. Here party enmity, regional pride and explosive emotions combined; the spectators tried to drown out every word of Kohl’s speech with boos, catcalls and whistling. The chancellor felt his anger rise at the behaviour of what he called contemptuously the ‘leftist plebs’ (linker Pöbel). Suppressing his fury, he ploughed on doggedly. Mindful of the upcoming election, Brandt’s iconic place in the history of Deutschlandpolitik and the way that Genscher had grabbed his moment on the balcony in Prague, Kohl ignored the crowd in front of him and spoke to millions of TV viewers, especially in the GDR. He sought to present himself as the man who was really in control, the true leader and statesman. He urged East Germans to stay put and to stay calm. He reassured them: ‘We’re on your side, we are and remain one nation. We belong together.’ And the chancellor made a particular point of thanking ‘our friends’ the Western allies for their enduring support and ended by playing the European card: ‘Long live a free German fatherland! Long live a united Europe!’[7]

For many – at home and abroad – Kohl’s expression of nationalism went too far. An ominous phone message from Gorbachev was received during the rally. He warned that the Bonn government’s declarations could fan ‘emotions and passions’ and went on to stress the existence of two sovereign German states. Whoever denied these realities had only one aim – that of destabilising the GDR. He had also heard rumours that a furious German mob had plans to storm Soviet military facilities. ‘Is this true?’ he asked. Gorbachev urged Kohl to avoid any measures that ‘could create a chaotic situation with unpredictable consequences’.[8]

Gorbachev’s message summed up the turmoil of the past couple of days, and it also did not appear to bode well for the future. Kohl sent a reply assuring the Soviet leader that he need not worry: the atmosphere in Berlin was like a family feast and nobody was about to start a revolt against the USSR.[9] But, with a profound sense of risk in the air, these were fraught and uncertain times for the chancellor. Would his three Western allies react as negatively as Gorbachev? As soon as he got back to his Bonn office later that evening, despite his exhaustion, he tried to arrange phone calls with Thatcher, Bush and Mitterrand.

He rang Thatcher first, at 10 p.m., because he thought that conversation would be ‘the most difficult’.[10] On the face of it, however, it went well. The prime minister, who had been watching events on television, said that the scenes in Berlin were ‘some of the most historic which she had ever seen’. She stressed the need to build a true democracy in East Germany and the two of them agreed to keep in close touch: Thatcher even suggested coming over for a half-day meeting before the upcoming European Council in Strasbourg early in December. Throughout the conversation, there was no mention of the word ‘unity’, but the chancellor clearly sensed that she felt ‘unease’ at the implications of the situation.[11]

He was able to extricate himself in less than half an hour, ready for what promised to be a more agreeable chat at 10.30 p.m. with George Bush. Kohl started with a survey of his trip to Warsaw and the economic predicament of Poland, but the president wasn’t interested. Cutting in, Bush said he wanted to hear all about the GDR. Kohl admitted the scale of the refugee problem and expressed scepticism about Krenz as a reformer. He also let off steam about those ‘leftist plebs’ who had tried to spoil his speech. But his assessment, overall, was very positive: the general mood in Berlin was ‘incredible’ and ‘optimistic’ – like ‘witnessing an enormous fair’ – and he told Bush that ‘without the US this day would not have been possible’. The chancellor could not stress enough: ‘This is a dramatic thing; an historic hour.’ At the end Bush was extremely enthusiastic: ‘Take care, good luck,’ he told Kohl. ‘I’m proud of the way you’re handling an extraordinarily difficult problem.’ But he also remarked ‘my meeting with Gorbachev in early December has become even more important’. Bush was right, the long-awaited tête-à-tête between him and the Soviet leader – only recently scheduled to take place in Malta on 2–3 December – could now not come soon enough.[12]

It was not possible to talk with Mitterrand that night. When they did speak at 9.15 the next morning Kohl took the same line but with an appropriately different spin. Not forgetting that 1989 was the bicentenary of the start of the French Revolution, the chancellor likened the mood on the Kurfürstendamm (West Berlin’s main shopping street) to the Champs-Elysées on Bastille Day. But, he added, the process in Germany was ‘not revolutionary but evolutionary’. Responding in similar vein, the French president hailed events in Berlin as ‘a great historical moment … the hour of the people’. And, he continued, ‘we now have the chance that this movement would flow into the development of Europe’. All very positive, of course, but perhaps also a reminder of traditional French concerns to see a strong Germany firmly anchored in the European integration project. Kohl had no problem with this and he was happy that both of them emphasised the strength of the Franco-German friendship.[13]

After talking to Mitterrand, Kohl took a call from Krenz – who had been pressing for a conversation. The two spoke for nine minutes – politely but insistently on both sides. Krenz was emphatic that ‘currently reunification was not on the political agenda’. Kohl said that their views were fundamentally different because his position was rooted in the FRG’s Basic Law of 1949, which affirmed the principle of German unity. But, he added, this was not the topic that should concern them both at the moment. Rather, he was interested in ‘getting to decent relations between ourselves’. He looked forward to coming to East Germany for an early personal meeting with the new leadership. Yet, he wanted to do so ‘outside East Berlin’ – the familiar FRG concern to avoid any hint of recognition of the GDR’s putative capital.[14]

The last of Kohl’s big calls – and the most sensitive of all – was with Gorbachev, before lunch on 11 November. Kohl set out some of the grave economic and social problems now facing the GDR, but stressed the positive mood in Berlin. Gorbachev was less testy than in his initial message to Kohl the previous day and expressed his confidence in the chancellor’s ‘political influence’. These were, he said, ‘historical changes in the direction of new relations and a new world’. But he emphasised the need above all for ‘stability’. Kohl firmly agreed and, according to Teltschik, ended the conversation looking visibly relieved. ‘De Bärn is g’schält’ (‘The pear has been peeled’) he told his aide in a thick Palatinate accent with a broad smile: it was clear that Gorbachev would not meddle in internal East German affairs, as the Kremlin had done in June 1953.[15]

Kohl could now feel reassured about his allies and the Russians, yet these were not his only worries. As he got off the phone he must have reflected on his own Deutschlandpolitik – its future direction and the responsibilities that now weighed heavily on him. All the more so, given what he had learned in Cabinet that morning about just how unstable the situation really was.

So far that year, according to the Interior Ministry, 243,000 East Germans had arrived in West Germany, as well as 300,000 ethnic Germans (Aussiedler) who could claim FRG citizenship: in other words, well over half a million immigrants in ten months. And this was before the fall of the Wall. The economic costs were also escalating. According to the Finance Ministry, DM 500 million had to be added to the budget in 1990 just to provide emergency shelters for the recent influx of GDR refugees. And an additional DM 10 billion a year for the next ten years might be required to build permanent housing and provide social benefits and unemployment payments. Moreover, the FRG was already subsidising the GDR economy to the tune of several billion a year. And far more would clearly be needed if the GDR were to be propped up sufficiently to stem the haemorrhage of people. But for how long could it be sustained? And what would happen if Germany unified? Revolution was certainly turning the East upside down, but life for West Germans was evidently changing as well – and not all those changes were welcome.[16]

Even if, in the short term, such spending on the GDR and on the migrants was economically feasible, any talk of raising taxes to cover the costs was politically impossible for Kohl and his coalition partners in an election year. The recent rise in the FRG of the Republikaner (the radical right’s new party) reflected growing resentment at the immigrant crisis and dismay at the financial burden to be carried by West German citizens.[17]

Although Kohl had talked about ‘stability’ to Gorbachev and to his Western allies, as he flew back to Warsaw on the afternoon of 11 November to pick up the threads of his Polish visit, he must have seen how difficult it would be to keep the GDR functioning. But, of course, he had no real desire to do so in the longer run. The ‘stability’ he was now beginning to contemplate was how to facilitate a peaceful and consensual transition to a unified German state – a project that had been inconceivable just two days before.[18]

*

How had this Rubicon been reached, only five weeks after the grand celebrations to mark the fortieth anniversary of the East German state?

In reality the big party on 7 October was a facade, to paper over the huge and growing cracks in the communist state. As soon as Gorbachev left East Berlin for Moscow, demonstrations erupted across the city and elsewhere in the GDR and the authorities now cracked down hard. The 7th was the day of what had become a monthly protest against the May election fraud. Nevertheless, while those who had fled the country amounted to tens of thousands, the number of dissidents and those openly antagonistic to the regime was still relatively small, especially outside the big cities of Dresden, Leipzig and East Berlin. Protests and demonstrations were quite contained, involving no more than several hundred people. Formal opposition groups had only just been created since the opening of the Austro-Hungarian border: by the beginning of October some 10,000 people belonged to Neues Forum as well as Demokratie Jetzt, Demokratischer Aufbruch, SDP (SozialDemokratische Partei in der DDR) and Vereinigte Linke. These smaller groupings were mostly associated with Neues Forum. Millions of GDR citizens remained passive and hundreds of thousands were still willing to defend the state.[19]

The atmosphere in those days was tense and uncertain – the rumour mill was in overdrive about what might happen next. At the top, Erich Honecker envisaged a ‘Chinese solution’ to counter the mounting protests over the anniversary weekend (6–9 October),[20] prefigured in East Berlin when Stasi boss Erich Mielke jumped out of his bulletproof limo on the evening of 7 October screaming to police ‘Haut sie doch zusammen, die Schweine!’ (‘Club those pigs into submission!’).[21] That night in and around Prenzlauer Berg near the Gethsemane church, police officers, plain-clothes security forces and volunteer militia attacked some 6,000 demonstrators who shouted ‘Freedom’, ‘No violence’ and ‘We want to stay’, as well as bystanders, with dogs and water cannons – beating and kicking peaceful citizens and throwing hundreds into jail. Women and girls were stripped naked; people were not allowed to use the toilets and told to piss or shit in their pants. Those who asked where they would be taken were told: ‘Auf eine Müllkippe’ (‘To the landfill’).[22]

Unlike similar scenes in other East German cities, where foreign journalists were banned, the images from East Berlin that weekend soon went around the world. And when those arrested were released and talked to the press, what they told the cameras about merciless brutality by the riot police and abuse at the hands of the Stasi interrogators was both really shocking and also entirely believable. Because many of them were simply ordinary citizens, some even SED members, not militant protestors or hardcore dissidents.[23]

Matters came to a head on Monday 9 October in Leipzig, which had been the epicentre of people-protest for the past few weeks. In fact the Monday night demo there had become a weekly feature since the first gathering by a few hundred in early September, spilling out spontaneously – as numbers grew exponentially – from the evening prayers for peace (Friedensgebet) in the Nikolaikirche in the city centre to a big rally along the inner ring road. On the night of 25 September, the fourth such occasion, 5,000 people had come together; a week later there were already 15,000, calling for ‘Demokratie – jetzt oder nie’ (‘Democracy – now or never’), and ‘Freiheit, Gleichheit, Brüderlichkeit’ (‘Freedom, equality, fraternity’). On the march, they chanted defiantly ‘Wir bleiben hier’ (‘We stay here’), as opposed to the earlier ‘Wir wollen raus’ (‘We want out’), while demanding ‘Erich laß die Faxen sein, laß die Perestroika rein’ (‘Erich [Honecker] stop fooling around, let the perestroika in’). Each week, Leipzigers became more daring in their activities and more vehement in their demands.[24]

The 9th of October was expected to be the largest ever protest – facing off against the regime’s full display of force. With this in mind, the Leipzig opposition groups and churches had disseminated appeals for prudence and non-violence. The world-renowned conductor Kurt Masur of the Gewandhaus orchestra, together with two other local celebrities, enlisted the support of three leading SED functionaries of the city government, and issued a public call for peaceful action: ‘We all need free dialogue and exchanges of views about further development of socialism in our country.’ What’s more, they argued, dialogue should not only be conducted in Leipzig but also with the government in East Berlin. This so-called ‘Appeal of the Six’ was read aloud, as well as being broadcast via loudspeakers across the city during the evening church vigils.[25]

Honecker, for his part, was determined to make an example of Leipzig. The state media replayed footage of Tiananmen and endlessly repeated the government’s solidarity with their comrades in Beijing.[26] When Honecker met Yao Yilin, China’s deputy premier, on the morning of the 9th, the two men announced that there was ‘evidence of a particularly anti-socialist action by imperialist class opponents with the aim of reversing socialist development. In this respect there is a fundamental lesson to be learned from the counter-revolutionary unrest in Beijing and the present campaign’ in East Germany. Honecker himself was positively bombastic: ‘Any attempt by imperialism to destabilise socialist construction or slander its achievements is now and in the future nothing more than Don Quixote’s futile running against the steadily turning sails of a windmill.’[27]

As darkness fell that evening, 9 October, with memories fresh of horrors from Berlin, many expected a total bloodbath in Leipzig. Honecker had pontificated that riots should be ‘choked off in advance’. Some 1,500 soldiers, 3,000 police and 600 paramilitary backed by hundreds of Stasi agents were ready. ‘It is either them or us,’ police were told by their superiors. ‘Fight them with no compromises,’ the interior minister ordered. The army had been given live ammunition and gas masks; the Stasi were briefed by Mielke in person; and paramilitaries and police were also called up in readiness.[28] Around 6 p.m., after prayers at the Nikolaikirche and neighbouring churches, the crowd struggled out into the streets. With more people joining the march all the time, an estimated 70,000 slowly pushed their way out onto the ring road.[29]

Marching for democracy on the Leipziger Innenstadtring

Yet the dreaded confrontation never took place. The local party was unwilling to make a move without detailed instructions from the leadership in East Berlin. The army and police were not prepared for the size of the crowd, double what they had expected. Above all, Honecker’s word was no longer law. An intense power struggle was now under way in East Berlin. Egon Krenz – twenty-five years Honecker’s junior – had been plotting a coup for some time. But, despite his recent ‘fraternal’ visit to Beijing, he did not wish to be saddled by Honecker with the opprobrium of a Tiananmen solution at home, because that would stain his own hands with German blood while allowing the elderly leader to blame him for the violence. This left the party paralysed between hardliners, ditherers and reformers. And, with no clear word that night from Berlin, the local party chief did a volte-face. Heeding the Appeal of the Six, he ordered his men to act only in self-defence. Meanwhile, the Kremlin had issued a directive to General Boris Snetkov, commander of the Western Group of Soviet Forces with his HQ in Wünsdorf near Berlin, not to intervene in East German events. The Red Army troops on East German soil were to stay in their garrisons.

So the ‘Chinese card’ was never played. Not because of a deliberate decision by the SED at the top, growing out of a change of heart, but because of the distinct absence of any decision. Time passed. The masses kept marching. There was no violence. The repressive state apparatus that Mielke had pulled together was not confronted with fearsome ‘enemies of the state’ or anarchic ‘rowdies’ but by well-disciplined ordinary citizens bearing candles and speaking the language of non-violence. What they wanted was recognition by the governing party of their legitimate quest for basic freedoms and political reform: their slogan was ‘Wir sind das Volk’ (‘We are the people’).[30]

New facts on the ground had been created. And a new demonstration culture had emerged – spilling out from the church vigils into the squares and the streets. The regime’s loss of nerve that night dispelled the omnipresent climate of fear. This would change the face of the GDR. The civil rights activists and the mass of protestors were beginning to merge.

It was a huge victory for the peaceful demonstrators and an epic defeat for the regime. ‘Die Lage ist so beschissen, wie sie noch nie in der SED war’ (‘The situation is so shitty, like it never was in the SED’), summed up one Politburo member on 17 October.[31] Next day Honecker resigned – officially on health grounds – and Krenz took over as party boss.[32] But that did not improve the public mood: the people interpreted the power transfer as the result of their pressure from below rather than as the outcome of party machinations and manoeuvrings going on ever since Honecker was taken seriously ill during the Warsaw Pact meeting in Bucharest in July.[33]

Egon Krenz at the Volkskammer as the New Party Secretary of the SED in East Berlin

Krenz promised the Party Central Committee on 18 October that he would initiate a ‘turn’ (Wende). He committed himself to open ‘dialogue’ with the opposition on two conditions: first, ‘to continue building up socialism in the GDR … without giving up any of our common achievements’ and second, to preserve East Germany as a ‘sovereign state’. As a result, Krenz’s Wende amounted to little more than a rhetorical tweak of the party’s standard dogma. And, in similar vein, the personnel changes he made among the leadership were largely cosmetic. There was, in short, little genuine ‘renewal’ in the offing: clearly Wende did not mean Umbruch (rupture and radical change).[34]

Not only did Krenz’s accession to power leave more reformist elements in the SED frustrated; worse, he personally appeared clueless in judging the true nature of the public mood. After his election to the post of SED general secretary, he asked the Protestant church leaders when ‘those demonstrations finally would come to end’. After all, continued Krenz obtusely, ‘one can’t spend every day on the streets’.[35] Little did he know.

In any case, Krenz was not a credible leader. Rumours were rife about his health and his alcohol problems. And ‘long-tooth’ Krenz, as he was nicknamed – a party hack for more than thirty years – had no plausibility as a ‘reformer’. So, rather than stabilising SED rule, his takeover actually served to fuel popular displeasure with the party and accelerated the erosion of its monopoly on power. What’s more, when the Krenz regime renounced the open use of force, that token concession only emboldened the masses to demand ever more fundamental change. They now felt they were pushing at an open door: ‘street power’ was shaking ‘the tower’.[36]

After the fall of Honecker on 18 October, anti-government protest – in the form of peace prayers, mass demonstrations and public discussions – spread right across the country. In the process various currents of criticism flowed together into a surging tide. Long-time dissidents from the churches; writers and intellectuals from the alternative left; critics of the SED from within the party; and the mass public spilling out onto the streets: all these fused in what might be called an independent public sphere. They spoke in unison for people’s sovereignty. Discontent was now open. The long spell of silence had been broken.

On 23 October in Leipzig, 300,000 participated in the Monday march around the ring road. In Schwerin on the Baltic, the ‘reliable forces’ who were meant to come out for the regime ended up in large swathes joining the parallel demo by Neues Forum. Next day the protests returned to East Berlin, whose squares had remained quiet since the brutal crackdown of 7 and 8 October. Overall, there were 145 anti-government events in the GDR in the last week of the month, and a further 210 in the first week of November. Not only were these protests growing, the demands were becoming both more diverse and also more pointed:

Die führende Rolle dem Volk (‘The leading role to the people’, 16 October)

Egon, leit Reformen ein, sonst wirst Du der nächste sein! (‘Egon, introduce reforms, or else you’ll be next!’, 23 October)

Visafrei bis Hawaii! (‘Visa-free travel to Hawaii!’, 23 October)

Demokratie statt Machtmonopol der SED (‘Democracy instead of the SED’s monopoly on power’, 30 October)

Conversely, the SED leadership appeared lost for words. Increasingly unable to win the argument, the Krenz Politburo hid behind traditional orthodoxy.[37] In particular, the party was totally unwilling to give up its constitutionally entrenched ‘leading role’ (Führungsanspruch) – which was the principal demand of all those who wanted liberalisation and democratisation.[38] To make matters worse, while seeking to reinstate its authority, the regime showed itself bewildered and helpless in the face of the GDR’s deteriorating economic situation. Discussions in the Politburo revolved around how to get consumers more tyres, more children’s anoraks, more furniture, cheaper Walkmen and how to mass-produce PCs and 1 MB chips – not the structural flaws of the economy.[39]

Only on 31 October were the stark realities finally laid bare in an official report to the Politburo by the chief planner, Gerhard Schürer, on the economic state of the GDR. The country’s productivity was 40% lower than that of the Federal Republic. The system of state planning had proved totally unfit for purpose. And the GDR was close to national insolvency. Indebtedness to the West had risen from 2 billion Valutamarks in 1970 to 49 billion in 1989.[fn1] Merely halting further indebtedness would entail a lowering of the East Germans’ living standards by 25–30% in order to service the existing debt. And any default on debt repayments would risk opening the country to an IMF diktat for a market economy under conditions of acute austerity. For the SED, this was ideologically untenable. In May, Krenz had declared that economic policy and social policy were an entwined unit, and had to be continued as such because this was the essence of socialism in the GDR. So the regime was trapped in a vicious circle: socialism depended on the Plan, and the survival of the planned economy required external credits on a scale that now made East Germany totally dependent on the capitalist West, especially the FRG.[40]

Straight after this fateful Politburo meeting, Krenz flew to Moscow for his first visit to the Kremlin as the GDR’s secretary general. There on 1 November he admitted the economic home truths to Gorbachev himself. The Soviet leader was unsympathetic. He coldly informed Krenz that the USSR had been aware of East Berlin’s predicament all along; that was why he had kept pressing Honecker for reforms. Even so, when Gorbachev heard the precise figures – Krenz said the GDR needed $4.5 billion in credits simply to pay off the interest on its debts – the Soviet leader was, for a moment, speechless – a rare occurrence. The Kremlin was in no position to help, so Gorbachev could only advise Krenz to tell his people the truth. And, for a country that had already haemorrhaged over 200,000 alienated citizens since the start of 1989, this was not a happy prospect.[41]

Afterwards, Krenz tried to put the best face on things in a seventy-minute meeting with the foreign press, presenting himself as an ‘intimate friend’ of Gorbachev and no hardliner. But the media were not convinced. When Krenz talked policy, he sounded just like Honecker, his political mentor, and he flatly rejected any talk of reunification with West Germany or the removal of the Berlin Wall. ‘This question is not on the table,’ Krenz insisted. ‘There is nothing to reunify because socialism and capitalism have never stood together on German soil.’ Krenz also put a positive spin on the mass protests. ‘Many people are out on the streets to show that they want better socialism and the renovation of society,’ he said. ‘This is a good sign, an indication that we are at a turning point.’ He added that the SED would seriously consider the demands of the protestors. The first steps, he said, would be taken at a party meeting the following week.[42]

In truth, the SED had its back to the wall. Desperate, it decided to give ground to the protestors on the question of travel restrictions – to allow an appearance of freedom. So on 1 November the GDR reopened its borders with Czechoslovakia. The result was no surprise, except perhaps to the Politburo itself. Once again the people voted with their feet: some 8,000 left their Heimat on the first day. On 3 November, Miloš Jakeš, leader of the Czech communists in Prague – having secured Krenz’s approval – formally opened Czechoslovakia’s borders to the FRG, thereby granting East Germans a legal transit route to the West. But instead of this halting the frenzied flight, the exodus only continued to grow: 23,000 East Germans arrived in the Federal Republic on the weekend of 4–5 November, and by the 8th the total number of émigrés had reached 50,000.[43]

On his return home Krenz pleaded with East Germans in a televised address. To those who thought of emigrating, he said: ‘Put trust in our policy of renewal. Your place is here. We need you.’[44] That last sentence was true: the mass flight that autumn had already caused a serious labour shortage in the economy, especially in the health sector. Hospitals and clinics had reported losing as many as 30% of their staff as doctors and nurses had succumbed to the lure of freedom, much better pay and a more high-tech work environment in the West.[45]

By this stage, few were listening to the SED leader. On 4 November half a million attended a ‘rally for change’ in East Berlin, organised by the official Union of Actors. For the first time since the fortieth-anniversary weekend, there was no police interference in the capital. Indeed, the rally – which included party officials, actors, opposition leaders, clergy, writers and various prominent figures – was broadcast live on GDR media. Speakers from the government were shouted down, with chants of ‘Krenz Xiaoping, no thanks’. Others, such as the novelist Christa Wolf, drew cheers as she announced her dislike for the party’s language of ‘change of course’. She said she preferred to talk of a ‘revolution from below’ and ‘revolutionary renewal’.

Wolf was one of thousands of opposition activists who desired a better, genuinely democratic and independent GDR. Quite definitely they did not see the Federal Republic as the ideal. They did not want their country to be gobbled up by the dominant, larger western half of Germany – in a cheap sell-out to capitalism. People like Wolf and Bärbel Bohley, the artist founder of Neues Forum, had stuck with the GDR despite all its frustrations; in their minds, running away was the soft option. So they now wanted to reap the fruit of their hard work as dissidents. They were idealists who aspired to a democratic socialism, and saw the autumn of 1989 as their chance to turn dreams into reality.

But Ingrid Stahmer, the deputy mayor of West Berlin, had a different perspective. With GDR citizens now freely flooding out of the country through its Warsaw Pact neighbours, she remarked that the Wall was soon going to become history. ‘It’s just going to be superfluous.’[46]

On Monday 6 November, close to a million people in eight cities across the GDR –some 400,000 in Leipzig and 300,000 in Dresden – marched to demand free elections and free travel. They denounced as totally inadequate the latest loosening of the travel law, published that morning in the state daily Neues Deutschland, because it limited foreign travel to thirty days. And there was a further question: how much currency would East Germans be allowed to change into Western money at home? The Ostmark was not freely convertible, and up to now East Germans had been allowed once a year to exchange just fifteen Ostmarks into DMs – about $8 at the official exchange rate – hardly enough for a meal, let alone an extended trip.[47]

So the pressure was intense when the SED Central Committee gathered on 8 November for its three-day meeting. Right at the start, the entire Politburo resigned and a new one – reduced in size from twenty-one members to eleven – was elected, to create the appearance of change. In the event, six members retained their seats, while five new ones were named. Three of Krenz’s preferred new Politburo candidates were rejected and the party gave the position of prime minister to Hans Modrow, the SED chief in Dresden – a genuine reformer. As a result, the party elite was now visibly split. What’s more, on the outside of the party headquarters, 5,000 SED members protested openly against their leaders.[48]

Next day, 9 November, the party struggled to think up responses to people’s demands in the streets. In late afternoon the Central Committee came back to the problematic travel regulations. A short memo was drawn up and passed to the secretary of the Central Committee, Günter Schabowski, who had been appointed that morning as the SED’s media spokesman but did not attend that part of the discussions. At 6 p.m. Schabowski briefed the world media on the day’s deliberations, in a press conference broadcast live on GDR TV.[49]

It was a long and boring meeting. Near the end Schabowski was asked by one journalist about the alterations in the GDR travel law. He offered a rather incoherent summary and then, under pressure, hastily read out parts of the press statement he had been given earlier. Distracted by further questions he omitted the passages regarding the grounds for denying applications both for private travel and permanent exit applications. His omissions, however, only added to the confusion. Had the Central Committee radically changed its course? A now panicky Schabowski talked of a decision to allow citizens to emigrate permanently. The press room grew restless. The media started to get their teeth into the issue.

What about holidays? Short trips to the West? Visits to West Berlin? Which border crossings? When would the new arrangements come into effect? A seriously rattled Schabowski simply muttered ‘According to my knowledge … immediately, right away.’ Because they had not been given any formal written statement, the incredulous press corps hung on Schabowski’s every word, squeezing all they could out of them.[50]

Finally someone asked the fatal question: ‘Mr Schabowski, what is going to happen to the Berlin Wall now?’

Schabowski: It has been brought to my attention that it is 7 p.m. That has to be the last question. Thank you for your understanding.

Um … What will happen to the Berlin Wall? Information has already been provided in connection with travel activities. Um, the issue of travel, um, the ability to cross the Wall from our side … hasn’t been answered yet and exclusively the question in the sense … so this, I’ll put it this way, fortified state border of the GDR … um, we have always said that there have to be several other factors, um, taken into consideration. And they deal with the complex of questions that Comrade Krenz, in his talk in the – addressed in view of the relations between the GDR and the FRG, in ditto light of the, um, necessity of continuing the process of assuring peace with new initiatives.

And, um, surely the debate about these questions, um, will be positively influenced if the FRG and NATO also agree to and implement disarmament measures in a similar manner to that of the GDR and other socialist countries. Thank you very much.

The media was left to make what they wanted of his incoherence. The press room emptied within seconds. The news went viral on the wire services and soon made its way via TV and radio into living rooms and streets of Berlin. ‘Leaving via all GDR checkpoints immediately possible’ Reuters reported at 7.02 p.m., ‘GDR opens its borders’, echoed Associated Press three minutes later. At 8 p.m. on West German TV, the evening news Tagesschau – which millions of East Germans could watch – led with the same message. Correct in substance, these headlines were, of course, in formulation much balder, bolder and far-reaching than the small print of the actual East German Reiseregelung, or the reality on the ground.[51]

But during the course of this damp and very cold November evening, reality soon caught up – and with a vengeance.

Over the next few hours, thousands of East Berliners converged on the various checkpoints at the Wall, especially in the centre of the city – to see for themselves if and when they could cross. They were not put off by East German state television or the police telling them to come back next morning at eight o’clock when the bureaucracy would be all ready. Instead they kept shouting: ‘Tor auf!’ (‘Open the gate!’). At Bornholmer Strasse, some sixty armed border guards – commanded by Lieutenant Colonel Harald Jäger, who had been doing the job since 1964 – sat in their tiny checkpoint huts, totally outnumbered, and without any instructions from on high. Both the Central Committee and the military top brass, locked away in meetings, were unreachable. So the men on the front line had to make their own decisions. At around 9 p.m. they began to let people through: first as a trickle, one by one, meticulously stamping each person’s identity card – the idea being these exiters would not later be let back in. Then, at around 10.30 p.m., they lifted the barriers in both directions and gave up trying to check credentials. It was as if the floodgates had been opened. People poured across into West Berlin. No East or West German politicians were present, nor any representatives of the four occupying powers. There were just a few baffled East German men in uniform, soon reduced to tears as they were overcome by the emotion of this historic moment.[52]

Within thirty minutes, several thousand people had squeezed their way to the other side. Somewhere in the chaos a young East German quantum chemist called Angela Merkel was swept along by the crowd. After a quiet sauna evening with her friends, she just wanted to experience for herself German history in the making. Once on the western side of the Wall, she phoned her aunt in Hamburg and joined the celebrations before heading back home – wondering what 9 November would mean for her.[53]

By midnight – after twenty-eight years of sealed borders – all the crossings in Berlin were open; likewise, as news spread, any other transit point along the border between the two Germanies. Neither the GDR security forces nor the Red Army did anything to prevent this. Not a single shot was fired, and no Soviet soldier left his barracks. Now, thousands of East Berliners – of all ages, from every walk of life – were making their way on foot, bike or car into the western half of the city – a forbidden place hitherto only glimpsed from afar. At Checkpoint Charlie, where Allied and Soviet tanks had been locked in a tense face-off in August 1961 as the Berlin Wall went up, the jubilant horde of visitors was greeted by cheering, flag-waving West Germans, plying them with flowers and sparkling wine.

‘I don’t know what we’re going to do, just drive around and see what’s going on,’ said one thirty-four-year-old East Berliner as he sat at the wheel of his orange Trabant chugging down the glittering Kurfürstendamm. ‘We’re here for the first time. I’ll go home in a few hours. My wife and kids are waiting for me. But I wasn’t going to miss this.’[54]

At the Brandenburg Gate, the most prominent landmark of the city’s division, hundreds of people chanted on the western side ‘The Wall must go!’ Then some climbed on top of the Wall and danced on it; others clambered over and headed right through the historic arch that for so long had been inaccessible to Berliners from either side. These were utterly unbelievable pictures – captured gleefully by American TV film crews for their prime-time news bulletins back home.[55]

All through the night and over the next few days, East Berliners continued to flood into West Berlin in vast numbers – 3 million in three days, most of whom came back.

The open Wall: Potsdamer Platz, 12 November 1989

They saw the promised land – and were being bribed to savour it. While in the East, banks and travel agents lacked sufficient foreign (DM) currency reserves to exchange for every traveller even the permitted maximum of fifteen Ostmarks, in the West long lines of East Berliners formed in front of the West Berlin banks to pick up the DM 100 ‘Welcome Money’ – about $55 – that the FRG had always given East Germans on their first time in the West. Spending their own, free DMs in the shiny emporia of the consumer society, they filled up their plastic bags with precious goods – often as simple as bananas, oranges or children’s toys – and carried them back into the grey streets of the socialist utopia.[56]

It was in those days that all the talk about revolution and renewal in the GDR totally evaporated as a credible political project.[57] Not for opposition intellectuals, of course – for the idealist alternative left and the earnest socialist reformers such as Bohley and Wolf – or even for the new echelon of younger SED functionaries. They denounced all talk of reunification as reactionary Heim ins Reich patriotism, derided capitalist culture as materialist trash and condemned consumption and foreign travel as the new opium of the masses.[58] But most of the ‘masses’ took no notice. For them, the idea of reforming the GDR and of pursuing a ‘third way’[59] between SED-state socialism and Western capitalism was now dead. That was the true revolution: popular rejection of the old regime and no affirmation of any new socialist-democratic vision of society. Why stay in a broken communist state when you could start a new life amid the temples of capitalism? Or even demand the merger of East Germany with the West?

*

How was it that the GDR experience turned out so differently from that of Poland and Hungary? In part because in the GDR the transition from communism began much later and developed much faster. Poland and Hungary had entered the process of political transformation in earnest in the summer of 1988; in the GDR the first rumblings of protest did not occur till May 1989 and street demonstrations only began in September. In part, too, because the Polish and Hungarian economies were in a far worse state than East Germany’s, so their tortuous navigation out of a command economy towards the market offered little attraction in the GDR. Indeed, the politico-economic transition produced more shortages and hardship than the people had bargained for. But it was also because the East German party state had failed, despite forty years of assiduous effort, to inculcate a sense of GDR patriotism. In Hungary and Poland the changes were rooted in national unity; this was not so in the GDR, where unity became all-German, not East German.

The GDR regime was also much more hard-line and unreconstructed for much longer. Only in East Berlin was a ‘Chinese solution’ seriously considered – and not just because Tiananmen happened after Polish and Hungarian reforms had got into their stride. Honecker was locked in the past, totally wedded to his state and his version of real socialism. Yet while the GDR might have been the technologically most advanced country in the Eastern bloc, it was also more dependent on the USSR than its neighbours because of the size of the Red Army presence and because the GDR was an artificial polity, created and sustained by Moscow. As Brezhnev had told Honecker back in 1970, ‘Erich, I tell you frankly, don’t ever forget this: the GDR cannot exist without us, without the Soviet Union, its power and strength. Without us there is no GDR.’ Honecker’s problem in 1989 was that Gorbachev was definitely not Brezhnev. He wanted radical reforms and, furthermore, had renounced the use of force. For Honecker, that would spell the end of his rule – and indeed of the SED itself.

Out of this face-off between East Berlin and the Kremlin came domestic political paralysis. There was no Chinese-style crackdown in Leipzig on 9 October to crush the protests, no transfer of the Tiananmen ‘contagion’ to Europe. This indicated a fundamental divide between the Asian and European transitions from the Cold War – between the use of repression and a consensus on non-violence. And the GDR’s policy paralysis did not go away even after Honecker was toppled, because Krenz refused to allow any breach in the SED’s monopoly on power until after the ‘fall of the Wall’.

In fact, the reforms in Poland and Hungary had little effect on developments in the GDR. Where Hungary did matter was as an exit rather than an exemplar. It was the opening of the Hungarian border with Austria and the ensuing exodus of East Germans that proved the real catalyst for change within the GDR. The impact was intensified by the opening of Czechoslovakia’s frontier with West Germany, and ultimately by the collapse of the inner German border as well. Once East Germans started to move en masse, the ‘German question’ was back in people’s minds. That’s why the moment of political convergence with Poland and Hungary was so brief – a matter of three weeks or so before the fall of the Wall and then Kohl’s policy offensive undermined the aspirations of Neues Forum and its allies for a reformed socialism. It also made nonsense of the efforts of Hans Modrow – hailed by many in the GDR as the ‘German Gorbachev’ – to form a new and stable government and to negotiate in a Polish-style round-table process with the opposition. Before round-table talks even began, the SED disintegrated at all levels, amid corruption scandals and a string of resignations, and in early December it was renamed the PDS (Partei des Demokratischen Sozialismus) and its monopoly deleted from the constitution. The brief ‘Krenz era’ was history.

Similarly, Neues Forum and other opposition groups such as Demokratischer Aufbruch were undermined by the ‘post-Wall’ divergence between political activists and the general mass of GDR citizens. Just when the opposition’s dream of realising a democratic and reformed socialist GDR seemed finally within reach – as commentator Timothy Garton Ash wrote, putting the ‘D for Democratic’ into the GDR – the whole idea was stillborn. The round-table talks were set for 7 December, but over the previous four weeks 130,000 more people emigrated to the FRG. In the Leipzig Monday demonstrations the slogan ‘Deutschland einig Vaterland’ (‘Germany the united fatherland’) was heard for the first time as early as 13 November; a week later ‘Wir sind das Volk’ had transmuted into ‘Wir sind ein Volk’ (‘We are one people’). In contrast to Hungary and Poland, it was the GDR’s opening to the West and the prospect of unification that made the crucial difference. Hungarians and Poles had to imagine an alternative future for themselves at home; East Germans could look to the reality of an existing alternative on their own doorstep: a prosperous, functioning West German state, run by compatriots. And they did. As Garton Ash also observed, it was at once a chance and a tragedy for East Germany that ‘the boundaries of social self-determination and national self-determination were not the same’.[60]

Significantly, Germany’s national story had wider repercussions. When we talk today about the fall of the Wall, what comes into our minds is the image of the Brandenburg Gate and people dancing on the Wall. But in fact the Gate was in no man’s land; it was not a crossing point and, after the extraordinary night of 9 November, it would remain closed for another six weeks. Not until 22 December was the Wall opened at the Gate. This is a reminder that the media was at once a catalyst, a shaper and a multiplier of events. Even in one day, the headlines shifted from ‘The GDR Opens its Borders to the Federal Republic’ (10 November) to ‘Wall and Barbed Wire Do Not Divide Anymore’ (11 November). A local moment full of contingency was quickly transformed into an event of universal significance. As an experience of liberty through the overcoming of physical separation, the end of the Wall had a meaning and resonance which spread fast and far beyond Berlin.

In the process, the focus of the story rapidly shifted away from the politicians (especially Schabowski and his botched press conference) making history through blunders and happenstance to a narrative of ordinary people bringing about revolutionary change. And then, even more abstractly, as GDR politicians and Western journalists who drove events that night were edited out of the story, ‘the fall of the Wall’ became a magical and highly symbolic moment in history. The dancers on the Wall at the Brandenburg Gate became the ultimate symbol of freedom for 1989 – rather like the way, at the other end of the spectrum, the man in front of the tank near Tiananmen Square became the year’s ultimate symbol of repression.[61]

*

The fall of the Wall had certainly not been Kohl’s moment. And he was struggling to catch up for the next three weeks. But then he would seize the initiative with a vengeance.

Most of November was spent responding to the demands of others, rather than working out his own agenda. On the 9th, that momentous night for Germany, he had not even been in the country. When he finally escaped from Poland and got to Berlin next day, he had been shouted down by the crowds. Soon he had to rush back again to Warsaw to wrap up the interrupted visit. But the Poles were harder to placate – because it was no longer just a matter of burying the past but alleviating fears about the future. After the three culture-focused days of reconciliation – at Auschwitz and in Silesia – the trip was rounded off by a carefully calibrated finale. Kohl announced an aid package amounting to $2.2 billion – the largest by far from any Western government (Bush had offered $100 million when he was in Poland in early July). And the chancellor wrote off $400 million in West German loans since the 1970s. With these measures he wanted to forestall any fresh talk about a peace treaty for the Second World War, which would raise the unhappy issues of reparations and the Oder–Neisse border with Poland. So in the press conference, when finally asked about the elephant in the room – ‘reunification’ – the chancellor replied ‘We do not speak about reunification but about self-determination.’[62]

Moment of penitence: Kohl at Auschwitz

Kohl was clearly careful how he spoke publicly about unity, preferring to argue his case around the strict legal principles of the East Germans’ right to self-determination and the provision in the FRG’s Basic Law that unity should be attained through the exercise of the Germans’ free will. Kohl, of course, assumed that when East Germans had the opportunity to choose, they would opt for unification. He had made this point in his state-of-the-nation address on 8 November, before the Wall was breached, and reiterated it at greater length, again in the Bundestag, on 16 November.

‘Our compatriots in the GDR must be able to decide for themselves which way they want to go in the future,’ the chancellor declared. ‘Of course we will respect every decision that is being made by the people of the GDR in free self-determination.’ On the question of economic assistance, he added that this would be useless ‘unless there is an irreversible reform of the economic system, an end to a bureaucratic planned economy and the introduction of a market economy’. In other words, self-determination was in principle entirely free but was also susceptible to a little bribery.

In his speech Kohl made a deliberate nod towards Bonn’s Western allies and their suppressed concerns about a resurgence of German nationalism. ‘We are and remain a part of the Western system of values,’ he insisted, adding that it would be a ‘fatal error’ to slow the process of European integration.[63]

His cryptic statement about ‘Europe’ was, however, insufficient to allay all fears. This became evident when Kohl travelled to Paris for a special dinner of European Community heads of government on 18 November. Mitterrand, then holding the rotating position of president of the EC, had invited his colleagues to the Elysée Palace at very short notice – keen to ensure that the EC 12 would be an active partner for the reforming states of Central and Eastern Europe but without allowing the Community to be deflected from the already ongoing processes of deeper economic and political integration. In particular, the French president worried that, after the drama in Berlin, plans for economic and monetary union (EMU) might no longer take centre stage at the upcoming EC Council meeting in Strasbourg on 8–9 December. He believed that those plans were all the more urgent precisely because of the great transformation sweeping across the Soviet bloc. And he wanted the EC to make this position public well before the Bush–Gorbachev summit talks in Malta on 2–3 December.[64]

Mitterrand therefore had a clear agenda when speaking for ‘Europe’. But, as the leader of France, he was acutely nervous about where Germany was now going. He and Kohl had not met since that epoch-making night of 9 November and he wanted to use the gathering in Paris to talk face-to-face with his German counterpart. They did so, according to Kohl’s memoirs, in a short tête-à-tête before the dinner. Mitterrand avoided mentioning the issue of reunification but Kohl – conscious of what was in the air – raised it himself. ‘I talk to you as a German and as chancellor,’ he said, and then solemnly pledged his active commitment to building Europe. More reflectively, he added: ‘I see two causes for the developments in the East: that the alliance [i.e. NATO] stayed firm thanks to the dual-track decision[65] and the fact that the European Community has evolved in such dynamic fashion.’ Thus, succinctly, he underlined Bonn’s intertwined loyalty to the Western alliance and the European project.[66]

Having put his own cards on the table, Kohl joined Mitterrand for dinner with the other EC leaders. The meal, in one of the opulent salons of the Elysée, went smoothly. Not even a word was ‘whispered’ about unification, Kohl would later recall. Instead Mitterrand went on about the need to support the democratisation processes in the East at large. He argued for constant prudence and against anything that might destabilise Gorbachev. Yet the German question was clearly hanging there, unspoken.

Finally Margaret Thatcher could contain herself no longer. Over dessert she exploded to Kohl: There could be ‘no question of changing Europe’s borders’, which had been confirmed in the Helsinki Final Act. ‘Any attempt to raise this or the issue of German reunification would risk undermining Mr Gorbachev’s position,’ she warned, and would ‘open the Pandora’s box of border claims right through Central Europe’. Kohl was visibly taken aback at her outburst, which upset the whole mood of the dinner. Struggling to respond, he cited a 1970 NATO summit declaration, in which the allies had expressed their continued support on the issue of German unity. Thatcher retorted that this endorsement happened at a time when nobody seriously believed that reunification would ever take place. But Kohl dug in. Be that as may, he said coldly, NATO agreed on this declaration and the decision still stood. Even Thatcher would not be able to stop the German people in their tracks: they now held their fate in their own hands. Sitting back, his ample girth filling the chair, he looked the British prime minister in the eye. Angrily, she stamped her feet several times and shouted: ‘That’s the way you see it, you see it!’[67]

To Kohl it was quite clear that the Iron Lady was determined to uphold the status quo. For her, borders were immutable; even their peaceful change was simply not on the agenda. This also applied to the inner German frontier, which he – like most Germans – did not consider as an international border, never mind the Oder–Neisse frontier with Poland.

Although shaken by Thatcher’s diatribe, Kohl was conscious that her rooted antipathy to the European project meant that she was an outsider in the EC’s decision-making. And she could not play the American card because Kohl was already certain that Bush supported the principle of German unification. What worried Kohl much more was that Mitterrand just sat there quietly, seeming to approve of Thatcher’s words. Had he egged her on? Was this an Anglo-French axis in the making? The chancellor began to wonder whether the French leader was playing a double game.[68]

Only two weeks earlier, Mitterrand had told Kohl in Bonn that he did not fear German reunification. On the other hand, at the end the French president entered the caveat that he would have to consider what in practice worked best in the interests of France and of Europe. There was, in other words, an ambiguity in the French position: Mitterrand thought plenty of time should be allowed for German unification (‘la nécessaire durée du processus’), while, simultaneously, the process of creating an ever-closer European union should be speeded up. This double dynamic of largo and accelerando was evidently something that mattered to the Frenchman. And it made the chancellor just a little bit uneasy. But he placed his trust in their history of partnership and cooperation going back to 1982.[69]

Kohl was beginning to realise that the EC, or certainly one of its leading members, was going to demand something in return for going along with his talk about a united Germany. Piecing together their discussions in Bonn and then Paris, he recognised that it was essential to convince Mitterrand of the FRG’s continued commitment to completing European monetary and political union – and not just as a fellow traveller but as a fellow shaper using the power of the Franco-German tandem. This mattered even more because Kohl had no illusions about the coolness felt towards German unification by many Europeans, not least the Italians and the Dutch.

The chancellor decided to confront the issue head-on in Strasbourg on 22 November at a special meeting of the European Parliament, convened to discuss recent events in Eastern Europe. In his address, he issued a clarion call that the division of both Europe and Germany be ended. Not only London, Rome, Dublin and Paris belonged to Europe, he declared, but also Warsaw and Budapest, Prague and Sofia. And, of course, Berlin, Leipzig and Dresden. German unity could only be achieved within this larger, pan-European process of unification: ‘In a free and united Europe, a free and united Germany.’ ‘Deutschlandpolitik’ and ‘Europapolitik’ were, Kohl said, ‘two sides of the same coin’.[70]

Kohl had made a point of asking Mitterrand to attend his speech. When the president did so, it was taken as a clear endorsement of what the chancellor was saying. For Kohl, Strasbourg proved a great success. At the end the European Parliament passed an almost unanimous resolution (only two MEPs out of 518 voting against) saying that East Germans had the right to ‘to be part of a united Germany and a united Europe’.[71]

The German chancellor had spoken to Europe and gained its approval. And with Bush not particularly fazed about the matter, leaving the initiative to Kohl, there was hope that at a later point even Thatcher might be brought into line with the help of the Americans, if not the French and the EC. None of this, however, could obscure the fact that at home pressure was mounting on Kohl to spell out clearly and openly how he intended to achieve German unification – because so far the chancellor had been distinctly circumspect about the specifics. And he was being buffeted from all sides.

Among the many voices who demanded that the chancellor come out strongly for unification was Rudolf Augstein, editor of Der Spiegel. In his magazine on 20 November he wrote a column entitled ‘Sagen, was ist’ (‘To say what’s what’). Augstein could barely conceal his impatience. Rather than hiding behind talk about European unity, he argued, the Kohl government should face up to the truly popular desire for German unity. The question that should be addressed was not if, but how, unification could be made to happen.[72]

Similarly outspoken for unity was Alfred Herrhausen, head of Deutsche Bank, an advocate of European economic integration and also an adviser to the chancellor. In an interview he pointed out the reality that as soon as foreign investment was allowed in the GDR, the West German economy would very quickly swallow up that of the East. Referring to an idea currently being floated about possible GDR membership in the EC, Herrhausen said that, as a banker, he thought it desirable in the short term but, speaking as a German citizen, he would definitely not want to forgo the historic opportunity for unity. That, for him, seemed to supersede everything else.[73]

Yet Kohl was also under pressure from those who did not believe in unification.

Günter Grass, the leftist author and public intellectual, came out strongly against the idea of ‘a conglomeration of power’ in the heart of Europe, calling instead for ‘a confederation of two states that have to redefine themselves’. In other words, he wanted a ‘settlement’ between West and East. The past was dead, he insisted. ‘There is no point in looking back to the German Reich, be it within the borders of 1945 or 1937; that’s all gone. We have to define ourselves anew.’[74]

Oskar Lafontaine of the SPD, Kohl’s direct rival for the chancellorship, also took a diametrically opposite position from the chancellor. Amid the turmoil before the fall of the Wall, he had warned of the ‘spectre of a strong fourth German Reich’ that was ‘scaring our Western and no less our Eastern neighbours’.[75] And on 8 November, after Kohl lauded unity through self-determination, Lafontaine blasted the goal of a unified nation state as ‘wrong and anachronistic’.[76] Once the borders were open Lafontaine denigrated the heady, almost delirious, atmosphere as ‘national drunkenness’ and, hard-nosed, asked whether it was right that all East German citizens who came west should simply get access to the FRG’s social security benefits. Mindful of the impending Federal elections, he was trying to play on the anxieties of West Germans – who, according to Gallup polls, were prepared to help East Germany financially but without tax rises for themselves.[77]

Particularly striking was the denunciation of unification from Egon Bahr, who in the 1960s had designed Neue Ostpolitik based on the idea that ‘change through rapprochement’ would pave the way to unity. Before 9 November he had said that people should stop ‘dreaming or nattering on about unity’.[78] And he had rejected the priority given to the ‘lie’ of unification – spluttering that it was ‘poisoning’ the atmosphere and causing ‘political pollution’. Afterwards he took a cautious line, keener on a slower approach to unification and hiding behind Lafontaine.[79]

Within the SPD, only Willy Brandt, Bahr’s old patron, spoke out for unity. It would be inconceivable, he declared, to ‘batten down the hatches in the West’.[80] German unity was now only a question of time and it should not come only after Europe’s unity had already been achieved. In this way Brandt distanced himself from the Lafontaine–Bahr line in his own party but, more generally, those on the left who privileged a pan-European framework, or Gorbachev’s ‘Common European Home’, within which Germany could unite.[81] He also set himself apart from Genscher’s ‘Europa-Plan’, tossed out in October, which airily suggested that the East Europeans, including the GDR, would be integrated into the EC, at the same time as Brussels kept marching towards monetary and political union.[82]

And so, ironically on the issue of German unity, the position taken by Lafontaine and Bahr was closer to that of the GDR’s political opposition (and even reformers within the SED) than to the stance of their own Federal government in Bonn. Indeed, the writers and clergy representing the opposition in East Berlin called on 26 November for the independent self-sufficiency of the GDR, believing that they still had the chance, as ‘equal neighbours to all European states to develop a socialist alternative to the FRG’.[83]

Kohl and Teltschik were particularly troubled by a statement from the East German prime minister, Hans Modrow, in his first ‘government declaration’ on 17 November. He promised secret multiparty elections for 1990 as well as a root-and-branch overhaul of the command economy, but not an outright shift to the market. Modrow said he was confident that decisive change in East Germany would end ‘unrealistic and dangerous speculation about reunification’. He proposed that a stabilised GDR was a prime condition for wider stability in Central Europe, even across Europe as a whole. In this vein, looking to Bonn, he declared that his government was ‘ready for talks’ to put relations with West Germany ‘on a new level’. His aim was a ‘treaty union’ which would build on the complex of political and economic treaties of Ostpolitik and Osthandel that had been signed by the two states over the previous few decades.[84]

Modrow had made the first official statement from either the FRG or the GDR on how to move forward on relations between the two Germanies. He had beaten Kohl to it and, furthermore, clearly sought to stall the drive towards unification. West German criticism of the chancellor became more strident. The editor of Die Welt asked on 19 November, ‘Are we letting others dictate the blueprint for unity?’[85] And the co-founder of the extreme-right Die Republikaner party Franz Schönhuber saw in Kohl’s silence the chance to raise his party’s profile, putting top of the list in his election programme ‘reunification’ and ‘regaining’ the Eastern territories.[86]

Yet Kohl still held back. On Monday 20 November a worried Teltschik noted in his diary: ‘international as much as domestic discussion over the chances of German unity has fully erupted and can no longer be stopped. We are more and more conscious of this, but the chancellor’s directive remains the same: to exercise restraint in the public discourse. Neither within the coalition, and therefore domestically, nor on the foreign plane, does he want to open himself to attack.’

Teltschik saw this as a decisive moment for Kohl, at home and abroad. Chewing things over with Kohl’s inner circle that evening, with an eye on the ‘election marathon’, they concluded: ‘The high international reputation of the chancellor should be used more in domestic politics, and the German question could serve as a bridge to improve his image.’ The opposition should be confronted ‘head-on’.[87]

With all this still swirling around in Teltschik’s head, next day in the early-morning briefing with Kohl, they took in the implications of Monday’s mass demonstrations across East Germany with the unmissable new slogan ‘Wir sind ein Volk’. ‘The spark has ignited,’ he thought. He was also turning over in his mind a line from Augstein’s column, echoing a famous phrase from Adenauer, ‘der Schlüssel liegt im Kreml’ – the key to unity lies in the Kremlin.[88]

The first big item on his diary that day, 21 November, was a meeting at 10.30 a.m. with Nikolai Portugalov, on the staff of the Central Committee of the CPSU, with whom he had meetings fairly frequently. Although finding Portugalov rather foxy, even slimy, Teltschik respected his intellect and grasp of the German scene and always relished such opportunities to get news directly from Moscow and not via arch rival Genscher’s Foreign Ministry. On this occasion, however, Portugalov’s manner was unusually grave. He said he was conveying a message for the chancellor himself and then handed over a set of handwritten pages about Soviet thinking on the German question.

One paper was entitled ‘Official Position’. This mostly reaffirmed the pledges made by Kohl to Gorbachev about non-interference in GDR affairs, and included references to their 12 June summit. For now, it stressed, there ought to be a modus vivendi between the two German states, and envisaged Modrow’s proposal of a treaty union as the way forward. Otherwise the GDR would find itself existentially threatened. Significantly, the paper also declared bluntly that an all-European peace order was an ‘absolute prerequisite’ for resolving the German question.[89] Such a peace order would, of course, take years to establish but the document showed some signs of movement. It indicated that the idea of German–German rapprochement through a confederation was something the Soviets were already discussing at the Politburo level and were prepared to accept in principle. Indeed it echoed a message received in Bonn from the Moscow embassy that Shevardnadze, in utterances on 17 November, had rejected unilateral changes of the status quo but approved the idea of mutual peaceful changes within ‘an all-European consensus’.[90]

What really grabbed Teltschik’s attention, however, was the document headed ‘Unofficial Position’. This began, rather theatrically: ‘The hour has now come to free both West and East Germany from the relics of the past.’ After a few generalities about the immediate situation, Teltschik was struck by an almost languid proposition: ‘Let’s ask purely theoretically: if the Federal government envisaged pushing the question of “reunification” or “new unification” into practical politics …’ Developing this hypothesis, the paper said it would be necessary among other things to discuss the future alliance membership of both German states and, more specifically, how to extract West Germany from both NATO and the European Community. And, on the other side, what would be the consequences of a future German confederation within the EC? This, pondered the paper, could become the germ of a pan-European integration project, but, then, how could the Soviet Union conduct its trade within East Germany via Brussels and cope with EC import taxes and other regulations? The paper stated bluntly that, ‘in the context of the German question, the Soviet Union was already thinking about all possible alternatives, effectively thinking the “unthinkable”’. The paper ended by saying that Moscow could ‘in the medium term’ give a ‘green light’ to a German confederation, providing it was completely free from foreign nuclear weapons on its soil.[91]

Teltschik was electrified by what he read. This combination of blue-sky thinking and diplomatic flexibility was unprecedented and sensational. How to balance the ‘official’ and ‘unofficial’ papers was difficult but they clearly revealed that what Moscow was saying publicly was not necessarily a guide to what it might be willing to do. Rushing out of the meeting with Portugalov, Teltschik managed to have a word with Kohl before the chancellor’s next appointment. Their conversation was only brief but Teltschik had sown the seed in Kohl’s mind that, in view of the signals from Moscow, this was an opportune time to go onto the offensive. Kohl was reinforced in this opinion during the afternoon when his head of Chancellery, Rudolf Seiters, returned from a trip to East Berlin, full of news about the reforms under way and the talk about treaty union. Before he left for his trip to Strasbourg – to square François Mitterrand and the EC – Kohl told Teltschik to have something ready for his return. For the first time the chancellor talked about taking a ‘step by step’ approach on the German question. An overall political strategy was finally beginning to germinate.[92]

While Kohl was away, Teltschik was alarmed to learn, first, that Mitterrand was going to visit East Germany before Christmas and also intended to meet Gorbachev in Kiev on 6 December. Even more disconcerting, Paris had not informed Bonn in advance, before the news appeared on the wire services. What, Teltschik wondered, were the French and Soviets plotting? Yet news from Genscher, visiting Washington, was much more encouraging: the foreign minister had stressed the momentum of ‘unification from below’ and warned against any attempt at interference by the four victor powers. To his delight, at the State Department Baker had simply responded by stating America’s full support for German unity without any caveats. And so, with a green light from Washington, positive signals from Moscow, and endorsement in Strasbourg from Mitterrand and the EC, Teltschik found himself frantically planning a speech for Kohl – what would be a ten-point programme.[93]

In their evening meeting on Thursday 23 November, Kohl agreed with Teltschik that Deutschlandpolitik was the boss’s job (Chefsache) and that it was now time to lead opinion formation both in Germany during an election year and with regard to the Four Powers (i.e. the US, the USSR, France and the UK as Allied victors of the Second World War). Otherwise his government would be faced with a diktat.[94] It was also decided then that Kohl would present his proposals for achieving German unity at the earliest suitable opportunity, which would be five days later, on 28 November, during the Bundestag’s scheduled debate on the budget. So a small team of eight, led by Teltschik, worked around the clock in utmost secrecy to prepare a draft of the speech. On the afternoon of Saturday 25th this was taken by car from Bonn to the chancellor, who was at his home in Oggersheim.[95]

So obsessed was Kohl about possible leaks, or even being talked out of the speech by his coalition partner or his NATO allies, that everybody in the know was sworn to total silence. For the rest of the weekend, he worked over the draft with a handful of trusted friends and his wife Hannelore, scribbling corrections and queries on the draft and periodically calling Teltschik on the phone. Then, on Sunday night, he asked Hannelore to type up an amended version on her portable typewriter.[96]

As he finalised the draft, several key concerns were in Kohl’s mind. In the run-up to the Federal elections, he was keen to position himself as a true German patriot and the chancellor of unity – ahead of the Liberal Genscher who had been promoting his own ‘Europa-Plan’ and who, on the Prague balcony, had stolen the show from Kohl once before. Nor did he want to be overshadowed by the SPD’s great figurehead, the Altkanzler Brandt, who had nearly eclipsed Kohl in Berlin on 10 November and was now presenting unification as the culmination of his own Ostpolitik. It was also for electoral reasons that the chancellor decided to omit any mention of the Oder–Neisse line, even though he personally accepted it as Germany’s eastern border. After all, to remove the final obstacle in the way of his Warsaw trip he had supported the 8 November Bundestag resolution assuring the inviolability of Poland’s post-war borders.[97] But Kohl was cautious not to rub things in further with the expellees. He could not be sure that these traditionally CDU voters might not be seduced by Schönhuber’s Republikaner propaganda for the restoration of Germany’s 1937 borders.

Another of Kohl’s concerns was the language regarding the various stages of German rapprochement and merger on the way to a unified state. Instead of picking up on the Modrow term ‘confederation’, Kohl preferred the phrase ‘confederative structures’ so that nobody in the CDU should have reason to accuse him of setting in stone a Zweistaatlichkeit of two sovereign German states, as was apparently envisaged by Lafontaine, Bahr and other SPD rivals. At the same time, his own, looser phrase was intended to placate the Soviets and East German officials as well as GDR opposition groups, all of whom feared an overt Anschluss on the lines of 1938: the socialist GDR swallowed up by the capitalist FRG. In the long run, of course, Kohl did aspire to a full Bundestaat or ‘federation’, in other words a unified state. But he did not have any clear idea yet what this new Deutschland might look like, though he was sure it should be a Bundestaat, not the Staatenbund or ‘confederation’ that East German political elites imagined. And so, Kohl thought, by talking of eventual ‘unity’ his speech could both reflect and amplify the public mood in East Germany – the still diffuse but increasingly vocal yearning for unity expressed in recent protest slogans such as ‘Deutschland, einig Vaterland’ and ‘Wir sind ein Volk’. Indeed, offering Einheit (‘unity’) as the ultimate destination in his speech, he could present ‘from above’ a vision for East Germans ‘below’ that would make them look west.

There were so many ‘what ifs’ to keep in mind. Kohl could barely grasp all the implications. At this stage, he envisaged that the whole intricate process of rapprochement, closer cooperation and eventual unification would take a decade at least. But he was clear about the basic point. That weekend in Oggersheim, he was psyching himself up for a surprise offensive – to put German unity unequivocally on the international agenda.[98]

The eagle arises: Kohl presents his 10 Points to the Bundestag in Bonn

On Tuesday 28 November at 10 a.m. Helmut Kohl addressed the Bundestag. Instead of droning on, as expected, about the budget, Kohl dropped his bombshell of a ‘ten-point programme for overcoming the division of Germany and Europe’.[99] Kohl first talked about ‘immediate measures’ to deal with the ‘tide of refugees’ and the ‘new scale of tourist traffic’. Second, he promised further cooperation with the GDR in economic, scientific, technological and cultural affairs, and also, third, greatly expanded financial assistance if the GDR ‘definitively’ and ‘irreversibly’ embarked on a fundamental transformation of its political and economic system. To this end, he demanded that the SED give up its monopoly on power and pass a new law for ‘free, equal and secret elections’. Because the East German people clearly wanted economic and political freedom, he said he was unwilling to ‘stabilise conditions that have become untenable’. This was not so much negotiation; more like an ultimatum.

At the core of the speech (points four to eight), the chancellor presented his road map to unity – namely to ‘develop confederative structures between both states in Germany … with the aim of creating a federation’. All this would be done in conformity with the principles of the 1975 Helsinki Final Act, as part of a larger pan-European process: ‘The future architecture of Germany must fit in the future architecture of Europe.’ Kohl noted that his plan also accorded with Gorbachev’s idea of a Common European Home, as well as the Soviet leader’s concept of ‘freedom of choice’, in the sense of the ‘people’s right to self-determination’ as set out in the Final Act. In fact, Kohl reminded the Bundestag, he and Gorbachev had already expressed their agreement on these issues in their Joint Declaration of June 1989. But in the dramatically new circumstances of November the chancellor wanted to go further. He argued that the European Community should now reach out to the reform-oriented states of the Eastern bloc, including the GDR. ‘The EC must not end at the Elbe,’ he proclaimed. Opening up to the East would allow for ‘truly comprehensive European unification’. With this he neutralised and effectively absorbed Genscher’s ‘Europa-Plan’.

The central theme of Kohl’s speech was working towards a ‘condition of peace in Europe’ within which Germans could regain their unity. This, he made clear at the end, could not be separated from wider questions of international order. ‘Linking the German question to the development of Europe as a whole and to West–East relations’, he declared, ‘takes into account the interests of everyone involved’ and ‘paves the way for a peaceful and free development in Europe’. Speedy steps would be required towards disarmament and arms control. Here the West German chancellor was appealing directly to the superpowers and to his European allies.

What Kohl did not say is as revealing as what he did say. He omitted the Polish border, and he also made no reference to Germany’s membership of NATO, present or future, or to the Reserved Rights of the Allied powers on German soil. Even on his ultimate goal – German unity – Kohl was circumspect. ‘No one knows today what a reunified Germany will ultimately look like.’ But he kept affirming the German people’s ‘right’ to unity, and he stated emphatically: ‘That unity will come, however, when the people of Germany want it – of this, I am certain.’ The chancellor pointed expansively to the pattern of ‘growing together’ that was part of ‘the continuity of German history’. State organisation in Germany, he added ‘has almost always meant a confederation or a federation. We can certainly draw on these historical experiences.’ Kohl may have been looking back to the Bismarck era (the Norddeutscher Bund of 1867 and the Reich of 1871), but he was surely drawing on his own lifetime – the model of the post-war Federal Republic.[100]

The chancellor was relieved to have delivered the speech and exhilarated by its reception. In the lunch break he told aides that the reaction of MPs had been ‘almost ecstatic’. What about Genscher, Teltschik asked mischievously – aware that the foreign minister had been totally out of the loop. Kohl grinned. ‘Genscher came over to me and said: “Helmut, this was a great speech.”’[101]

For the first time Kohl’s plan started to clarify the relationship between the processes of German unification and European integration as being interwoven but separate. Neither should impede the other and they could take place at different speeds. German unification must be effected within the framework of the EC but the specific evolution and form of future inner German relations was up to the Germans to decide for themselves.

In sum, Kohl had proposed a blueprint for that new relationship between the two Germanies, and one clearly based on Bonn’s terms. Reflecting ‘the greater political self-assurance’ of the Federal Republic – ‘already widely recognised as a weighty economic power’, as Vernon Walters, the US ambassador to the FRG, put it – Kohl had presented the world with a fait accompli and set the agenda.[102] And as East Germany unravelled, far more rapidly than anybody had expected, other leaders now had to respond to what the chancellor had put on the table. Coming from a man who had been in essentially reactive mode for the previous three weeks, it was an extremely skilful demonstration of political leadership.

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What’s striking in retrospect is the lack of public attention devoted to Kohl’s speech internationally. This was, however, hardly surprising at the time given the drama that was beginning to unfold across Czechoslovakia. On the day Kohl addressed the Bundestag, the front page of the New York Times ran as its main headline ‘Millions of Czechoslovaks Increase Pressure on Party With 2-Hour General Strike’. A foretaste of Kohl’s speech was buried on page 14 stating that he would ‘call for a form of confederation’, mainly to dispel criticism that his reaction to the ‘tumultuous changes taking place in East Germany’ had been ‘passive and grounded in West German party politics’.[103] On Wednesday 29 November, Czechoslovakia was again the main news with a banner headline across the paper’s front page ‘Prague Party to Yield Some Cabinet Posts and Drop Insistence on Primacy in Society’. Kohl and his ‘confederation outline’ got a small box lower down the page.[104] Thereafter Germany disappeared from the Times’s front page for the rest of week, with Prague continuing to dominate the news, together with the weekend’s Soviet–American summit in Malta. Even in the Federal Republic, the story was seen as an essentially domestic issue. In any case from Thursday, all other news was eclipsed by the latest act of Baader–Meinhof terrorism, the shock killing of Kohl intimate, Alfred Herrhausen.[105]

Despite the lack of immediate public reaction, however, the ‘Ten Point’ plan was a ticking time bomb. Whatever Kohl might have hoped, his speech naturally opened him up to comment, mostly critical, from all the major powers. Because in his vision, as Ambassador Walters put it, ‘the German states, virtually alone, would plan their future’.[106] Now that the chancellor had gone out on a limb, he had to gear up for another round of international diplomacy to rebuff the criticism, and secure, if not acceptance, at least tolerance for his blueprint for German self-determination. This round would go on until the middle of December.

The first and most important person to be kept happy was Bush. The chancellor had sent the president a pre-emptive letter on the morning of his speech – the only advance warning he sent out. Kohl couched it as a steer on how the US president should handle Gorbachev at Malta but his lengthy missive offered a wide-ranging analysis of the revolutionary processes in Europe, the situation in the Soviet Union and the imperatives for arms reduction, both strategic and conventional. This was all a prelude to what was really on his mind, namely how Bush should discuss the German question at Malta. Kohl made a point of linking Gorbachev’s ‘freedom-of-choice policy’ in 1989 with America’s grand design in 1776 for ‘life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness’. He stressed that the current bid for emancipation was coming from the people themselves – Poles, Hungarians, Czechs as well as East Germans – and that this was no simple turn to the West but a historically significant movement for reform emanating from within each nation and its distinctive culture. With this statement he sought a neat way out of any Western ‘victory’ rhetoric while at the same time giving weight to the core theme of his letter, ‘self-determination’: so crucial for his approach to resolving the German question. Only then did the chancellor discuss unification – the longest element in his message – setting out his Ten Points. With an eye on the upcoming summit, Kohl explicitly asked Bush for his support, insisting that the superpowers must not simply sort out Germany over his head, like Roosevelt and Stalin in 1945. There should not, he told Bush, be ‘any parallel between Yalta and Malta’.[107]

Interestingly Egon Krenz also wrote to Bush about Kohl’s speech – a striking sign of the times in that he clearly realised that Moscow’s support would no longer be sufficient to ensure the GDR’s survival. Krenz warned of ‘nationalism’ and ‘a revival of Nazi ideas’ – clearly pointing the finger at Bonn – and asked the president to support the status quo, in other words the two German states as members of ‘different alliances’. Krenz never got a reply. Bush knew he was a nobody whose days in office were numbered.[108]

But the president picked up the phone next morning to talk to Kohl. The White House had immediately grasped the implications of the Ten-Point Plan, seeing it as a strategic move in international politics rather than a mere tactical game on the domestic plane. Scowcroft was concerned about Kohl’s bold, unilateral step but Bush, though surprised, was not particularly worried. He knew that the chancellor could not pursue unification on his own and doubted that Kohl would want to alienate his closest ally. ‘I was certain he would consult us before going further,’ Bush reflected later. ‘He needed us.’[109]

On 29 November president and chancellor talked for thirty minutes. First, they discussed arrangements for a meeting as ‘personal friends’ straight after Malta, from which it was agreed to exclude Genscher. Kohl would bring only his unification mastermind Teltschik – a decision that once more underlined the institutional and personal rivalry between the Chancellery and the Foreign Ministry. Then Kohl explained in more detail how he hoped to proceed towards unification. Despite the display of solidarity at Strasbourg a week before, the chancellor remained concerned about the extent of Mitterrand’s support. He also made clear his reliance on the United States. ‘History left us with good cards in our hands,’ he told Bush. ‘I hope with the cooperation of our American friends we can play them well.’ The president, as usual, did not waste words. ‘I am very supportive of your general approach. I note your stress on stability. We feel the same way. Stability is the key word. We have tried to do nothing that would force a reaction by the USSR.’ Bush went on to amplify this latter point. He recognised that the Soviet economy was doing much worse than he had previously realised, yet Shevardnadze had stated proudly that the Soviets did not want America to ‘bail us out’. So help would have to be offered ‘in a sensitive way’. But Bush and Kohl agreed that Western aid would be needed because ‘we want him to succeed’. The chancellor was gratified by the conversation, thanking Bush for his ‘good words’ – ‘Germans East and West are listening very carefully. Every word of sympathy for self-determination and unity is very important now.’[110]

Commenting on the phone call to the press straight afterwards, Bush said: ‘I feel comfortable. I think we’re on track.’ Having been mocked when vice president for his reluctance to indulge in what he had called the ‘vision thing’, he was asked about how he saw Europe’s future over the next five or ten years.[111] The president was now sufficiently relaxed to joke: ‘In terms of the “vision thing”, the aspirations, I spelled it out in little-noted speeches last spring and summer, which I would like everyone to go back and reread. And I’ll have a quiz on it.’ When the laughter died down, Bush continued, ‘You’ll see in there some of the “vision thing” – a Europe whole and free.’ And, he added, ‘I think a Europe whole and free is less vision than perhaps reality.’ But the president had to admit: ‘How we get there and what that means and when the German question is resolved and all of these things – I can’t answer more definitely.’[112]

The mood was much less positive in Moscow. Kohl was moving too fast and planning Europe’s future ‘without taking the view of the other Germany at all into account’, declared Vadim Zagladin, one of Gorbachev’s advisers. The Soviet leader – on a state visit in Rome – told Italian premier Giulio Andreotti bluntly that ‘two Germanies remained the reality’ and that ‘the reunification of FRG and GDR was no topical issue’. Kohl, he said, was ‘playing the revanchist tune for the forthcoming elections’. Later in the press conference, Gorbachev added, ‘Let history decide. It is not necessary to initiate something or push forward half-baked processes.’[113] There was also a backlash in West European capitals. Thatcher let Kohl know in no uncertain terms that unification was ‘not on the agenda’ and French diplomats publicly expressed strong reservations about the chancellor’s ‘precipitate’ action.[114]

Kohl, it seemed, had unleashed a firestorm and the man who had to do the firefighting was Genscher. The foreign minister had been totally blindsided just a few days before when the chancellor dropped his ‘Ten Point’ bombshell. Obliged to grin and bear it, Genscher congratulated Kohl through gritted teeth in the Bundestag and then told the world that the policy laid out in the Ten Points represented nothing less than ‘the continuity of our foreign, security and Deutschland policies’. Of course, Genscher resented that he had been sidelined as Kohl’s coalition partner.[115] Yet he had done the same to Kohl on the Prague balcony a few months before. And they had different instincts about how unification should be achieved – Kohl favouring the Adenauer line of Westbindung, drawing East Germany into the Federal Republic and into the Western alliance, whereas Genscher was more inclined to extending Ostpolitik into a full pan-European architecture. But despite their rivalry, despite their differences on means, the two men fundamentally agreed on ends, namely German unity. For Genscher, this was a matter of both head and heart. That’s why, swallowing his pride, he was willing to play firefighter and try to bring London, Paris and Moscow onside.

Technically, of course, the foreign minister did not have responsibility for Deutschlandpolitik because inner-German relations did not constitute ‘foreign’ policy. Nevertheless, Genscher was now drawn fully into the unification issue because of the external complications it engendered – relations with the FRG’s neighbours, Four Powers’ rights, the prerogatives of the superpowers, the domain of international organisations as well as questions of territory and security. As Genscher saw things, it was his duty to build international consensus and pave the way to unity.

Moscow would obviously be the most problematic obstacle, requiring the greatest amount of persuasion. What’s more, the Soviets held strong cards: they were a nuclear superpower, one of the Four Powers and had more than half a million troops and dependants stationed in the GDR. This gave the Kremlin several options. It could press for a pan-European structure. Or offer Germany unity for neutrality, as Stalin tried in 1952. It could simply say nyet to unity, or decide to use force to hold the GDR in place. But were things really secure in the Kremlin? Would perestroika be reversed? What about the deteriorating economy? Could secessionist demands from the republics be contained? Might there even be a coup?

And so, a week later, on 5 December Genscher flew into the Soviet capital – on a dark, gloomy afternoon in the middle of a snowstorm. As his motorcade crawled into the city, it passed another heading in the opposite direction towards the airport. This was Krenz, Modrow and other SED dignitaries who had just finished their own business in the Kremlin. Genscher speculated wryly that the Soviets had orchestrated events so as to avoid an awkward German–German encounter in the airport.[116]

Tension was therefore already in the air. And what followed proved to be the ‘most disagreeable encounter’ with the Soviets that Genscher could ever remember. So ill-tempered was his meeting with Gorbachev that he later asked the German notetaker to write up the meeting in a somewhat more emollient tone.[117] ‘Never before and never afterwards have I experienced Gorbachev so upset and so bitter,’ Genscher remarked in his memoirs. The Soviet leader was unable to restrain his anger at Kohl’s lack of consultation. According to Chernyaev he had been fuming for days, though this may have been due to pressures at home as well as the worsening situation in Eastern Europe at large. Whatever was going on in Gorbachev’s mind, Genscher was a convenient target for his wrath. In fact, Genscher felt, at times Gorbachev was so furious that it was simply impossible to discuss important issues with any seriousness.[118]

Genscher, however, was not flustered and loyally defended the chancellor’s policies. He underlined that Germany would never ‘go it alone’, that the Federal Republic was firmly tied into the EC and CSCE (i.e. the Helsinki Final Act), and that the ‘growing together of the two German states’ would have to be fitted into these frameworks. He also affirmed Bonn’s Politik der Verantwortung (‘politics of responsibility’) and that the FRG adhered to its treaty commitments, not least on the Polish border. This, he said, was important to stress in the light of Germany’s ‘history, its geopolitical position and the size of its population’. Gorbachev let him say his piece but then retorted angrily that Kohl’s Ten Points were wholly ‘irresponsible’ and a grave ‘political mistake’ which presented an ‘ultimatum’ to the East German government; Kohl was trying to prescribe a particular ‘internal order’ for the GDR, a sovereign state. ‘Even Hitler didn’t allow himself anything like that!’ Shevardnadze piped up.

By now seething, Gorbachev denounced Kohl’s programme as ‘genuine revanchism’, delivered as an ‘address to subjects’ and nothing less than a ‘funeral’ of the European process. He was getting into his stride. The Ten Points were ‘irresponsible’. German policy was in a total ‘mess’ (Wirrwarr). ‘The Germans are such an emotional people.’ Don’t forget, he added, ‘where headless politics had led in the past’.

Genscher cut in: ‘We know our historic mistakes and have no intention of repeating them.’

‘You,’ said Gorbachev, ‘had a direct role in developing Ostpolitik. Now you are endangering all this,’ just for the sake of ‘election battles’. He kept criticising Kohl for ‘running around’ and ‘taking hasty actions’ which ‘undermined the pan-European process that had been laboriously developed’.

Gorbachev also tried to drive a wedge between Genscher and Kohl. ‘By the way, Herr Genscher, it seems to me that you only found out about the Ten Points in the Bundestag speech.’

Genscher admitted that this was true but added ‘It’s our internal affair. We resolve this ourselves.’

Well, said Gorbachev drily, ‘you can see for yourself that your “internal affairs” has annoyed everybody else’.

The Soviet leader ended with something like an olive branch. ‘Don’t take everything I said personally, Herr Genscher. You know that we have a different relationship to you than to others.’ The implication seemed clear: Genscher was not Kohl. The foreign minister was getting it in the neck because the chancellor was not present. Gorbachev felt frankly betrayed by Kohl. It was a far cry from their balmy June evening on the banks of the Rhine. Relations would clearly take time and effort to repair.[119]

Although Gorbachev and the Soviet Union were the main problem, Kohl and Genscher faced problems on their Western front as well. And in London there was a leader as fiery as Gorbachev and at least as critical of any moves towards German unification – not least because Margaret Thatcher was hung up on history. Born in 1925 and raised in the provincial Lincolnshire town of Grantham, she had come of age during Hitler’s war, amid the mythology of Britain’s ‘finest hour’. This permanently coloured her view of post-war Germany. Trained first as a research chemist and as a barrister, she had entered Parliament as a Tory MP in 1959 at the height of the Cold War and became prime minister twenty years later, just as détente was freezing over. Since then, her decade in power had been marked by a radical programme of economic liberalisation and a forceful nationalism for which she gained (and relished) the nickname ‘Iron Lady’.

Her foreign policy was traditional, built around ideas of a balance of power. Thatcher was passionate about the ‘special relationship’, assiduously cultivating Ronald Reagan. She was equally ardent about nuclear deterrence, advocating the modernisation of NATO’s theatre nuclear forces and pushing through the deployment of cruise missiles despite fierce opposition from the left. She was as convinced as Reagan that communism was an ideology of the past and therefore endorsed Gorbachev’s reform policies, though keeping a wary eye on their consequences for Soviet power. Within Europe she was a ferocious critic of deeper economic and political integration, especially the Delors Plan, although she did sign up enthusiastically to the single market in 1986. And as the Soviet bloc crumbled in 1989, her biggest fear was that a new German hegemon could destroy the European equilibrium, painfully constructed over four decades. The combination of a single currency and a unified, sovereign Germany in the centre of Europe would be simply ‘intolerable’, she told Mitterrand on 1 September. She had, she said, ‘read much on the history of Germany during her vacation and was very disturbed’.[120] Three weeks later, in similar vein, she informed Gorbachev that ‘although NATO traditionally made statements supporting Germany’s aspirations to be reunited, in practice we would not welcome it at all’.[121] In other words, even before the Wall had fallen, she was clearly ‘on the warpath’ against German unity.[122]

Thatcher seemed to object to pretty much everything, and didn’t hide it. Yet she had little to offer in the way of practical alternatives. She longed to see the end of communism but dreaded the effect this might have on the European power balance. When Genscher visited her on the day after Kohl’s speech, she worried about Gorbachev’s fate. If Germany unified, the Soviet leader fell and the Warsaw Pact disintegrated, what then? It was imperative, she lectured Genscher, to first develop democratic structures in Eastern Europe. She insisted that political freedom in Eastern Europe would only be sustainable if economic liberalisation were properly implemented, and blamed Gorbachev for being too fixated with repairing socialism rather than ditching it. The changes now under way in Eastern Europe, geared towards freedom and democracy, must take place against a ‘stable background’. In other words, she said, ‘one should leave the other things as they are’. History had shown that Central Europe’s problems always started with minority issues; if one tinkered with borders, everything would unravel. That was how the First World War had broken out. Ten days ago in Paris, she asserted, unification and borders had not been on the table; now Kohl’s speech had shaken all the foundations.

Genscher tried to calm her down by refocusing on the topic of conventional arms-reduction talks to stabilise the heart of Europe. He, of course, wanted to persuade the Soviets to withdraw their troops from eastern Germany. But Thatcher jumped on that. She didn’t want Soviet troop withdrawals if that meant the Americans would pull out as well. For her, it was not just a question of strategic balance or European security, the troop question was also about keeping the Germans under control.[123]

Britain’s Foreign Secretary Douglas Hurd sat in on the whole meeting, but hardly said a word. He had little opportunity whenever Thatcher went on the rampage. But the Foreign and Commonwealth Office (FCO) was genuinely concerned about the line Thatcher was taking.[124] An internal FCO memo on the day of Genscher’s visit acknowledged that Germans ‘see our position as being outside the mainstream’. As indeed did Washington: the president was ‘taking his distance from us on the Warsaw Pact and on German reunification’. As for Thatcher’s obsession with Gorbachev’s political fragility, the FCO considered this greatly exaggerated because Gorbachev himself was ‘not intervening to stop communism being swept away in Eastern Europe’. So there was a real danger that ‘we are being plus royaliste que le roi’. And they warned against a status quo policy and being left behind by not being seen to share Bush’s vision of a Europe ‘whole and free’. If, in extremis, the PM decided to block German unification by asserting Britain’s position as one of the four victor powers, ‘we should not count on carrying anyone else with us’.[125]

Thatcher was simply not on the same page as her diplomats. Not only was she blunt with Genscher, she did not hesitate to speak out against Kohl, whom she disliked personally – a fat, sausage-munching, Teutonic stereotype – as well as resenting him as the embodiment of the colossus of Europe.[126]

The British prime minister was the most outspoken Western critic of the Ten Points but Genscher also had difficulties with the French president. Mitterrand was shocked at being left in the dark by Kohl – especially after their intense discussions throughout November, in Bonn, Paris and Strasbourg. Kohl had even written to him at length on the 27th about the future of economic and monetary union without dropping a hint of what he would announce next day about unification. Nevertheless, biting his tongue, Mitterrand told the press in Athens where he was on a state visit, that although he expected the Four Powers to be kept in the loop by Bonn, the German desire for unity was ‘legitimate’ and that he had no intention of opposing their aspirations. What’s more, he said, he trusted the Germans to make sure that the other European peoples would not be confronted by German faits accomplis made in secret.[127]

When Mitterrand met Genscher in the Elysée Palace, their forty-five-minute encounter was polite but rather distant. Invited to speak first, Genscher highlighted his credentials as a European. He insisted that the FRG was fully committed to EC integration and willing to engage with the East. He believed that the destiny of Germany must be tied to the destiny of Europe. European reunification could not happen without German reunification. Nor did he want the dynamism of the EC’s integration process to be left behind because of the energy devoted to reshaping East–West relations. And NATO, too, should get engaged – not least because America’s presence in Europe and on German soil was an ‘existential necessity’.[128]

Mitterrand heard him out but then delivered his own lecture, expressed with mounting intensity, as he reflected on his personal odyssey through two world wars. Born in 1916 – the year of the Franco-German slaughterhouse at Verdun – Mitterrand was himself a veteran of 1940. Like any patriotic Frenchman, he had historical obsessions about Germany. But, like most of France’s post-war leadership, especially since the Adenauer–de Gaulle entente of 1963, he was deeply committed to Franco-German reconciliation, to fostering the ‘special relationship’ between Paris and Bonn and to the leading role of their two countries in European integration.[129] Although a socialist and therefore ideologically at odds with the Christian Democrat chancellor, he and Kohl had become good friends – famously standing hand in hand in 1984 at the Verdun memorial. Despite such public displays of friendship, however, Mitterrand remained ambivalent about the German state.[130]

German unity looked fine as long as it remained a distant prospect. Mitterrand had told Thatcher in September that he was less alarmed than she, not only because he believed that the EC, and specifically the single currency, would act as a restraint, but also because he did not envisage German unification happening quickly. Gorbachev, he told her confidently, would never accept a united Germany in NATO and Washington would never tolerate the FRG leaving the Alliance: ‘Alors, ne nous inquiétons pas: disons qu’elle se fera quand les Allemands le décideront, mais en sachant que les deux Grands nous en protégeront’ (‘So let’s not worry: let’s say it will happen when the Germans decide, but in the knowledge that the two superpowers will protect us from them’).[131]

But now, Mitterrand told Genscher, things had clearly moved on. With Europe in flux, old territorial questions had been awakened. One could not even rule out a return to 1913, and a world on the brink of war. It was imperative that unification, whenever it occurred, should be caught in the safety net of an even more consolidated European Community. If that integration process was disrupted he feared that the continent might return to days of alliance politics. And he made clear to Genscher that he saw Kohl as being disruptive, acting as the ‘brake’ on EMU. Up to now, he added, the Federal Republic had always been a motor in the European unification project. Now it was stalling. And if Germany and France did not see eye to eye at the Strasbourg summit in December, others would profit. Thatcher would not only block any progress on Europe but would also gang up with others against German unity.

Unlike Thatcher, Mitterrand accepted that German unity was unstoppable and, indeed, justifiable. But he insisted that this unstoppable process must be properly integrated within the EC project. ‘Europe’ not only helped absorb his ingrained suspicions of the Germans, he also felt it gave him leverage over Bonn: that was the benefit of subsuming the Deutschmark in the single currency. Whereas Thatcher, who was far more Germanophobe, had no such weapons in her armoury: she loathed the European project and abhorred a single currency. Indeed she was increasingly on the margins of European politics. Not that this worried the British prime minister. Indeed she seemed to love it when she was in a minority, convinced of her own rectitude.[132]

‘Helmut! Can we start?’ – ‘I’m coming, I’m coming!’: Priorities at the European Council in Strasbourg

This was the atmosphere in which the EC leaders gathered in Strasbourg on 8–9 December. Now Kohl, not Genscher, had to face the music – and he didn’t enjoy it. As he wrote later in his memoirs, he could not remember such a ‘tense’ and ‘unfriendly’ meeting. It was like being in court.[133] Unification was on everyone’s mind. Long-standing colleagues who had appeared so trusting of the FRG’s European-ness, now seemed terrified that Bonn would go its own way – like a train that was suddenly moving faster and faster and might go in a totally different direction from what anyone had expected. Kohl felt that the room was full of questions: was he still trustworthy? Was the FRG still a reliable partner? Would the Germans remain loyal to the West? Only the leaders of Spain and Ireland embraced the idea of German unification wholeheartedly. Kohl felt Belgium and Luxembourg would not cause problems. But everyone else had their fears and did not conceal them. Giulio Andreotti of Italy openly warned of ‘pan-Germanism’; even Kohl’s fellow Christian Democrat, Ruud Lubbers of the Netherlands, could not hide his distaste for Germany’s unification ambitions.[134]

But it was Thatcher who really got under Kohl’s skin. Her hobby horse throughout the two days was ‘inviolability of borders’. She brought it up in the first working meeting, and Kohl was greatly irritated because he sensed that her target was not Poland’s western border but the divide between East and West Germany. Over dinner that evening, haggling over the wording of the summit communiqué, Thatcher even threatened to veto the whole thing if the CSCE principle of ‘inviolability of borders’ was not explicitly spelled out. Kohl again lost his temper, angrily reminding her that EC heads of government had on numerous occasions affirmed what she was now questioning: German unification through self-determination according to the Helsinki Final Act. Thatcher erupted: ‘We have beaten the Germans twice! And now they’re back again!’ Kohl bit his lip. He knew she was saying blatantly what many others around the table thought.[135]

He was particularly sensitive because he knew Thatcher and Mitterrand had held their own tête-à-tête earlier in the day. What he did not know was that during the meeting, she pulled out of her famous handbag two maps showing Germany’s borders in 1937 and 1945. She pointed to Silesia, Pomerania and East Prussia: ‘They will take all of this, and Czechoslovakia.’ Mitterrand played along with her at times – for instance saying that ‘we must create special relations between France and Great Britain just as in 1913 and 1938’ – but he also stated calmly that unification could not be prevented, adding ‘we must discuss with the Germans and respect the treaties’ that had affirmed the principle of unification. But Thatcher would have none of it: ‘If Germany controls events, she will get Eastern Europe in her power, just as Japan has done in the Pacific, and that will be unacceptable from our point of view. The others must join together to avoid it.’[136]

But they didn’t. When the communiqué was published it was clear that France and Germany had stuck together, firmly committed to both monetary union and German unification. What’s more, the others who had griped were all now on board.

On monetary union, the EC 12 ignored vehement objections from Thatcher, and took a new and important step towards creating a central bank and a common currency. They agreed to call a special intergovernmental conference in December 1990 – after completing closer coordination of economic policies under the Delors Report’s stage 1, scheduled for July, and getting through the FRG elections (to satisfy Kohl). Clearly the recent upheavals in Eastern Europe had added impetus to economic integration. Mitterrand argued that the Community needed to be strengthened to face the challenge of helping the ‘emerging democracies of Eastern Europe as they move toward greater freedom and to handle the growing prospect of German reunification’. This French-led consensus left Thatcher in her familiar position as the sole opponent of accelerated integration, extending also to her refusal to sign a Community Charter of Social Rights that everyone else happily approved. Its broad endorsement of labour, welfare and other workers’ rights was supported as an important counterweight to the strongly pro-business orientation of much of the integration agenda.[137]

In a separate statement, EC leaders also formally endorsed the idea of a single German state, but they attached some conditions which were intended to ensure that German unity did not cause European instability. ‘We seek the strengthening of the state of peace in Europe in which the German people will regain its unity through free self-determination. This process should take place peacefully and democratically, in full respect of the relevant agreements and treaties and of all the principles defined by the Helsinki Final Act, in a context of dialogue and East–West cooperation. It also has to be placed in the perspective of European integration.’ In other words, Western integration and pan-European security, underwritten by the United States, were integral to any process of German unification.

The EC statement did not ignore their ‘common responsibility’ for closer cooperation with the USSR and Eastern Europe in what was called ‘this decisive phase in the history of Europe’. In particular, it stressed the EC’s determination to support economic reform in these countries. There was also an affirmation of the European Community’s future role: ‘It remains the cornerstone of a new European architecture and, in its will to openness, a mooring for a future European equilibrium.’[138]

Kohl was enormously relieved. Despite all the arguments, his Ten Point gamble had paid off. With Europe and America fully behind him,[139] it seemed that he was now free to develop Deutschlandpolitik in the way he wanted.

*

As soon as he got back to Bonn, Kohl started planning the details of his meeting with Hans Modrow in Dresden, which was scheduled for 19 December. But no West German chancellor could take anything for granted. That seemed to be the lesson of forty years of history – with the FRG always beholden to the occupying powers, always bearing the burden of the Hitler era, always edgy about its lack of sovereignty.

One worry was the French announcement on 22 November that Mitterrand would visit the GDR on 20 December. Why now? Ostensibly his trip was simply to reciprocate Honecker’s visit to Paris in January 1988 but Kohl was aggrieved that he – the most interested party – was being upstaged. At a deeper level, he felt that the French president was being two-faced – professing support for Kohl and the drive for unity yet apparently cultivating a failing state for France’s own benefit. Moreover, on 6 December Mitterrand had met Gorbachev in Kiev to talk over Germany and Eastern Europe. Getting to the GDR ahead of Mitterrand was therefore the main reason for fixing the Kohl–Modrow meeting for the day before.[140]

On 8 December, there was another bombshell. Kohl learned that the ambassadors of the Four Powers were going to meet in Berlin to discuss the current situation. And not merely in Berlin but in the Allied Kommandatura – notorious to Germans as the centre of the occupation regime of the 1940s and a venue not used since 1971 when the Quadripartite Agreement on access to the city had been signed. The Soviets, apparently taking advantage of the EC summit, called for the discussion to be held on 11 December, just three days later. Asked if Bonn would be displeased about the meeting, a senior French official retorted: ‘That is the point of holding it.’ The Kohl government was indeed furious; its anger subsided only when the Americans promised to make sure that the agenda was limited to Berlin rather than straddling the German question as a whole. On the day itself, robust diplomacy by the Americans was required to kill off this rather crude Russian ploy to give the Four Powers a formalised role in deciding the German question.[141]

Coming just a few days after Gorbachev’s explosion to Genscher, the Soviet powerplay at the Kommandatura persuaded the chancellor that he had to make a determined effort to explain his Ten Points to Gorbachev and disarm Soviet criticism. He instructed Teltschik to draft a personal letter to the Soviet leader, eventually running to eleven typescript pages laying out a very carefully constructed argument.

In it Kohl explained that his motivation for the Ten Points had been to stop reacting and running after events, and instead to begin shaping future policies. But he also insisted that his speech was couched, and must be understood, within the wider international context. He referred specifically to the ‘parallel and mutually reinforcing’ process of East–West rapprochement as evidenced at Malta, closer EC integration as agreed in Strasbourg, and the likely shifts of the existing military alliances into more political forms and what he hoped would be the evolution of the CSCE process via a follow-up conference (Helsinki II). In these various processes, the chancellor emphasised, his pathway to unity would be embedded. He added that there was no ‘strict timetable’, nor had he set out any preconditions – as Gorbachev wrongly alleged. Rather the speech gave the GDR options and presented a gradual, step-by-step approach that offered a way to weave together a multitude of political processes. Kohl then summarised the ten points in detail before stating at the end of the letter that he sought to overcome the division of both Germany and Europe ‘organically’. There was no reason, he insisted, for Gorbachev to fear any German attempts at ‘going it alone’ (Alleingänge) or ‘special paths’ (Sonderwege), nor any ‘backward-looking nationalism’. In sum, declared Kohl, ‘the future of all Germans is Europe’. He argued that they were now at a ‘historical turning point for Europe and the whole world in which political leaders would be tested as to whether and how they had cooperatively addressed the problems’. In this spirit, he proposed that the two of them should discuss the situation face-to-face, and offered to meet Gorbachev wherever he wanted.[142]

This weighty letter, however, appeared to have no effect. On 18 December, the evening before his visit to Dresden, the chancellor received a letter from Gorbachev. Kohl assumed this would be a reply but Gorbachev addressed other issues.[143] In a brusque two pages the Soviet leader referred only to the Genscher visit and reiterated the USSR’s view that the Ten Points were virtually an ‘ultimatum’. Like the GDR, he said, the Soviets viewed this approach as ‘unacceptable’ and a violation of the Helsinki accords and also of agreements made in the current year. Finally, referring to his speech to the Central Committee on 9 December, Gorbachev highlighted the GDR’s Warsaw Pact membership and East Berlin’s status as a ‘strategic ally’ of the USSR, and he asserted that the Soviet Union would do anything to ‘neutralise’ all interference in East German affairs.[144]

Having heard much of this already via Genscher, Kohl was not seriously put out. What the letter seemed to show, he felt, was that Gorbachev was under the spell of Hans Modrow’s visit to Moscow on 4–5 December. Having not himself visited East Germany since the 7 October celebrations, the Soviet leader had no first-hand feeling of the situation or the popular mood. Taking his cue from Modrow – with his talk of reformed communism, continued East German independence, and a treaty community with the FRG – perhaps the Soviet leader was anxious to demonstrate his commitment to the GDR. That, at any rate, was the most positive reading of Gorbachev’s letter. A more pessimistic take was to focus on the Kremlin leadership’s rejection of the ‘tempo and finality’ of the German–German march toward unity and Gorbachev’s evident concern for ‘the geopolitical and strategic repercussions of this process for the Soviet Union itself’.[145]

The battle of the letters strengthened Kohl’s determination to exploit the window of opportunity before Christmas – to take the measure of Modrow and, at last, to immerse himself in East Germany’s revolution. Ironically, the West German chancellor had since the fall of the Wall travelled to West Berlin, Poland, France and most recently Hungary – but not to the GDR itself. This omission was finally rectified on the morning of 19 December when Kohl, Teltschik and a small entourage from the Chancellery landed in Dresden. Foreign Minister Genscher was not on board.

Kohl was a tactile politician, with keen antennae for public moods. He may have talked with passion about German unity to the Bundestag in Bonn but – as he admitted in his memoirs – it was when he encountered the cheering crowd at Dresden airport on that icy Tuesday morning that he really got the point. ‘There were thousands of people waiting amid a sea of black, red, and gold flags,’ Kohl recalled. ‘It suddenly became clear to me: this regime is finished. Unification is coming!’ As they descended the stairs onto the tarmac, there was another telltale sign: an ashen-faced Modrow gazing up at them with a ‘strained’ expression. Kohl turned round and murmured: ‘That’s it. It’s in the bag.’[146]

The leaders of the two Germanies sat next to each other in the car as they were driven at a snail’s pace into the city. They made small talk about their upbringing: Modrow, unmoving and self-conscious, went on about his working-class background and how he had risen from being a trained locksmith to completing an economics degree at the Humboldt University in Berlin. But Kohl was not really listening. His eyes were on the crowd lining the streets. He could barely believe what he saw. Nor could Teltschik, who captured the scenes in his diary: ‘whole workforces had come out of their factories – still wearing their blue overalls, women, children, entire school classes, amazingly many young people. They were clapping, waving big white cloths, laughing, thoroughly enjoying themselves. Some were simply standing there, crying. Joy, hope, expectation radiated from their faces – but also worry, uncertainty, doubt.’ In front of the Hotel Bellevue, where the formal talks were to take place, thousands more young people had congregated shouting ‘Helmut! Helmut!’ Some held banners proclaiming ‘Keine Gewalt’ (‘No violence’).[147]

Kohl and his aides felt exhilarated. During a brief pit stop in the hotel everyone had to unburden their feelings. They knew it was a ‘great day’, a ‘historical day’, an ‘experience that cannot be repeated’. After all that, the formal meetings were something of an anticlimax. The East German premier – stressed out, eyes down – went through his party piece about the need for economic aid and the reality of two German states – none of which particularly moved Kohl. When Modrow proposed that the Germanies first create a ‘community of treaties’ and then talk about what to do next ‘in about one or two years’, Kohl was incredulous. Demanding a frank and realistic talk about cooperation, he told Modrow there was no way he was coming up with DM 15 billion, nor would he allow any money, of whatever sum, to be designated by the historically loaded term ‘Lastenausgleich’ (‘compensation’).

By the end of the forty-five minutes a shaken Modrow realised that he had to operate on Kohl’s terms. That meant dropping his demand that the Joint Declaration they were going to sign should refer to a ‘treaty community originated by two sovereign states’. The chancellor totally rejected the language of ‘two states’ because that risked cementing the status quo and propping up the mere shell of an East German state. Instead, he focused on the German people and their exercise of the right to self-determination. By now Kohl was quite clear in his mind about what East Germans wanted: a single, unified Deutschland.[148]

Who’s boss? Kohl with Modrow in Dresden

After a rather stiff lunch and a press conference with journalists, the chancellor walked to the ruins of the Frauenkirche – destroyed in the Allied firebombing in 1945. In his memoirs Kohl claimed he had spoken to the crowd spontaneously, but in fact a speech had been prepared very carefully with Teltschik the night before. Amid the blackened stones of the eighteenth-century church – which had become a ‘memorial against war’ and a prime site in 1989 for anti-regime protests – Kohl climbed on a temporary wooden podium in the darkening winter evening. He looked out at a crowd of some 10,000. Many were waving banners and placards proclaiming such slogans as ‘Kohl, Kanzler der Deutschen’ (‘Kohl, Chancellor of the Germans’), ‘Wir sind ein Volk’ (‘We are one people’) and ‘Einheit jetzt’ (‘Unity now’).[149] But, presumably, blending into the mass of people were operatives of the Stasi and the Soviet security services – maybe even the KGB’s special agent in Dresden, Vladimir Putin.

His throat tight with emotion, the chancellor began slowly, feeling the weight of expectation. He conveyed warm regards to the people of Dresden from their fellow citizens in the Federal Republic. Exultant cheers. He gestured to show he had more to say. It got very quiet. Kohl then talked about peace, self-determination and free elections. He said a bit about his meeting with Modrow and talked of future economic cooperation and the development of confederative structures, and then moved to his climax. ‘Let me also say on this square, which is so rich in history, that my goal – should the historical hour permit it – remains the unity of our nation.’ Thunderous applause. ‘And, dear friends, I know that we can achieve this goal and that the hour will come when we will work together towards it, provided that we do it with reason and sound judgement and a sense for what is possible.’

Trying to calm the surging emotions, Kohl proceeded to speak matter-of-factly about the long and difficult path to this common future, echoing lines he had used in West Berlin the day after the fall of the Wall. ‘We, the Germans, do not live alone in Europe and in the world. One look at a map will show that everything that changes here will have an effect on all of our neighbours, those in the East and those in the West … The house of Germany, our house, must be built under a European roof. That must be the goal of our policies.’ He concluded: ‘Christmas is the festival of the family and friends. Particularly now, in these days, we are beginning to see ourselves again as a German family … From here in Dresden, I send my greetings to all our compatriots in the GDR and the Federal Republic of Germany … God bless our German fatherland!’

By the time Kohl ended, the people felt serene – mesmerised by the moment. No one made any move to leave the square. Then an elderly woman climbed onto the podium, embraced him and, starting to cry, said quietly: ‘We all thank you!’[150]

That night and next morning Kohl talked with Protestant and Catholic clergy from the GDR and leaders of the newly formed opposition parties.[151] All his meetings in Dresden simply proved to Kohl that the GDR elites were in denial about the desires of the broader public. The crowds in Dresden did not want a modernised GDR standing alone, as touted by the opposition, or an update of the old regime, led by Modrow and the renamed communists (PDS) in some kind of confederation with the FRG. Twenty-four hours amid the people of Dresden convinced the West German chancellor that his Ten-Point Plan was already becoming out of date. In what was now a race against time, those ‘new confederative structures’ he had been advocating were too ponderous and would take too long. The chancellor no longer had any inclination to support the Modrow government – clearly a flimsy, transitional operation that lacked any kind of democratic legitimacy and was merely trying to save a sinking ship from going under fast.[152]

Kohl could suddenly see a window of opportunity opening up in the midst of crisis. The cheers of the East German crowds spurred him on and served as the justification for dramatic action. As would-be driver of the unification train, he was now ready to move the acceleration lever up several notches. And he was also energised by the overwhelmingly positive reception in the media for his Dresden visit – both at home and abroad. The common theme next day was that a West German chancellor had laid the foundation for unification, and had done so on East German soil.[153]

Dresden was the beginning of a veritable sea change in public perceptions of Kohl. He had bonded with the people. He had addressed the East Germans repeatedly as ‘dear friends’. He had clearly relished being bathed in the adulation of the masses. The chants of ‘Helmut! Helmut!’ revealed the familiarity East Germans had suddenly come to feel for the West German leader. With all this shown live on TV in both Germanies, the chancellor and this mood of exuberant patriotism flooded into German living rooms from Berlin to Cologne, from Rostock to Munich.[154]

There were, of course, similar cheers for Willy Brandt at an SDP rally in the GDR city of Magdeburg on the same day. Hans-Dietrich Genscher was also greeted enthusiastically when he returned to East Germany to speak in his home town, Halle, and in Leipzig on 17 December.[155] But Kohl in Dresden outshone both of them by miles. Rarely had the chancellor – often the butt of ridicule as a clumsy provincial – experienced such an ecstatic reaction in his own West Germany. With national elections in the FRG now less than a year away and German unity looming as the dominant issue, Dresden was the best public-relations coup that the chancellor could have dreamed of.

Nor was there much international competition. On 19 December, the same day Kohl spoke in Dresden, Eduard Shevardnadze became the first Soviet foreign minister to enter the precincts of NATO[156] – another symbolic occasion in the endgame of the Cold War. On the 20th François Mitterrand became the first leader of the Western allies to pay an official state visit to the East German capital – another bridging moment across the crumbling Wall.[157] But both of these were almost noises off compared with Kohl’s big bang. What’s more, these initiatives were striking mainly by reference to the past, whereas the chancellor was looking to the future and everyone now knew it.[158]

What made that point transparently clear was the brief instant on 22 December – a rainy Friday afternoon just before the Christmas holiday – when Kohl and Modrow formally opened crossing points at the Brandenburg Gate. Watching the people celebrating the unity of their city, Kohl exclaimed: ‘This is one of the happiest hours of my life.’ For the chancellor at the end of that momentous year – less than a month after his Ten Point speech – Dresden and Berlin were indeed memories to savour.[159]

*

The end of 1989 was not happy for everyone, of course. As the Western world ate its Christmas dinner, TV screens were full of the final moments of Nicolae and Elena Ceaușescu. The absolute ruler of Romania for twenty-four years and his wife were executed by soldiers of the army that, until just a few days before, he had commanded.

Romania was the last country in the Soviet bloc to experience revolutionary change. And it was the only one to suffer large-scale violence in 1989: according to official figures 1,104 people were killed and 3,352 injured.[160] Here alone tanks rolled, as in China, and firing squads took their revenge. This reflected the nature of Ceaușescu’s highly personal and arbitrary dictatorship – the most gruesome in Eastern Europe. Having gone off on his own from Moscow since the mid-1960s, Ceaușescu had also stood apart from Gorbachev’s reformist agenda and peaceful approach to change.

So why, in this repressive police state, had rebellion broken out? Unlike the rest of the bloc, Ceaușescu had managed to pay off almost all of Romania’s foreign debts – but at huge cost to his people: cutting domestic consumption so brutally that shops were left with empty shelves, homes had no heat and electricity was rationed to a few hours a day. Meanwhile, Nicolae and Elena lived in grotesque pomp.

Despite such appalling repression, their fall was triggered not by social protest but by ethnic tensions. Romania had a substantial Hungarian minority, some 2 million out of a population of 23 million, who were treated as second-class citizens. The flashpoint was the western town of Timişoara where the local pastor and human-rights activist László To˝kés was to be evicted. Over the weekend of 17–18 December some 10,000 people demonstrated in his support, shouting ‘Freedom’, ‘Romanians rise up’, ‘Down with Ceaușescu!’ The regime’s security forces (the Securitate) and army units responded with water cannons, tear gas and gunfire. Sixty unarmed civilians were killed.[161]

Protest now spread through the country as people took to the streets, emboldened by the examples of Poland, Hungary and East Germany. The regime hit back and there were lurid reports of perhaps 2,000 deaths. On 19 December, the day Kohl was in Dresden, Washington and Moscow independently condemned the ‘brutal violence’.[162]

In Bucharest, Ceaușescu, totally out of touch with reality, sought to quell the chaos through a big address to a mass crowd on 21 December, which was also relayed to his country and the world on television. But his show of defiance was hollow. On the balcony of the presidential palace, the great dictator, now seventy-one, looked old, frail, perplexed, rattled – indeed suddenly fallible. Sensing this, the crowd interrupted his halting speech with catcalls, boos and whistles – at one point silencing him for three minutes. The spell had clearly been broken. As soldiers and even some of the Securitate men fraternised with the protestors in the streets, the regime began to implode. Next morning the Ceaușescus were whisked away from the palace roof by helicopter, but they were soon caught, tried by a kangaroo court and shot – or rather, mown down in a fusillade of more than a hundred bullets. Their blood-soaked bodies were then displayed to the eager cameramen.[163]

But Romania was 1989’s exception. Everywhere else, regime change had occurred in a remarkably peaceful way. In neighbouring Bulgaria, Todor Zhivkov – who boasted thirty-five years in power, longer than anyone else in the bloc – had been toppled on 10 November. Yet the world hardly seemed to notice because the media was mesmerised by the fall of the Wall the night before. In any case, this was simply a palace coup: Zhivkov was replaced by his foreign minister Petar Mladenov. It was only gradually that people power made itself felt. The first street demonstrations in the capital, Sofia, began more than a week later on 18 November, with demands for democracy and free elections. On 7 December, the disparate opposition groups congealed as the so-called Union of Democratic Forces. Under pressure, the authorities decided to make further concessions: Mladenov announced on the 11th that the Communist Party would abandon its monopoly on power and multiparty elections would be held the following spring. Yet the sudden ousting of Zhivkov did not produce any fundamental transfer of power to the people, as in Poland, or a radical reform programme, as in Hungary. Hence the preferred Bulgarian term for 1989: ‘The Change’ (promianata). In a few weeks, the veritable dinosaur of the Warsaw Pact had been quietly consigned to history.[164]

Most emblematic of the national revolutions of 1989 was Czechoslovakia. The Czechs witnessed the GDR’s collapse first-hand, as the candy-coloured Trabis chugged through their countryside and the refugees flooded into Prague.

Driving to freedom: Trabis in Czechoslovakia

But their own communist elite had an uncompromisingly hardline reputation and so change came late to Czechoslovakia. Indeed, Miloš Jakeš, the party leader, had rejected any moves for reform from above, as in Hungary and Poland. Yet there was context. Memories of 1968 – only two decades earlier – were still vivid and painful. But then they were galvanised by the scenes at the Berlin Wall on 9–10 November. A week later, on the 17th, the commemoration for a Czech student murdered by the Nazis fifty years before, rapidly escalated into a demonstration against the regime which the police broke up with force. This was the spark. Every day for the next week, the student protests mushroomed – drawing in intellectuals, dissidents and workers and spreading across the country. By the 19th the opposition groups in Prague had formed a ‘Civic Forum’ (in Bratislava, the capital of Slovakia, the movement was called ‘Public against Violence’) and by the 24th they were in talks with the communist government – which was now dominated by moderates after the old guard around Jakeš had resigned. The two key opposition figures – each in his own way deeply symbolic – were the writer Václav Havel, recently released from imprisonment for dissident activities as a key member of the Charter 77 organisation – and the Slovak Alexander Dubček, leader of the Prague Spring in 1968. The formal round-table negotiations took place on 8 and 9 December. The following day President Gustáv Husák appointed the first largely non-communis government in Czechoslovakia since 1948, and then stepped down.[165]

The pace of change had been breathtaking. On the evening of 23 November Timothy Garton Ash – who had witnessed Poland’s upheavals in June and then the start of Czechoslovakia’s revolution – was chatting to Havel over a beer in the basement of Havel’s favourite pub. The British journalist joked: ‘In Poland it took ten years, in Hungary ten months, in East Germany ten weeks; perhaps in Czechoslovakia it will take ten days!’ Havel grasped his hand, smiling that famous winning smile, summoned a video team who happened to be drinking in the corner, and asked Garton Ash to say it again, on camera. ‘It would be fabulous, if it could be so,’ sighed Havel.[166] His scepticism was not unwarranted. Admittedly the revolution took twenty-four days not ten, but on 29 December Václav Havel was elected president of Czechoslovakia by the Federal Assembly in the hallowed halls of Prague Castle.

The playwright becomes president: Václav Havel and the Velvet Revolution in Prague

Although this was for the moment a transitional government – free elections would not be held until June 1990 – the transformation was truly profound. This had been a ‘Velvet Revolution’: smooth and swift, on occasion even merry. By comparison with Poland, Hungary and GDR, opposition politics in Prague had been improvised by amateurs – but they had been able to learn from the mistakes of the others, as well as from their successes. And what’s more, revolution in Czechoslovakia came without the pain of deepening economic crisis, with which the new governments in Warsaw and Budapest had to grapple. And so by the New Year, Czechoslovakia found itself firmly on the road towards political democracy and a market economy.[167]

So much had changed in only two months. At the start of November 1989, it was still possible in Eastern Europe to imagine a future for communism, albeit in a reformed state. But within weeks no one could doubt that it was in irreversible decline. And by the end of the year ‘those who had come too late’, as Gorbachev put it in East Berlin, had most certainly been punished (Ceaușescu, Zhivkov and Honecker), while those who had never let themselves be silenced (notably Havel and Mazowiecki) had now replaced the leaders they previously denounced.

The fact that Gorbachev presided over these variegated national exits from communism without intervening also allowed Kohl more leeway and gave hope for his mission in 1990: to bring the two Germanies closer to unity. The chancellor set the tone in his New Year message, expressing the aspiration that the coming decade would be ‘the happiest of this century’ for his people – offering ‘the chance of a free and united Germany in a free and united Europe’. That, he said, ‘depended critically on our contribution’. In other words, he was reminding his fellow Germans – so long weighed down by the burden of the past – that they had now been given the opportunity to shape the future.[168]

But the new architecture could not be constructed by Germans alone. With the communist glacier in retreat – indeed melting before one’s eyes – and the ascendant Western Europe opening out, the stark, two-bloc structure of Cold War Europe had cracked asunder. The pieces would now have to be put together in a new mosaic and this would require not merely the consent but also the creative engagement of the superpowers.

In other words, Kohl might have had his problems with Mitterrand and especially Thatcher, but they were mere stumbling blocks. When it came to building a new order around a unifying Germany, this could be achieved only by working with Bush and Gorbachev. Yet both these leaders were deeply preoccupied in late 1989 with their own problems: how belatedly, to create an effective personal rapport after their slow, at times frosty, start. And, more than that, how to manage the delicate business of moving beyond the Cold War in the heart of Europe.

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