TIME: Almanac 1993/TIME Almanac 1993.iso/time/caps/84/84.8

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                                                                                February 20, 1984

SOVIET UNION

End of a Shadow Regime


When the music changed, all Moscow knew that what it feared had
happened


The day dawned gray and ordinary. As Muscovites looked outside
at streets dusted with fresh snow, they could at least take
comfort from the fact that it was Friday. Many turned on their
radios, expecting the usual mix of new, pop music and light
entertainment. What they heard instead were the melancholy
strains of Chopin, Rachmaninoff and Tchaikovsky. Only 15 months
before, such symphonic tributes had signaled the death of Leonid
Brezhnev. Now the music was playing again. A Soviet office
worker said it all:  "Someone has died up there."

Foremost in everyone's mind was the distressing knowledge that
Soviet Leader Yuri Andropov had not been seen in public since Aug.
18, however often his name had been evoked in print and over the
air waves. But in a nation where political successions have
brought both error and hope, the idea that another change in
command was under way after little more than a year seemed hard
to believe. Soviet citizens knew Andropov was ill, but many,
uneasy with the prospect of a new transition, believed reports
that he was convalescing. So a guessing game began. Some
Soviets thought that Vasili Kuznetsov, the oldest member of the
ruling elite, might have died on the eve of his 83rd birthday.
Others figured it was Defense Minister Dimitri Ustinov, 75, who
had canceled an official visit to India a week earlier. But a
worried Moscow housewife gave voice to the fear she shared with
many of her compatriots:  "It would be terrible if Andropov has
died. We don't need another change."

The announcement finally came at 2:30 p.m. on Friday. Seated in
an unadorned studio, Newscaster Igor Kirilov solemnly began to
read the official text:  "The Central Committee of the Communist
Party of the Soviet Union, the Chairman of the Supreme Soviet of
the U.S.S.R., and the Council of Ministers ..."  At that point
the screen went blank for a moment, and then the outlines of a
familiar face with heavy spectacles appeared. Kirilov continued
to intone off-screen:  "... with deep sorrow inform the party and
the entire Soviet people that Yuri Vladimirovich Andropov,
General Secretary of the Central Committee of the Communist
Party, chairman of the Presidium of the Supreme Soviet, died
after a long illness at 16:50 on Feb. 9, 1984."  The face on the
screen was Andropov's.

As accustomed as the world may have grown to the idea of
Andropov's illness, the news of his death hit with exceptional
force. It is always, of course, a dramatic event when one of the
world's two superpowers loses a leader. But when that country is
a totalitarian state, the event evokes a special combination of
hope and fear, not only within its own borders but around the
world. Awakened at his Santa Barbara, Calif., ranch with the
news at 3:20 a.m., President Reagan dispatched a message of
condolence that expressed his wish for "genuine cooperation with
the Soviet Union to make the world better."  Said former
Secretary of State Cyrus Vance:  "A change of leadership in
Russia is always a political turning point, and our policies and
actions toward them can affect the direction in which the Soviets
move."

Andropov's compatriots barely had time to form much of an
impression of their leader -- not, at least, in his latest role.
They knew him well enough as the chief of the dreaded KGB for 15
years and as a man accustomed to having his own way. Whatever
misgivings they might have had about him, after watching
Brezhnev's painful, protracted decline, many had hoped that
Andropov, at 69, would project an image of strength and vigor.
But soon after taking office, he too displayed the tell-tale
signs of serious illness, and completely disappeared from public
view for his final 175 days in power.

Muscovites who strolled in the streets last weekend appeared
pensive and subdued as they paused to watch workmen drape red and
black banners from public buildings and hang hammer-and-sickle
flags trimmed in black from lampposts. There were few open
displays of grief. Andropov was neither loved nor hated by most
of his countrymen,and would be remembered less for what he had
done than for what he had left undone.

He was unable to carry through his modest efforts to revive the
economy. Though he had made some headway in invigorating the
party bureaucracy, he may have left behind a Politburo divided
along generational lines. The late Soviet leader had kept his
nation's military strong, but his countrymen now felt more
threatened than ever. At their bluntest, Muscovites reflected
that in death Andropov had at least spared them further months in
which they would wait and wonder how long the Soviet Union could
be governed by a shadow leader.

Andropov's lingering illness, it was thought, had given his
comrades in the Politburo ample time to plan for the succession.
But at week's end the transition did not appear to be proceeding
as smoothly or swiftly as it did following Brezhnev's death.
Then it had taken only 52 hours for Andropov to emerge as the
Central Committee's choice for General Secretary of the Communist
Party. But newsmen watching the streets around the huge Central
Committee building in downtown Moscow on Saturday afternoon saw
no sign of unusual activity. If the Central Committee, which
must elect the new Party leader, was not even meeting, what drama
might be unfolding behind the Kremlin's walls?  "Our feeling is
that they are horse trading," suggested a U.S. diplomat in
Moscow. "Someone will get General Secretary. Someone else the
presidency."  Andropov's two most important titles, in other
words, would be parceled out to two contenders. In addition,
there was speculation that Premier Nikolai Tikhonov, 78, would be
asked to make way for the final member of a new troika.

The key question was whether the septuagenarians in the Politburo
would choose the top man from their own ranks or would boldly
pick a younger man. The two likeliest young candidates:  Grigori
Romanov, 61, and Mikhail Gorbachev, 52. With few clues to go on,
Kremlin watchers seized on the appointment of Konstantin
Chernenko, 72, a onetime Brezhnev protege, to head the funeral
committee as an indication that the old guard had triumphed.
Although Andropov had been chosen for the same position when
Brezhnev died, the signal was not as clear this time. As
Andropov's nominal deputy, Chernenko was the logical choice for
the ceremonial job, and his selection conformed fully to the
rules of protocol.

By scheduling Andropov's state funeral for this Tuesday, the
Politburo was in effect setting a deadline for itself.
Diplomatically, it would be awkward if no new party leader was on
hand to receive foreign dignitaries who will file through the
Kremlin's Hall of St. George after the ceremony to express their
official condolences. Andropov had used that role to make his
debut before the foreign community, conveying the idea that his
nation could weather a change of leadership without crisis. His
successor would surely want to do the same.

As the hours passed without word of decision, the streets near
the House of Trade Unions, where Andropov's body was lying in
state, were patrolled by men in uniform and by civilian
volunteers with red armbands. Yet the area that was sealed off
to traffic was far smaller than after Brezhnev's death. Outside
the perimeter, crowds of shoppers, swathed in thick coats, boots,
scarves and fur hats, thronged the sidewalks, seemingly oblivious
to what was going on a few blocks away. Said a Soviet soldier:
"Just as they found Andropov, they will find someone else."

Last Saturday's motorcade of black limousines carrying Politburo
members arrived at the green-and-white neoclassical House of
Trade Unions, which was decorated with an enormous portrait of
Andropov. In a columned hall inside, Andropov's body lay in an
open coffin banked with carnations, red roses and tulips.
Chernenko, acting as the first among equals, led the delegation.
Tikhonov came next, followed by a trio of senior Politburo
members walking three abreast:  Defense Minister Ustinov, in his
familiar uniform with rows of ribbons, Foreign Minister Andrei
Gromyko and Moscow Party Boss Victor Grishin. Behind them came
Gorbachev and Romanov, walking side by side as if to dispel
rumors of their rivalry for Andropov's job.

The silver-haired Chernenko, who was once thought to be
Brezhnev's hand-picked heir, paused for a moment before the
coffin of the man who had defeated him in the leadership race
last time. Andropov's face was bony and drawn, his nose almost
beaklike. His long ordeal seemed reflected on the faces of his
wife, his son Igor ad his daughter Irina, who sat near the
flower-bedecked bier. While an orchestra played Tchaikovsky's
"Pathetique" Symphony in the background, Chernenko went up to
Andropov's widow, kissed her and touched her gently on the
shoulder. When Ustinov embraced the late Soviet leader's son,
Igor broke into sobs. As he covered his face with his hand,
other Politburo members reached over to touch his arm. A
Westerner who joined the thousands of mourners later in the day
summed up the mood as he walked from the hall between honor
guards standing stiffly at attention:  "An austere life, an
austere death."

There were several clues in the final days before Andropov's
death to indicate that he was failing fast. In a highly unusual
move, Ustinov canceled his important visit to New Delhi without
giving any reason. Andropov's son, a diplomat attending the
Stockholm security conference, hurried home on Tuesday afternoon
for "family reasons."  But there were equally contradictory
signs. At about the time the Soviet desk on the sixth floor of
the State Department was monitoring the telltale music from
Moscow, Soviet Ambassador to the U.S. Anatoli Dobrynin, seemingly
oblivious to the events back in Moscow, was two floors up,
mingling with members of Washington's foreign policy
Establishment at a birthday celebration for former Secretary of
State Dean Rusk.

French Foreign Minister Claude Cheysson was the first official to
break the news of Andropov's death. Shortly before lunchtime on
Friday, he interrupted a meeting of European Community and Third
World foreign ministers in Brussels to announce solemnly that
"the party leader of one of the greatest nations of the world has
passed away."  Cheysson was nearly two hours ahead of Moscow with
his news bulletin. Embarrassed French officials later explained
that Cheysson had misread a garbled cable from Paris and taken
informed supposition for fact.

After considering the pros and cons of traveling to Moscow for
the funeral, Reagan decided to send Vice President George Bush
instead. Whatever the merits of a Moscow visit, Reagan, who had
declined to attend Brezhnev's funeral, apparently did not want
the Soviets or anyone else to wonder whether he was exploiting
the occasion for his own political ends.

In a radio address last Saturday, the President stressed his
commitment to improving relations with Moscow. Said he:  "What
is needed now is for both sides to sit down and find ways of
solving some of the problems that divide us."  Bush planned to
carry a similar message to the new Soviet leader. "The U.S.
wants improved relations," said the Vice President during a
stopover in London. "We'll keep the rhetoric at reasonable
levels and go and see whether they want to hold out the hand and
meet us there."

Anxious West Europeans hoped that Andropov's funeral might offer
an opportunity for their leaders to broaden contacts with the
Soviet Union. West German Chancellor Helmut Kohl, the only major
Western statesman to visit Andropov while he was in office,
announced that he would attend the ceremonies, as did Prime
Minister Margaret Thatcher. In a terse statement, Pope John Paul
II offered "a special thought for the illustrious deceased one."

Australian diplomats traveling in China with Prime Minister Bob
Hawke were the first to convey the news to Chinese Premier Zhao
Ziyang. When the two leaders sat down at the state banquet, Zhao
turned to Hawke and asked, "Who do you think will succeed
Andropov?"  The official Chinese message to Moscow was brief but
surprisingly warm, noting:  "It is the sincere desire of the
Chinese government to see relations between the two countries
normalized."

The Kremlin's new leader is not likely to take bold steps to
improve relations with China, end the war in Afghanistan or break
the deadlock in nuclear arms negotiations, at least not
immediately. Decisions within the ruling elite will continue to
be made collectively; in the short term, no one man will be able
to change the broad outlines of a foreign policy that predates
Andropov's accession. Instead, during a time of transition,
Moscow will no doubt opt for what is familiar. Explains a
British diplomat:  "When there is uncertainty in Moscow, the
instinctive reaction is one of continuity in policies and
relations, with a somewhat harder interpretation of these
policies until the new leadership has time to consolidate its
position."  The Kremlin has little to gain in making conciliatory
moves that would serve to help Reagan's re-election campaign.

The final months of Andropov's tenure were marked by a steady
deterioration in both the tone and the substance of U.S.-Soviet
relations. Last November, when Britain, West Germany and Italy
proceeded with the planned deployment of new NATO missiles, the
Soviets walked out of the Geneva talks on intermediate-range
weapons in Europe. During the next three weeks, they suspended
their participation in the Geneva Strategic Arms Reduction Talks
(START) and in the decade-long Vienna negotiations on
conventional forces in Europe. Andropov bluntly said that the
U.S. had "torpedoed" the possibility of reaching an arms accord.
Reagan had a comeback of his own:  "I think the evidence is clear
as to which country is sincerely and honestly working toward a
reduction of armaments."

Yet in the weeks before Andropov's death, both superpowers had
been delicately probing the possibilities of improved relations.
Meeting for five hours during the Stockholm security conference
in Europe last month, U.S. Secretary of State George Shultz and
Soviet Foreign Minister Gromyko agreed to resume the Vienna talks
in March. TIME has learned that Reagan authorized Shultz to
sound Gromyko out on ways to resume START, including the
possibility of a new framework for an agreement that differs
dramatically from the Administration's existing proposal.
Although Gromyko was so intransigent that Shultz could not pursue
the idea, some American foreign policy analysts have interpreted
recent Soviet calls for the U.S. to match words with deeds as an
expression of the Kremlin's willingness at least to consider any
new American offers.

The succession is certain to sharpen debate within the Reagan
Administration on how to deal with the Soviets. Some State
Department officials tend to see the change in leadership as an
opportunity to improve U.S.-Soviet relations by substantially
modifying the U.S. START proposals to bring it closer to the
Soviet position. The Pentagon, on the other hand, believes that
the U.S. should not present new ideas and in effect reward the
Soviets for walking out of the talks. They also suspect that the
Soviet leadership is too much in disarray to negotiate an arms
agreement.

If the new man in the Kremlin follows Andropov's example, he will
turn his attention first to his nation's considerable domestic
problems. He will inherit an economy that is in only slightly
better condition that the one that Brezhnev bequeathed to his
successor. Andropov mixed greater calls for discipline with a
handful of modest incentives, thereby raising national income by
3.1% in 1983. Better weather brought in an unusually large grain
harvest last year, 200 million tons, compared with a low of 160
million tons in 1981. But the fundamental problems of industry
and agriculture remain, and Andropov's reforms were at best
stopgap measures. If his successor hopes to improve the Soviet
economy in any fundamental way, he will have to take the far
bolder step toward reforming the country's rigidly centralized
bureaucracy.

In choosing Andropov to succeed Brezhnev, the Kremlin leadership
had sought to steer a cautious course of transition and postpone
the inevitable day when power would devolve to a younger,
unseasoned generation. Defying an unwritten law of Soviet
politics that control must be consolidated over years, Andropov
sought in a matter of months to take charge and begin to
rejuvenate the aging leadership. But he could not hold off the
ravages of disease long enough to succeed.

As the cumbersome transition process was set in motion last week,
the ruling elite faced some unsettling choices. It could choose
an older man once more and take a chance on another short-lived
regime, or it could yield to the younger generation. There was a
third way, combining youth and age in a temporary partnership.
For leaders little inclined to take gambles, each course carried
its disquieting risks.

By John Kohan. Reported by Erik Amfitheatrof/Moscow and Barrett
Seaman/Washington, with other bureaus