TIME: Almanac 1995

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<text id=93HT0633> <title> 1984: End of a Shadow Regime </title> <history> TIME--The Weekly Newsmagazine--1984 Highlights </history> <article> <source>Time Magazine</source> <hdr> February 20, 1984 SOVIET UNION End of a Shadow Regime </hdr> <body> 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 </body> </article> </text>