Journey of the Americanist by Stanislav Kondrashov - HTML preview

A significant portion of the Soviet colony in Washington now lived in an isolated, guarded complex—in residential buildings recently constructed near Georgetown, belonging to the embassy, in a nice quiet area a bit away from Wisconsin Avenue. Negotiations about this new extensive territory, like almost al negotiations with Americans, were lengthy and chal enging but concluded with an agreement involving a peculiar exchange— the U.S. Embassy in Moscow also received a large plot of land not far from its current location, at the rear of a high-rise building

on

Revolution

Square.

Reciprocity

was

meticulously

synchronized in time, and although the new building of our embassy in Washington already stands on the complex's territory, moving into it can only happen simultaneously with the relocation of Americans to their new embassy in Moscow. However, the residential part of the complex was already inhabited, and daily life in the Moscow yards spontaneously emerged—with children playing in sandboxes and moms gathering together to chat about shopping and news.

Our life in the midst of the American capital is strictly confined territorial y. At the entrance to the complex, there is a barrier control ed remotely by the on-duty border guard sitting in a high concrete bastion.

Washington and al of America lie on the other side of the barrier.

To avoid provocations and various unpleasant incidents, women are not al owed to leave the complex alone. Even for a carton of milk or a box of aspirin.

Unlike the preoccupied ambassador, the group of fel ow scientists with whom Amerikanist hastily parted ways at LaGuardia Airport in New York

was

lively

and

carefree,

as

business

travelers

often

are—successful, having completed their tasks, done what was required, and, before returning to Moscow, earned the right to rest and indulge in foreign pleasures. They visited a friendly diplomat, a gray-haired and handsome man. The diplomat's energetic and attractive wife, after arranging the table with cold and hot snacks, treated the guests. With plates and glasses in hand, the company gathered in a semicircle around the television screen. It was election day, or rather, the evening of election day, and TV commentators were rapidly covering the progress and initial results.

By eight in the evening, the first actual vote counts had already come in from the pol ing stations. Based on these, electronic forecasts were made. Commentators, seemingly hopping from state to state and city to city on large maps and diagrams, referred to computers as they predicted

the

outcomes,

declaring

winners

among

senators,

congressmen, governors, and mayors one after another.

For Amerikanist, a welcomed guest of the friendly couple, these were the ninth American elections, and with unexpected nostalgia, he noted to himself that his most respected, truly legendary CBS news anchor, Walter Cronkite, had given way to the assertive Dan Rather, which took some getting used to. With pleasure, he explained incomprehensible terms of television jargon to Moscow scientists and envied once again their cheerful col ective spirit and the fact that, having accomplished their mission, they were returning home. For him, this hectic election night was the very task he had come to Washington for, not just a curious and exotic spectacle.

He left earlier than others and walked back to his place, the Irene House. On Wil ard Avenue, as usual at this hour, it was dark and deserted, but the lights were on in the tal , large houses; residents were watching the fascinating and mad ritual of American democracy on their televisions.

Alone, he stayed up late in front of the television, jotting down figures and facts from ongoing reports in his notebook. The next morning, he supplemented them with information from newspapers, which, however, had not yet provided complete results. He sat by the television again, nervously drinking tea. The day passed in solitary work, and outside the window, evening turned into night. Contrary to the agreement, Moscow did not cal him at two o'clock. He dozed off, fearing in his half-sleep that Moscow might not cal at al , that they had forgotten about him, and that his efforts would go to waste. But at four o'clock, the phone rang.

The sound quality was good, and he quickly dictated his correspondence. Then he connected with the editor of the department and reported that he had sent, as agreed, about six pages on the election results. He asked Zina, the stenographer, about the weather in Moscow and hung up.

So, the interim elections came and went, and he covered them, and the assessments and predictions of his initial pre-election correspondence were general y justified. Now he could be satisfied with himself, experiencing the relief of a worker who has completed urgent, pressing work. He wanted to shake himself up and relax in a friendly circle, but it was night, the apartment was empty, and the only company was the late-night TV programs.

He didn't fal asleep right away. He lay in the darkness, recal ing lines from his correspondence, which, written on scraps of paper, remained on the table in his office, and by that time, were on the editor's desk in Moscow, heading into typesetting. By the time he, Amerikanist, woke up alone in the house overlooking Dacha Somerset, it would have been reproduced in mil ions of copies and spread throughout his vast native land, which, unfortunately, he had traveled less than America.

Meanwhile, this was business correspondence, and its words revealed little to the mind and heart of the reader.

Last Tuesday, Americans experienced yet another election day and another evening and night in front of their television screens, where the teams of the three major television networks fought for viewers'

attention as fiercely as the candidates of the two parties fought for the

votes of the electorate—this is how he began his correspondence.

Moreover, it was another battle of computers, played out according to the rules of the American political circus, with its dizzying speeds.

Television network computers outpaced the computers connected to the pol ing stations, trying to determine the results when one-tenth of the voters had not yet cast their votes. By the way, two out of every three Americans preferred to abstain from voting altogether, apparently finding no sense in it. Reportedly, only thirty-nine percent of eligible voters participated in the elections. Surprising? No. A common and familiar fact, though the computers overlooked it, and local observers mentioned it in passing.

Now they are busy with something else—turning the arithmetic of the results into the algebra of assessments and forecasts. First, about the arithmetic. The Republicans, the party of the president, lost twenty-six seats in the House of Representatives. In the new congress, they wil have one hundred sixty-six seats (instead of the current one hundred ninety-two). The Democrats strengthened their position in the House, securing two hundred sixty-eight seats. While the entire House of Representatives was up for election, the fate of thirty-three out of one hundred Senate seats was decided. The party breakdown remained the same: fifty-four Republicans versus forty-six Democrats. Governors were also elected in thirty-six out of fifty states. In addition to their existing seats, the Democrats won seven more. Now they govern in thirty-six states, while the Republicans govern in fourteen.

Moving on to assessments and forecasts, Amerikanist continued, here they primarily discuss the losses of Republicans in the House of Representatives. President Reagan, putting on a brave face in the face of adversity, stated yesterday that he is "very pleased with the results"

and that this is exactly what he expected, considering the loss of seventeen to twenty-seven seats acceptable. House Speaker Democrat Thomas O'Neil , however, had a different opinion. "This is a devastating defeat for the president," he said. Most observers also speak of the Republicans' defeat and specifical y Reagan's, but do not consider it devastating. In their opinion, the voter merely sent a "warning signal" to the

president:

he is concerned about the consequences of

"Reaganomics," such as unprecedentedly high unemployment, ongoing economic downturn, and cuts to social programs.

"Keep it up!" defended Ronald Reagan, advocating for his economic program and loyal fol owers. The voter did not heed the cal , rol ing over many "Reagan robots" (as ultra-conservatives who entered Congress in 1980 on Reagan's victorious wave are cal ed here). Two years ago, having secured a majority in the Senate, Republicans dreamed of having a majority in the House of Representatives as wel , becoming the undisputed majority party, that is, swapping places with the Democrats, who have long dominated Capitol Hil . The dream was associated with the era of conservatism embodied by Reagan. However, things turned out differently. This probably means that the surge of Reagan-type conservatism has waned. Such a conclusion, however, should be made cautiously, with reservations. The Democrats are disorganized; otherwise, the defeat of conservative Republicans would have been more significant. The fact that Republicans spent five to six times more money on voter outreach than Democrats also played a role.

Elected positions, to put it mildly, have never been a right or privilege for the poor in America. But never before has there been such open competition among mil ionaires. Time is money, especial y time on television, bought for political advertising. And where to get it? Not a question for some candidates. A certain Lewis Lehrman, an extravagant gentleman who appeared before voters in nothing but wide red suspenders without a jacket, personal y contributed eight mil ion dol ars, running as a Republican for governor of the state of New York. However, even for this amount, the voter did not buy Lehrman's conservative views.

Is it going to continue like this? Meanwhile, Americans are demanding a course correction. This is the main result of the elections.

Democratic leaders such as Edward Kennedy, who has been re-elected to the Senate, Senator John Glenn, and former Vice President Walter Mondale, are now talking about the need for "changes in economic policy."

The Reagan administration can no longer count on new easy victories for the "conservative revolution" on Capitol Hil . There is already talk of possible clashes on two issues—social security and military spending. The new Congress, it seems, wil be less accommodating, insisting on maintaining programs for those in need and reducing the

gigantic tribute to the Pentagon. However, administration representatives assert that when it comes to expanding military spending, it wil remain faithful to the slogan "Keep it up!"

Before the elections, which the Americanist wrote about in the summary newspaper, and after the elections, before they were forgotten— and they were forgotten very quickly— candidates, commentators, al kinds of politicians, and observers (and least of al the voters themselves) probably said and wrote tril ions of redundant words.

The Americanist read and heard only a tiny part of them, but it turned out to be more than enough to assess the situation. His assessments echoed those of wel -known American commentators, mostly of a liberal orientation. Liberals, being critics of Reagan, were more encouraging—

and better suited for quotes.

In an editorial article, an influential newspaper with a liberal hue expressed its joy: "Liberal— this word has ceased to be derogatory...

Now watch the pendulum careful y— it has swung toward the center.

Many moderate and conservative Republicans suffered defeat from their more liberal opponents, but it is harder to find those who lost to more conservative opponents. Attacks on liberals have become the pastime of losers."

Such opinions were spread immediately after the elections, while the average American and political observers had not forgotten them due to new events.

What did this swing of the pendulum, this movement of the voter toward the political center mean from the perspective that interests us not abstractly but practical y in American elections— from the perspective of our relations with this state and, accordingly, the prospects for peace and war? Quite simply— nothing. At least, not in the immediate future. It was necessary to take a closer look at the activities of the renewed Congress and the tactics of the Reagan administration, to see how it would decipher the "signals" from the voter and how it would translate them into the language of actions...

One detail, unrelated to these reflections and assumptions, especial y struck the Americanist with its hidden irony and as a vivid il ustration of the fickleness and pragmatism prevailing in American political life. In the South, in the state of Alabama, George Wal ace was

elected governor for the fourth time. In his time, George Wal ace was a notorious symbol of American racism. In 1963, in Birmingham, this Alabama governor set police officers with German Shepherds and firefighters with water cannons on blacks who had achieved the desegregation of cafeterias and restaurants. Incriminating photographs circulated in al American and world newspapers at the time. In 1972, George Wal ace attempted to run for the White House as an independent candidate, appealing to the racist views of the American commoner, and at a pre-election ral y in Laurel, near Washington, he was seriously wounded by a semi-mad youth who decided to become famous in this purely American scandalous way. Wal ace dropped out of the race, was paralyzed waist down, but being a determined person, he retained the wil to live and continue his career. And now, already elderly, in a wheelchair, he was again elected governor of the state of Alabama.

But the sensation was not in this, but in the fact that he was elected with the help of African American votes. Newspapers wrote that it was George Wal ace who embodied the "last great dream" of Martin Luther King— the dream of an electoral coalition of white and black poor people.

They were implacable opponents— the great advocate of equality and the living symbol of racial segregation. And here, a dozen and a half years after King's assassination, African Americans gave their votes to Wal ace. Truly, everything flows, and everything changes— and the American pragmatist goes from being a racist to a defender and guardian of underprivileged African Americans, if only such a transformation gives him the strength to stay on the surface of success.

"America is easy to be amazed and outraged— in leisure, cooling down from the excitement of the elections," the Americanist noted in his notebook. "Its pragmatism, its rationality can surpass any fantasy, and here's an example from today's 'New York Times.' The newspaper reports that a new method of basing intercontinental bal istic missiles, MX, is proposed— the so-cal ed 'dense pack' or 'compact packaging.'

The 'missile field,' the area where it is planned to deploy the missiles, is given the shape not of a triangular trapezoid, as recommended earlier, but a rectangle eight miles long and one mile wide. According to this plan, the 100 MX missiles in their underground silos wil be quite close to

each other, like cigarettes in a pack. In the event of a nuclear attack aimed at destroying this 'missile field,' the enemy's missiles wil inevitably explode so close to each other that 'missile fratricide' wil occur, meaning that the explosions of the first attacking missiles wil destroy the missiles that fol ow them.

Quite an expression— 'missile fratricide'?

And immediately another piece of news," the Americanist wrote in his notebook, "which shows that Americans are not at al bothered or constrained by a kind of public rejection of traditional notions of good and evil if it helps make money. The automobile magnate John de Lorean, this latest embodiment of the American Dream of money and fame, arrested for drug trafficking and just released on bail of ten mil ion dol ars, is being offered to sel the rights to create a film about his life. In case of agreement, mil ions are promised. It's not about good or evil but about luck or failure. De Lorean became a legendary figure because his story is the story of a fantastic success who realized the dream of mil ions and— crashed like an American Icarus, flying dangerously close to the American sun— the dol ar. Such a melodrama, make it tearful, and crowds wil flock to it."

The iron lattice gate in the middle of the iron lattice fence, and the iron gates on the sides for entering and exiting vehicles, as wel as the front door to the embassy building, were wide open. The building itself shone brighter than al the lights in the early twilight of the deserted street after the end of the workday. Smartly dressed ladies arm in arm with wel -dressed gentlemen entered through the open doors into the bright festive lobby, and they had the appearance of guests ready to have a good and enjoyable time. In the lobby, on the left, light coat racks were set up; after handing over their coats and jackets, guests joined the long line starting near the staircase under the red carpet. The queue extended to the second floor, leading to the main embassy reception hal , nicknamed the Golden Hal because of its gilded ornamental decorations.

There, welcoming the guests, stood the smiling ambassador, and next to him were the military attachés of the embassy, in the ful dress uniform of three branches of the armed forces, adorned with orders and medals on their chests.

The security ensign, as always, was in his place, behind the semicircular structure in the lobby. However, on this evening of open doors, he went unnoticed, and security was taken care of by employees stationed at the entrance. They were polite and attentive, but their faces retained the expression typical of people who, as part of their duty, have to work even on holidays. Guests' invitations, sent on behalf of the ambassador, were discreetly checked.

It was the most important reception of the year at the embassy, on the occasion of our national holiday— the anniversary of the Great October Socialist Revolution. Solemn words embossed in golden English letters were printed on the ambassador's invitations. Most of the attending ladies and gentlemen, living in the capital of another country and another world, did not share the ideas of the communist transformation of the land. They came to the Soviet embassy, having accepted the invitation, not to celebrate the anniversary of the great revolution, which radical y changed Russia and gave a powerful impetus to the development of world history, but to congratulate the ambassador and other representatives of the great power on their national holiday, acknowledging its place in the world and the importance of maintaining normal relations with it.

Many of the guests were foreigners in Washington, heads or employees of embassies of other countries. Many of the American guests had various business ties with our country, some practical interests. In the arrival of some Americans, there was, as it were, a chal enge to their government or some apology to Soviet diplomats for its behavior and unwil ingness to understand that in this smal world, even being on different continents and political poles, we stil live side by side and, therefore, must behave more sociable and prudent. Final y, there were among the guests, although in smal numbers, staunch friends of the Soviet Union, American communists, leaders of progressive

and

anti-war

organizations—mostly

because

these

organizations operate in New York and are invited to the November reception by the Soviet mission to the UN.

The line ascending the staircase had not yet dissipated, and in the three hal s of the second floor, it was already crowded around the tables with snacks and near the bars in the corners, where American bartenders hired for the evening skil ful y wielded glasses, bottles, and

buckets of ice, along with our assistants, replenishing the supplies of soft drinks and spirits, primarily Russian vodka. Surprisingly, a considerable number of people had gathered. To squeeze through to an old acquaintance, with whom you had last met a few years ago at a similar reception, one had to use the tried-and-true techniques of a passenger in a Moscow trol eybus during rush hour.

As usual, there were society reporters and photographers at the reception. At their insistence, the ambassador posed in the Golden Hal , standing next to the largest table in front of the masterpiece of the embassy's chefs— artificial roses made from vegetables. Later, this original stil life disappeared into the stomachs of the guests, but even earlier, the famous Russian caviar disappeared. The hal s resounded with a unified hum— laughter, conversation, the clinking of forks, and the tinkling of ice cubes in the glasses mixed together. From the crowd of people, military attachés from various countries stood out the most with their national uniforms, medal bars, and light blue plastic stripes on their chests, which the American authorities provided them for identification.

As in any such gathering, everyone was united by an interest in high-ranking individuals, somehow famous or at least looking original.

There were almost no high-ranking officials among the Americans. On the recommendation of the State Department, they boycotted the Soviet reception. Political weather registrars noted the ambiguous absence of ministers, senators, and presidential aides.

There was an elderly, talkative, and cheerful American who seemed to appear out of nowhere, navigating his way in a wheelchair through the remarkably dense crowd with such skil and ease as if there were no unusual y packed gathering. The cheerful man in the wheelchair immediately gained admirers and assistants among the embassy women, who marveled at this American trait—his lack of inhibition about his physical disability and the general attention given to his wheelchair.

There was another less noticeable original, an American professor resembling a young Gorky and cultivating this resemblance. A resident of New York, he became fascinated with the works of the Russian writer, marveling at how Gorky's bohemians roamed the inhabitants of the New York underworld, and he became a propagandist for Gorky, a reciter.

There was a Soviet film actor who had arrived in the United States, usual y playing celebrated heroes and statesmen. Embassy staff surrounded him, eager not to miss the opportunity to take a memorable photo with the celebrity. Also passing through was a young Soviet actress, her name pronounced as if everyone knew it, while the Americanist heard it for the first time, concluding that this star rose on the cinema screen when he lived abroad and observed different stars.

In the crowd, there was also a former prominent senator, a liberal Democrat. Distinguished by his common sense and broad approach to U.S.-Soviet relations, he stood out from many col eagues and, at one time, held promise as the chairman of the influential Senate Foreign Relations Committee. However, before the last elections in his state, a conservative ninth wave rol ed over him. The liberal, fearing to drown, suddenly led a noisy campaign on Capitol Hil to withdraw the non-existent "Soviet brigade" from Cuba. But this did not save him. The smal provincial state, famous for the type of potatoes served with American steaks, exchanged its enlightened liberal for a hawkish conservative. Stil youthful, tal , and prominent, with a picturesque hairstyle of beautiful y graying hair and an unnatural y straight, corseted posture, the former senator now stood in the crowd at the reception, throwing his head back and extending his hand for a greeting, as if this pose made it easier to endure political nonexistence.

In the idle hum and cheerful hustle and bustle, significant work was underway to establish and maintain acquaintances, exchange opinions, verify and cross-verify, and gather political information...

When the reception hours specified in the invitations expired, the guests had not yet dispersed, and the crowd slowly dwindled. Having done a great deal of diplomatic reception work, our people, as usual, wanted to remain alone to celebrate their holiday among themselves on a smal piece of their territory, where they lived their lives surrounded by the life of others, increasingly expressing hostility. As a hint to the lingering guests, the lights in the hal began to be dimmed—they waited for al outsiders to leave, and the ambassador, among his own, would toast his native land and people...

As the Americanist—being one of the last—left the embassy, the iron gate was locked again, and a lone police officer shivered in the brisk wind. Cars parked on the side of the road glinted coldly in the light of

street lamps. Sixteenth Street was quiet and empty again. The autumn wind gusts came intermittently.

The next day, the main Washington newspaper featured a photo in the society column, showing the smiling Soviet ambassador alongside the smiling French ambassador. The French ambassador's wife stood nearby, also smiling. The reporter wrote about the influx of guests and how high-profile figures responded to the Soviet invitations with regrets, regrets, and more regrets, meaning a refusal to attend. The repeated word was highlighted in the headline.

"The grand hal s adorned with gilded leaves were fil ed with a crowd indulging with gusto," the reporter wrote. "Two huge tables groaned under the weight of caviar, meat pies, salads, sausages, and intricate Russian appetizers. And, of course, Russian vodka. 'I heard,'

whispered one guest to another, making her way to the table, 'that the caviar gets snapped up right away, and they don't bring any more.'"

"And it was indeed snapped up right away, and no more was brought," concluded the report. Reading it was enough to understand how coldly both the reporter and the editorial staff viewed the Soviet reception.

The most important indicator of a correspondent's work is the harvest of information and impressions col ected every day. The time of the Americanist in America belonged entirely to the editorial office, and low yields depressed him.

He knew that the best way to condense time and make it productive was through movement, travel. You had to pass time through space.

Yes, he had become heavy to bear, and he was ready to agree with a thought, unexpected for his time, expressed by a respected writer: travel is not an occupation for a serious person. Serious people wrote mainly about what they knew and saw around them, in their native places. But an internationalist and his profession did not al ow him to stay in one place.

The American embassy in Moscow demanded his anticipated route, and he included San Francisco, Los Angeles, Charleston, and New York in the questionnaire.

With New York, he couldn't avoid even if he wanted to when flying to the United States from Europe.

San Francisco, as the Americanist convinced himself, was the sweetest and most charming of American cities. And there was a focal point—Soviet Consulate.

Los Angeles was growing rapidly and year by year subtly took away the role of the main gateway to the United States from New York and the new multilingual Babylon, and, along with it, the new Jerusalem—the homeland of new American religions and airs. Moreover, two out of seven presidents of the second half of the 20th century emerged from the vicinity of Los Angeles—Richard Nixon and Ronald Reagan.

Now, what about Charleston? Only the unknown capital of the smal state of West Virginia. The Americanist was drawn to familiar places. He had been to Charleston and maintained friendly relations with a local publisher. The publisher was wil ing to help without expecting reciprocity. And the state of West Virginia became an example of American backwater for the Americanist, with people from the land and underground, miners. There, he wanted to feel the pulse of ordinary life, away from big politics and its sharp but stil superficial journalistic reflections.

Although, on the other hand, couldn't he just as successful y feel this pulse, for example, within ten blocks of the Soviet embassy, on Fourteenth Street, where clusters of young, unshaven black men with red eyes crowded around smel y cheap bars, casting gloomy glances at passing cars with white people, rejected right there? And at Lafayette Square, on the approaching Thanksgiving Day, hungry and homeless people would stand in line for a free piece of turkey from the kitchens of charitable organizations, muttering words not of gratitude but of curses to society and the person living and working just across the road in the idyl ic White House, which looked so unpretentiously simple through the rare lattice of the fence.

After al , could he not anatomize Time, Place, and the American Nation by taking just one person and his life or just a few people, which, in fact, is what serious people do, neglecting travel? But our journalist, along with his col eagues, preferred the method of extensive processing.

And the road cal ed him.

Now, it was no longer the American embassy in Moscow, but the Soviet Department of the State Department that suggested he specify more precisely: where, when, and by what means of transportation? And after the consular section of the Soviet embassy sent the necessary notification to the State Department, they requested additional y: on which flight of which airline? It was a novelty, another strictness.

And right after the holidays, a col eague drove the Americanist to Dul es Airport. It was November, but stil a southern evening. The sunset glowed evenly in the clear sky. Against its backdrop, the silhouette of the control tower resembled an Olympic torch. The airport's roof resembled a wing and, with a favorable wind, seemed capable of soaring into the sky along with the planes.

Among other passengers, the Americanist first boarded a special bus, the body of which would rise or lower to the required height when approaching the airport or the aircraft hatch. The bus dropped them off inside the bel y of a wide-bodied airliner of Trans World Airlines, abbreviated as TWA.

In the hermetical y sealed bel y, they ascended on giant wings into the sky, chasing the sun from east to west, extending the fading day.

However, during the approximately four-thousand-kilometer journey, they never caught up with the sun; it raced to the Pacific Ocean to herald a new day there, and they were covered by twilight and darkness. Behind the double-pane window, a night devoid of national features stood, indistinguishable from stratospheric night in any other country.

Among the new giant aircraft, the DC-10 ranks second in prevalence on American airlines after the Boeing 747. While the French and the British were working on the Concorde, and we were working on the Tu-144, American aviators did not focus on supersonic speed but on greater capacity, winning by creating wide-bodied airships. They took into account essential factors such as fuel efficiency and the psychology of the passenger, who could stil do without supersonic speed.

The Americanist had flown on the DC-10 before, but he was again struck by the dimensions of this machine. The ceiling was as high as in a pre-war apartment, and each row accommodated nine seats—five in the center and two on each side. After the usual cramped conditions of airplanes, this space seemed excessive, wasteful y disappearing.

Moreover, there were few passengers, and the Americanist chose a good seat by the window, placing his briefcase on the adjacent empty seat.

The cross-country flight lasted five hours, and to pass the time, after dinner in the cabin, they dimmed the lights, unfolded a smal screen, and immediately fil ed it with characters from an empty comedy film.

The Americanist ignored the movie and didn't even pay attention to the passengers. He had spent two weeks in the States and had stopped absorbing impressions and classifying Americans as eagerly as he did in the first hours of the Montreal prologue at Dorval Airport. In addition, day and night, from east to west and from west to east, he had previously made such flights over the North American continent, and it seemed that he had already described everything: fast stewardesses in home aprons, passengers, empty comedies that had been spinning in the air over America for twenty years. The theme had been worked out.

Unprofessional, purely human curiosity had dul ed with years, giving way to focused interest. He now noticed only what was suitable for business, for work. Work had narrowed him, deprived him of the natural acuity of people who didn't write for the newspaper.

During the flight, he found himself an occupation related to work. In his briefcase was the latest issue of the Boston monthly "The Atlantic."

Typical correspondent's food consists of newspapers and weeklies.

There's usual y no time for American monthlies, where fiction coexists with political reports and essays. The Atlantic magazine had turned 125, as indicated by the anniversary digits on the bluish-silvery cover. But it wasn't the venerable date that prompted the Americanist to buy the fresh issue at the airport kiosk. He remembered that someone from his Washington acquaintances strongly recommended an interesting article in this particular issue. He opened the magazine and found the recommended article.

The article belonged to a certain Thomas Powers and was titled

"Choosing a Strategy for the Third World War." The grim businesslike tone of the headline initial y led to suspicions of something dry and inedible, scientific and detached from both the mind and the heart. As the Americanist delved into the article, he realized he was mistaken. No,

the unfamiliar Thomas Powers did not belong to the insensitive pseudo-Olympians among political professors who enjoy endowing ordinary mortals with their lofty wisdom. Unveiling the horrific realities of our days, which people push away to avoid poisoning their lives, the article drew with the magic of terrible truth, breathed with hidden passion.

Certainly, it was not the Slavic passion, openly and excitedly expressing itself, but the Anglo-Saxon, concealed, burning like dry ice.

Passion disguised itself as mere journalistic thoroughness—information from first-hand sources, military and civilian generals, nuclear planners, and strategists, descriptions of presidential secret memoranda and directives, a multitude of facts. Literary images and emotional details were rare and sparing, but along with the facts, they worked wel towards the author's intent, which was to paint a picture of the inertial course of a blind and monstrous war machine that, as if disobeying human wil , had gone beyond the control of its creators and inexorably moved towards the nuclear abyss.

Such revelations with nuclear mushroom clouds grew on the anniversary pages of "The Atlantic" magazine—who could have foreseen them one hundred and twenty-five years ago?

The chil ing reading drew him in, and, pausing from the article, looking around, the Americanist perceived the subdued roar of engines, the flickering on the screen of human figures, houses, trees, cars, and the faces of his fel ow passengers in a different, not in the ordinary, but almost in a philosophical, historical sense, as they stretched toward the screen.

They happened to be together in a flying metal vessel to cross an entire continent in a few hours in the dark icy sky. Each of these Americans carried within them their own history, beginning with the history of their ancestors, and together these stories formed part of the history of their nation. The movement from east to west, the conquest and exploration of the new continent, took not hours, but centuries.

Great efforts conquered it, great courage—and great cruelty, of which people are capable in their pursuit of wealth, satisfaction, and happiness, in the consciousness of their right and superiority, exterminating other people who stood in their way. And now the continent was conquered,

and below, under the wings of the plane, each minute of their high-speed movement left behind not only dozens of kilometers of plains and mountains, farms or cities, but also unimaginable, indescribable clusters, layers, and knots of the lives of mil ions of people in the great, rich, and diverse country. The movement of history continued, and those yeast on which this new, bold, adventurous people rose, those characters who asserted themselves in the pioneer wagons moving westward, were now evident in those who professional y did not rule out a third world—nuclear—war and chose a strategy corresponding to the national psychology for it.

In the early post-war years, nuclear weapons were counted only in units and were extremely bulky and inconvenient for transportation. The first American hydrogen bomb, narrated by Thomas Powers, had a diameter of over one and a half meters, a length of seven and a half meters, and weighed twenty-one tons. The bomber needed an enlarged bomb bay, an extended runway, and reinforced engines to take it on board and lift it into the air. The early models of intercontinental bal istic missiles were not characterized by precision; they landed miles away from the target. Therefore, the lack of precision was compensated by the monstrous megatonnage of their single warheads. Now, this is the archaeology of a rapidly advancing nuclear era, primitive awkward attempts at the science of mass destruction. In today's nuclear warheads—with their modern design and the dominance of a peculiar taste—oh yes, taste is inherent in the construction of weapons of mass death. An elegant conical warhead, just above the waist of a person, with a coal-black surface and a rounded polished tip. So smal that three or four of them would easily fit, let's say, in the trunk of a station wagon.

But each one conceals twenty-three Hiroshimas! The MX missile, the new Pentagon favorite, carries ten such warheads each, and their individual targeting accuracy is such that in the other hemisphere at a distance of approximately ten thousand kilometers, they hit not just a city and not just a street in that city, chosen as a target, but the specific house on the specific side of that street (which, however, does not make it easier—with twenty-three Hiroshimas—for neighboring streets and houses).

The United States has tens of thousands of nuclear warheads.

Nuclear deterrence, meaning the presence of such an arsenal of nuclear weapons that would deter the enemy and prevent the possibility of war, is stil considered the foundation of American strategy in words, noted Thomas Powers, but now it is saturated with practical preparation for nuclear war. American generals, admittedly, spare the pride and vanity of American scientists and political strategists who invent new military doctrines. But in practice, the decisive word belongs not to politicians and doctrines but to generals and, above al , to new systems of nuclear weapons. New and devilishly sophisticated missiles and warheads are invented—cannot help but be invented!—and new and new military doctrines are devised—cannot help but be devised!—for them, increasingly based on the possibility and acceptability of nuclear war.

This wheel cannot be uncoupled and stopped, and it rol s toward the nuclear abyss.

The subtext of Thomas Powers was one of despair, a cry of the soul. Each of the heroes of his essay, a general and a politician, was reasonable and rational; each in his place was only doing his job—conscientiously, skil ful y, and professional y. Together, in the aggregate of their work, they created the end of the world. That's what his soul cried out in despair—and in the subtext. The creators of the apocalypse—this would be a suitable and quite businesslike headline for his investigative article.

As an example, he cited the transformation of former President Jimmy Carter. In January 1977, Jimmy Carter moved into the White House with the somewhat naive and, at the same time, sincere intention to stop the alarming course of the war machine, to halt the buildup, and, moreover, to achieve a reduction in nuclear arsenals. At the first meeting with the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the top five American generals and admirals, the new president told them that, in his view, the United States could make do with just two hundred units of nuclear weapons, which would be sufficient for a retaliatory strike in the event of a nuclear attack by the other side. Thus, he proclaimed himself a supporter of minimal deterrence.

After hearing the statement of the new commander-in-chief, the Chiefs of Staff were left speechless. The president's words struck people who served the sword, not the plow. The new approach, among other

things, made them unnecessary individuals. To give up thousands and thousands of units of nuclear weapons and settle for just two hundred?

To offer such a proposal to the highest military ranks, as Powers sarcastical y compared, was like suggesting to the largest bankers to close banks and distribute their fortunes to the poor in the name of the triumph of justice.

Can a president be re-educated? In such cases, it can and should be done. And so began the re-education—and self-education—of Jimmy Carter. The habits of the former engineer and his love for details helped.

Details tired his predecessor Richard Nixon, even details of nuclear scenarios, where the course and outcome of various nuclear conflict scenarios were presented with maximum precision. Such developments bored President Nixon, and no matter how much they persuaded him, he never stayed until the end at top-secret meetings in the White House, where the Unified Unified Operational Plan was thoroughly examined.

This plan outlined the main and auxiliary targets for any strategic payload in the American nuclear arsenal. Jimmy Carter, with his background as a naval engineer-submariner, wanted to know everything.

Upon his instructions, special dril s were conducted for the emergency evacuation of the president in the event of a nuclear war. He wanted to know everything: how to behave, what would be his duties as the commander-in-chief in this extraordinary situation?

Once, his national security advisor, Zbigniew Brzezinski, acting as the president, suddenly declared a state of emergency and demanded immediate evacuation from the White House. Panic and complete chaos ensued. Secret service agents caught off guard almost shot at the presidential helicopter landing on the White House lawn, the evacuation team performed poorly, and the whole operation took an unacceptably long time.

The president drew al the necessary conclusions from this incident. He diligently rehearsed the role of himself in the event of a nuclear war, studying al the scenarios. Wake him up at any time of the night, and he instantly oriented himself in the situation, maintained complete clarity, reacted appropriately to everything, knew how the voice on the other end of the special phone would sound, and so on.

Al these characteristics of the meticulous and detail-oriented engineer contributed to a shift in President Carter's defense policy—towards practical planning for nuclear war. Carter initial y thought of reducing nuclear arsenals, but things went differently during his tenure. The first report on the state of American strategic forces prepared under him assumed that there were more of them than needed. The report was rejected by Defense Secretary Harold Brown.

Instead, a report on the policy of choosing strategic targets appeared, suggesting that the quantity and high accuracy of modern nuclear weapons required the development of plans for their "selective" and

"limited" use. As a result, the emphasis was placed on what would practical y be needed to conduct a nuclear war, based on its acceptability and feasibility. The third and final report justified the need for new huge expenditures on weapons and communication means required to wage a nuclear war for several months or even years.

These were the transformations, as described by Thomas Powers, that occurred with Jimmy Carter. He started with the dream of limiting and reducing nuclear weapons. But by the end of his presidency, after navigating through the missile-nuclear mazes, he emerged as an advocate of "limited" nuclear war and essential y increased the danger of catastrophe.

Ronald Reagan came not to reduce but to build up armaments.

From the very beginning. And the details that fascinated and corrupted his predecessor were unnecessary and optional for him.

Thomas Powers reported that in December 1947, almost the sole atomic target for Americans was Moscow. Eight bombs were intended for it. Within a couple of years, the "Dropshot" plan envisioned the use of three hundred bombs against two hundred targets in a hundred industrial and urban areas of the Soviet Union. An ancient history! In 1974, Pentagon planners outlined twenty-five thousand targets on Soviet territory for nuclear strikes. By 1980, it was forty thousand! "Now everything is included in this list," wrote Powers. And the list "is stil growing."

Looking into the future, the worst of al possible outcomes, Powers concluded his study: "Strategic planners do not attempt to predict with precision what the world wil look like after a nuclear war. There are too

many variables. But, based on the task of planning the distant future, they agree that both sides wil , to some extent, 'recover' their forces, and that the most likely outcome of a global nuclear war wil be preparations for a second global nuclear war. Therefore, if we reason practical y, a global nuclear war by no means ends the nuclear threat. And if the pre-war and post-war worlds are similar in any way, it is more likely that this threat of war wil persist."

The

Americanist

emerged

from

the

article,

closed

the

commemorative magazine with a silver-blue cover, and put it in the briefcase—useful.

The cursed century, poisoning today with nightmares of the future!

Passengers were stil watching a romantic comedy.

The Americanist took out a notebook from his briefcase and wrote:

"Didn't watch the movie, read Thomas Powers' article in 'The Atlantic.'

Calm and terrifying. One of the key points—new types of weapons dictate a new military strategy. It is precisely precision weapons that make nuclear war conceivable and bring it closer. What's next? Powers doesn't attempt to answer the question, which is beyond his abilities (and whose abilities is it within?). According to American cabinet strategists, preparation for the second nuclear war wil begin after the first nuclear war.

Military-political technocrats and hawks not only think about the unthinkable, but they also want to flirt with the unthinkable, namely—rationalize nuclear war,—the Americanist wrote.—This is the direction their thinking is heading. The common people's ordinary approach: nuclear war is darkness, a precipice that humanity must final y stop, into which one should not deepen in any way. Here is where salvation is—stop the movement of thought at the fatal juncture, working on inventing increasingly horrific instruments of death. Enough! We've worked enough! Beyond that is the abyss, where future generations wil perish or not be born. But this approach of ordinary people, non-professionals, nuclear strategists reject—as naive, dilettante, childish. Their thinking, even here, at the last line, does not stop. No, we must master and inhabit this darkness, learn to see through it without flinching in the face of catastrophe. Darkness wil stay with us, the darkness wil not hide—in this lies their chil ing and inhuman realism.

The practical American,—the Americanist continued,—wil cease to be a practical American if he does not dissect, does not break down the pitch-black darkness into its component parts. In doing so, he may find that the darkness is even scarier than he thought, but it wil be a mastered, inhabited darkness, darkness with landmarks. That's why an American general is preparing for nuclear war, thereby bringing it closer.

And ours? What should we do if the American is getting ready?"

The plane stil headed for San Francisco, and the passengers kil ed time by looking at the glowing screen above the seat backs. On the screen, Hol ywood-transformed images of their homeland flickered below in the darkness, with its ubiquitous cars and smooth roads, neatly trimmed green lawns, picturesque trees in front of cozy houses with white shutters, and smiling women and men.

Unbeknownst to the American fel ow travelers, there was a Russian sitting by the window, quietly passing the time in a different way.

Memory took him back to the recent past, already veiled in the fog of oblivion, and he navigated through the mist, trying to reconstruct the details. No, not a dream. It happened. It was an early, chil y morning. On the water. Around mid-May.

For the impending event, the editorial staff spared a special correspondent, and he flew to Washington, where Aeroflot stil operated, and where Amerikanist was stil a correspondent. The correspondent took the special correspondent to Boston, the site of the event, without incidents, bypassing New York, covering over six hundred kilometers.

Only towards the end, near Boston, did they get stopped by a highway patrol officer for speeding. But the officer let them go without a fine and with a blessing when Amerikanist approached him with a repentant look and shrugged, explaining that yes, he was guilty of speeding, but there was a need to hurry, you know... You couldn't win over an American cop with pity, but this one, under Boston, understood. He knew that an event was expected the next day, that there was no excuse for haste, but he showed mercy.

They spent the night in an old seamen's hotel for foreign sailors and other budget-conscious travelers. There were phones in the rooms, but they connected in an old-fashioned way, through the operator sitting downstairs at the entrance, behind an antique switchboard. She, essential y, constituted the entire visible staff. She registered and settled

the guests, and Amerikanist was afraid that in this run-down hotel, where foreign sailors stayed and foreign correspondents never did, the inexperienced telephone operator might not understand or might mix everything up when a cal from Moscow suddenly rang. After al , they came specifical y to cover the upcoming event.

Early in the morning, dressed a bit warmer, in the same car with the Soviet naval attaché, who had also arrived in Boston, they headed from the hotel to a special dock. Now he couldn't remember where that dock was. Most likely, it was on the territory of the local detachment of the U.S. Coast Guard. There was definitely a Coast Guard cutter with al its identification marks that other vessels had to respect. And in the rare company of American border guards and the Soviet naval attaché, they set off into the harbor and into the ocean, shivering from the fresh wind and cold spray, and nervous about the extraordinary encounter that awaited them.

...What a pity he didn't record the details right away. There was nothing among his papers about this trip to Boston. Nothing remained except for the brief dancing lines in his reporter's notebook and two tiny notes in the newspaper, under which there were their two signatures....

So, on the cutter, they set out into the ocean, and when the skyscrapers of Boston turned into ghostly, misty visions far behind, and the morning ghosts rose ahead, the silhouettes of two warships also appeared. Merging with the leaden ripple of the water, two Soviet destroyers awaited them from the night. This was an extraordinary event: not just another civilian visit (they changed each other endlessly at that time), but a naval visit to the United States. Of course, it was prepared for a long time and not without difficulties. But it happened.

According to an interstate agreement, Soviet destroyers came to the port of Boston just on the day when two American military ships visited Leningrad. May 1975. Stil a thaw, although in the counterattacks of its enemies, the secret joy of the victors glimmered. In the spirit of the thaw, by agreement reached in more prosperous days and which was now inconvenient to cancel, there was an exchange of naval visits, the first and only ones in the post-war years.

And now they climbed the gangway onto the flagship destroyer, and here they were on the command bridge, surrounded by the faces of the Northern Fleet officers, their caps adorned with crabs, their dress

uniforms and their questions, their excitement – a long crossing behind them, but ahead – the most important part. And the ships began to move, an American boat went alongside, burying itself in the waves, and the skyscrapers approached and grew, no longer misty ghosts but shining metal and glass in the sun.

Our counter-admiral, in command of the crossing, refused the services of harbor tugs, surprising the Americans, and immediately impressed them with his skil ful mooring.

A ceremony of greeting. Salutes of nations. Admirals' salutes.

On the right side of the same pier, hidden behind a cargo hold, stood the giant cruiser "Albany," the flagship of the U.S. Atlantic Fleet.

The cruiser specifical y came to Boston to meet and, as it were, balance the two Soviet destroyers. When the commander of the Atlantic Fleet approached the flagship destroyer in his black official "Chevrolet," a red carpet covered the ceremonial gangway, the ship's crew's brass band played a welcoming march, and the Soviet admiral reported to the higher-ranking American admiral through an interpreter. Then the two admirals exchanged a manly handshake and, it seemed, even smiled at each other, retreating into the commanding cabin, accompanied by senior officers. At the door, an excited messenger waited, clumsily holding a tray with foggy glasses of cold vodka.

Our admiral had a typical, one might say, common Russian face, and it looked disarmingly simple under the wide-brimmed hat of a cap adorned with gold embroidery.

The

Soviet

ambassador

arrived

from

Washington.

He

accompanied the admiral during his visits to Boston, causing the admiral to feel lost and embarrassed, as the ambassador outranked him. On the first day, they made courtesy visits to the governor of Massachusetts and the mayor of Boston. Reporters, both American and Soviet, fol owed in their footsteps. The governor graciously expressed satisfaction that Boston was the first American port visited by Soviet military ships. The mayor playful y suggested that the admiral take a strol through the streets of Boston and talk to the residents to personal y verify their friendliness.

Press conferences were inevitable, and about fifty reporters crowded into the cramped Spartan cabin of the "Boiky." The news spread across America. In the evening news program on the ABC

channel, a wel -known commentator exclaimed, "The Russians have come!" During the "Cold War" years, the exclamation "the Russians are coming!" sounded like an alarm, a cry for help. "The Russians have come!" repeated the renowned commentator. And he added, "They've come with joy and noise."

...And al of this, gazing into the mist of days gone by, remembered the Americanist. But al this, dear reader, is just a necessary prelude to one episode, or a scene, a picture.

Excursions were arranged for our sailors in the city, and for the townspeople, open days on Soviet ships. And the people of Boston, simple and not so simple, curious and friendly, rushed to see what Russians had come and on what they had come, to take photos with them, browse through and take away Soviet brochures and booklets.

The crowd rushed in unison, and in this whirl, in the human throng on board the "Boiky," he suddenly saw a very young sailor, dressed in his uniform with a striped sailor's vest and a hat with ribbons, standing with an equal y young and simple American girl. How did they find each other? How did they get acquainted without knowing the language?

What attracted them? Who can say? But they stood together, close, tight, if not pressed, then at least leaning against each other and holding hands, looking at each other with loving eyes, shy in front of other people, and yet, as if floating above them, as if soaring above their interest, question, curiosity.

One or another person carried them towards this pair in the human crush, and he was about to col ide with them, and perhaps, like some elementary particle, split them, shatter this new, incomprehensible, suddenly formed atom—and suddenly, looking and understanding, how this person stopped as if rooted, resisted and opposed the pressure of the crowd, did not want to be an elementary particle, splitting the sailor and the girl. The human whirl weakened near the lovers...

This scene could not fit into a short newspaper note, but the Americanist, as a precaution, kept it in his memory for a long time. Then it faded away—no longer needed. And now he struggled to extract it from oblivion, from the thickening fog, and imagined, supplemented by imagination, their open, defenseless, pure faces washed by the young attraction and the expression on the faces of people who became

witnesses of this sudden and doomed love. Romeo and Juliet in the drama of the relationship between two nations and two states. They were lonely and helpless in the private affair of their love. Their case was not foreseen in the program of military-naval exchanges. Not a person came to a person, but a fleet to a fleet, a state to a state...

And he immediately remembered another episode from those May days, which also surfaced like a dream.

There, in Boston, he kept his "Oldsmobile" in a paid parking lot not far from the hotel. One morning they came to take the car and go to the port, to the "Boiky" and "Zhguchy." And just then a car rol ed into the parking lot, and from it came an elderly but wel -preserved gentleman.

After parking his car in line with others, greeting the on-duty African American, the gentleman went about his business with the gait of a sporty man. And, watching him go, the attendant, in a somewhat elevated tone, asked, "Do you guys know who this person is?" And, proud that he knows, that this is just the case when it is not a sin for him, a Negro earning pennies in some miserable parking lot, to boast, he said that this is a big man, that this is Colonel Paul Tibbets, the same one who... You know? Heard about Hiroshima? Thunder out of the blue. And the sky was indeed clear, and under it, like everyone else, a man with an ordinary briefcase in his right hand, cal ed a case, walked, an elderly man with a straight and stil strong back, a lawyer or a businessman, resembling other prosperous gentlemen of his age. Meanwhile, he carried not in his case, but in his head, the only story in the world. That same Colonel Paul Tibbets, who commanded the special 509th Air Group of the US Air Force and dropped the first atomic bomb on Hiroshima on August 6, 1945...

Paul Tibbets, the embodiment of history, emerged suddenly whole and unharmed in a May Boston morning, just as a man who parked his car in the parking lot and, waving his briefcase, disappeared around the corner in the waterfront area, which was located as if between the past and the future, where there were stil dark and gloomy old brick houses in some places, and in other places, they were demolished and turned into wastelands—parking lots, to later build modern buildings of stainless steel and polished, reflecting both the earth and sky, mirror glass. The chief executor of Hiroshima passed by, heading to his office, the Negro explained that he works nearby and always leaves his car here. He

passed and disappeared—and was forgotten. He left no trace even in the green notebook of the Americanist, where, in a dancing scrawl, words about the Soviet counter-admiral and the American vice-admiral, the governor of Massachusetts, and the mayor of Boston, and someone else's statement were inscribed: "Sailors are typical tourists." A journalist must catch such moments on the fly. Catch up, stop, extract at least a couple of words. Only one thing can excuse the Americanist—in those years the theme of the nuclear threat seemed to have evaporated. Don't believe it? Flip through newspaper archives.

But Hiroshima is one of those events that do not obey time and the law of historical distance. In the seventies, it moved away. In the eighties, it approached. No, this shadow did not disappear around the nearest corner. Stretched monstrously, the shadow of Hiroshima covered the entire globe.

In the face of the threat of universal non-existence, the meaning of the past and present loses its significance—history and culture, feats and achievements, love and tenderness, and the endless succession of generations fading into the darkness of centuries. For only then does it al retain meaning when there is a future. And death makes sense if there is life after us. But what, you may ask, is the meaning of this procession through the centuries and mil ennia, cal ed history, if the final, ultimate point is the self-destruction of humanity?

The Americanist again lacked his own words; again, he turned to the help of the most passionate and truthful force of his native language—its great poetry. But the classics lived in another time. They were concerned with eternal questions of life and death, but these were questions of the life and death of an individual, not of humanity. The wise did not deal with what in our days disturbs even fools.

However, Tyutchev helped him. They say he wrote these lines at a meeting of the censorship department. He forgot, left the sheet on the table. But someone picked them up, published them a quarter of a century later, after the poet's death.

"No matter how heavy the final hour, that incomprehensible agony of mortal suffering, but for the soul, it is even more painful to watch as al the best memories in it die away..."

Agony of mortal suffering.

Not just one person. The entire humanity.

...The final hour, that incomprehensible agony of mortal suffering...

Like many of his col eagues, the Americanist had acquired a new folder in his chaotic dossier and christened it with a word that had become popular—Apocalypse. Apocalyptic revelations expressed in special military-political terms of the nuclear age were now ubiquitous in newspaper pages.

In the new folder, there were opinions from politicians and political scientists, diplomats, military personnel, nuclear physicists, doctors, educators, and fel ow journalists. And—writers. Writers had long ceased to be the rulers of thoughts, ceding this role to entertainment idols and television celebrities, but true writers continued to sense the world more acutely than others and better express the universal truth of mortal suffering that had gripped humanity. The Americanist would have tried to prove this by extracting a few quotes from his dossier.

For example, here is a rather long excerpt from an Italian:

"Dear friend, I find myself in Hiroshima, and here is the latest news for you: I am no longer an individual, not an Italian, not a European—I am merely one of the representatives of a biological species, and, moreover, a species that, apparently, faces extinction in the near future.

I must say that suddenly discovering that you are primarily a representative of a species is unpleasant. This sensation had been forgotten, erased by mil ions of years of human history. It's a leap back into prehistoric times, moreover, into some distant geological epoch. And here's another reason why the discovery is quite unpleasant: I found out that I am a representative of the species because this species is facing annihilation. The thing is that when I, as an individual, a writer, an Italian, a European, and so on, used to think about death, I ceased to be an individual and felt like just a representative of the species, and as such, immortal, because the species would never die... But no one could foresee that at a certain moment, not this or that nation, but an entire species could be threatened with complete destruction; that nature itself, seemingly eternal, could be doomed to premature death; that the very existence of humanity could be interrupted by premature, terrible, and absurd destruction.

It is always sad to refute wisdom because wisdom is a way of thinking that is beyond time; it is the finite result of al human experience.

But when applied to the atomic bomb, wisdom makes no sense, as the atomic bomb is precisely designed to destroy this seemingly immortal species. What immortality are we talking about! It's good if we, the human race, live at least another twenty years, at least until the year 2000!

...In the end, there wil be no nature, no God, only a scorched and blackened stone destined to forever rotate in the emptiness of cosmic space; a dead and inert stone, similar to the Moon we have now seen firsthand. Yes, a stone on which civilizations, cultures, and nations have succeeded each other for centuries, whose history is about to end in atomic flames. And for reasons that cannot be considered anything but monstrously disproportionate and random.

When I realized that nuclear death threatened us, I felt amazement before experiencing horror and fear. How, I said to myself, so much effort over thousands of years—and suddenly, an instantaneous, blinding flash, a monstrous roar, and then there wil be nothing!"

Or here is one from a West German:

"No, it is not the wrath of the gods that threatens us. It is not John the Theologian painting dark pictures predicting universal doom, nor the prophecies of sorcerers serving as our oracle. With objectivity befitting our time, columns of numbers are presented to us, summing up mortality from hunger, statistical data characterizing the rise of poverty, tables compiling

ecological

catastrophes—madness

as

the

result

of

calculations, an apocalypse as the outcome of accounting. One can dispute only the digits after the decimal point, but the conclusion is irrefutable: the destruction of man by man has begun...

Contrary to reason, predation intensifies, environmental pol ution is shameful y justified, and the potential for destruction has long surpassed the threshold of madness, continuing to grow beyond calculation. And the pitiful fear we experience wil soon, perhaps, cease to be expressed in words and turn into silent horror, facing the void—facing the impending nothingness where any sounds lose their meaning.

... However banal it may sound, life goes on. People want to make new discoveries, invent and improve inventions, write more and more

new books. I wil write too because I cannot do otherwise, because I am unable to give up creativity, writing. Nevertheless, in the book I want to write now, I won't be able to pretend any longer that I am confident in the reality of the future. I wil have to write about saying goodbye to everything that is damaged, saying goodbye to the wounded nature, to our reason, which created everything in the world, and today can turn al that exists into nothing."

From a Russian Soviet poet:

"I walked among the blue pines, photographing their faces like a victim before being kil ed, as a murderer photographs his prey.

Russian forests stood, their bodies trembling slightly. They stared into my eyes, like a person facing execution.

The oaks gazed at the sunset. Neither Michelangelo nor Phidias could create them more beautiful y. No one wil see them anymore.

'Halt, kil er of men!' cried those who were alive. In a moment, nuclear explosions wil destroy them al .

'Halt, executioner of beasts and birds, evolved monkey! You are destroying the genius meaning of nature in vain.'

And I couldn't find You amid the absurd space, and I couldn't find myself, couldn't find, no matter how hard I tried.

I understood that there wil be no more years, no twenty-first century, that time is now nonexistent. It is cut off mid-sentence..."

Wil there be a future? That was the question. Writers from the Americana's dossier heard the hoofbeats of the four horsemen of the Apocalypse. However, in another folder of his dossier, there was an optimistic forecast from a wel -known futurist. He had no doubt that the future would come. Americana wasn't comforted by his optimism because the futurist promised a future after a nuclear war. He did not believe that a nuclear war could be avoided. Yet, at the same time, he did not believe that nuclear war would end humanity. He was confident that, as a biological species, we would survive it. Like the military planners in Thomas Powers' article, the futurist did not even rule out a second nuclear war, contemplating the interval between two nuclear wars.

Americana remembered this American wel . He was not a shadow or a dream. The round, puffy face with a white beard, like that of a ship captain, and the furrowed forehead stil vividly stood before his eyes, even though more than two years had passed since their last meeting.

Moreover, Americana also came across the futurist's face in the printed pages. People lined up to him, like to a fashionable clairvoyant, always eager to learn about the future. This queue consisted of journalists because, unlike clairvoyants, he predicted not personal but general futures. Final y, Americana's own notes on their last meeting were quite extensive—twenty pages typed.

They conducted interviews together with Gennady and, upon returning to Moscow, struggled to translate it into Russian, tormenting both themselves and the tape recorder. Over the years, the futurist developed the bad habit of muttering unintel igibly to himself: let them figure it out if they want. And those who approached the source of his wisdom had to work hard to decipher it. But it was worth the effort. Rare was the human specimen with extraordinary intel igence, exploring possibilities of the future with daring fearlessness and nonchalance.

Taking that last interview, Americana pondered in various ways whether it could be adapted for the newspaper. He even came up with a catchy headline—A Conversation with the Humanist. But these musings remained just that. Too much had to be cut to fit the Humanist into the newspaper Procrustean bed. And to preserve the flavor of his words and evaluations, one had to be generous with space, quoting liberal y to better convey the impression of a great mind and eerie candor. Take, for example, this excerpt from their conversation:

"...And secondly, strategic nuclear war is very cheap. It doesn't require huge amounts of money...

— So, means of mutual mass destruction are cheap? And are getting cheaper and cheaper?

That's the problem, that's the temptation.

— So, a cheap path to the other world, from here to eternity...

— No, that's simply not true that there are possibilities for mass suicide, for the wholesale destruction of humanity.

— Do you believe that humanity can survive a nuclear war?

— Yes, unless there are some unforeseen consequences of using nuclear weapons. If you take the usual estimates, then, without a doubt, we can survive such a war. Without a doubt...

— But even if someone survives, how can humanity mental y endure, having gone through this act of madness, lunacy?

— Because it survived before. Take the history of Jamestown and Plymouth Rock, the first two English colonies in North America. Both lost half their population in the first year—due to diseases and famine. But they survived and continued to grow, and look at the country we have now. And such cases happened more than once in the history of humanity.

— But that's not what I'm talking about. I'm talking about how human beings can withstand so much self-inflicted evil.

— My answer is that they can. And they have proven it more than once. They adapt. It's just that the current young generation has not experienced anything like this. It has been sheltered from everything. It didn't know the Second World War...

— Did Americans know that war at al ?...

— I've already said that Americans are spoiled by being rich and powerful, and therefore, even when they do foolish things, they are used to not paying for them. But keep in mind that, in general, these are religious people who wil endure everything... Yes, we are very spoiled.

But, you know, we have such a saying: the tree of freedom must be watered with the blood of each new generation. So, we are spoiled because we have stopped believing in it. We got used to living without suffering. But how many generations were there that saw the history of humanity in a completely different way? Cities were besieged and destroyed, barbarians attacked from land and sea. And civilization survived. And al this was normal. Do you real y think that from now on everything has changed, that the tragedies and dramas of history are over, and people should just live better and better? I'm sorry, but this is a crazy idea..."

Scrol ing through this excerpt from the tape recording, Americana heard the lively and somewhat embarrassed voice of his friend, who defended himself with irony— "a cheap path to the other world, from here to eternity," his own protests: how can humanity survive under these mountains of self-inflicted evil? Irony and protests bounced off the

portly man like peas off a wal . He turned the concept of optimism upside down because his optimism was monstrous. It was staggering: everyone survived and wil survive, even a thermonuclear war.

And proof? The fate of the first two English colonies on American soil. Two or three hundred people from the 16th century, the cold, hunger, attacks, and even disease— and the instantaneous destruction of centuries-old centers of civilization, the death of hundreds of mil ions of people. How can one balance these things? Or is he hopelessly

"spoiled," like his compatriots, having stayed across the ocean in the last world war? They don't know the price of an ounce of ordinary trouble; they can't imagine the trouble of a nuclear kind. A match wil ignite, and their praised tree of freedom wil burn, and it wil no longer need any sacrifices.

Arguments emerged after the fact, and Americana realized that he had not come to terms with this man.

The portly professor with a gray skipper's beard was cal ed Herman Kahn. For many, this name wil ring a bel or at least evoke something. He was the founder and director of the Hudson Institute, a brain center of the conservative persuasion, a so-cal ed strategic thinker, a prolific author of sensational apocalyptic and futurological books, a consultant to the White House, the Pentagon, several other governments, and numerous American and foreign corporations. A new type of philosopher-practitioner, he, along with his students and col eagues, actively offered intel ectual goods in various practical fields on the capitalist market of demand.

The phrase of the century belongs to Herman Kahn—thinking about the unthinkable—giving the title to one of his books and defining his main cal ing, the passion of his life. To an ordinary mortal, only one conceivable option seems to exist in the event of a nuclear catastrophe, one course of action long recommended by enthusiasts of black humor: wrapped in a white shroud, without panic, without hindering others, crawl towards the cemetery in the final act of self-service. And Herman Kahn, thinking about the unthinkable, easily sent humanity into an unthinkable war—and granted life and prosperity to the survivors, provided there were no unforeseen consequences, consequences he had not yet worked out…

A "crazy idea" for him was a world without wars, and doesn't this one statement alone mean that Herman Kahn boldly swapped reason and madness? But arguing with him was difficult. It was necessary to appeal more to conscience, to common sense, to experience. For the bloody experience of world history was on the side of the futurist. What wil prevail—experience or dream? Because on the side of those who, like Americana, rejected these thoughts about the unthinkable, there was only a great and indestructible dream of an ideal arrangement of human society and interstate relations. The dream was reinforced by the immense power of his country and its socialist al ies, who set themselves the historical goal of a world where wars would disappear, and social justice would reign. But for the socialist community, as another, opposite charge, the capitalist world opposed, and the charges, if taken in terms of military, not political expression, were nuclear, and their touch threatened an apocalyptic flash. The dream of the ideal existed—on a practical level—as a dream of stable peaceful coexistence of two systems. Herman Kahn excluded it not only because of political and ideological differences but even due to the biological nature of man. For humanity to realize its great dream of a war-free world, it would have to change its historical and biological nature, the nature of its mind, consciousness, its inexhaustible genius in inventing instruments of enmity and death. Herman Kahn did not entertain such a possibility.

Their last meeting occurred when Americana arrived in New York during the hot summer of the pre-election battles between Jimmy Carter and Ronald Reagan. He contacted the Hudson Institute, finding the phone number in an old notebook. Herman Kahn agreed to meet, and the next day, his secretary sent detailed instructions by mail on how to get to the smal town of Croton-on-Hudson, miles north of New York.

August in New York resembled a giant sauna, unfortunately devoid of purely bathhouse pleasures. The trip, among other things, enticed with the prospect of moving from the urban hel to the countryside. And so, with Gennady, an old friend since their institute days, who had risen to a high position in our information and propaganda service, they set off along the Hudson, glistening in the sun. After half an hour, passing through the Bronx and Riverdale, they immersed themselves in the

curly-green goodness of provincial America, seemingly unaware of its stifling, sweaty, rumbling neighbor.

In an hour, they reached their destination. Along lush, sun-shaded al eys of winding streets and al eys, they climbed a hil , where on level emerald lawns, amid old gnarled trees, stood stone buildings in the

"Tudor" style. In the early 20th century, there was a sanatorium for alcoholics from wealthy families, and at its end, certified enthusiasts predicting the future century settled here.

Concrete slabs of the footpath, leading from the car park to the two-story, sharp-roofed house, disappeared into the grass. Nature froze in sweet midday languor. And the friends, weary of New York summer, sighed in unison, and Gennady said, "It's here that they hatch their cannibalistic schemes..."

The Hudson Institute—a classified institution providing secret and top-secret services to the government and the private sector—retained a homely comfort in the old building. In the reception area, a cozy housekeeper offered them armchairs near the grandfather clock, and through an internal phone, informed someone that two Russian reporters had arrived. A few minutes later, a large, pleasant-looking young woman in a red blouse and sand-colored skirt came out to them. Her name was Maureen. They climbed to the second floor via a creaky wooden staircase and, through the sunlit gal ery, entered the director's book-lined office.

Herman Kahn rose from behind the desk in a simple shirt with an open col ar, as thick as twelve years ago when Americana met him in New York. The face had aged and softened, and behind the thick glasses, smal sharp eyes seemed to peer from a distance.

Without wasting time, he invited the guests to ask any questions that interested them. He was as candid as ever, both in judgments and sincerity, which endeared him, making it easier to perceive his revelations.

The first question the friends asked was of a general nature—what he thought about Americans and America in the current world. Herman Kahn began not with the details of the already past 1980 election struggle, which occupied newspapers and TV screens in those days but with general reflections on the wel -being and moods of the nation.

"For the past fifteen years in the United States, there has been a movement towards traditional values," he began. "You know, every year the Gal up Institute asks Americans: who do you admire the most? And publishes a list of the top ten people who received the most votes. The first on the list is always the President of the United States. Even if he does a lousy job, they stil admire him—it's the president. But second or third,

for

about

a

decade

now,

they've

been

naming

the

preacher-evangelist Bil y Graham. And no one used to hold second place two years in a row. What's going on? It's a revival of religion, faith in the Bible. Did you think they were turning away from the church? No, they are returning to it. And to the real church that believes in the Bible, not the liberal church preaching welfare programs. Many of these Americans don't vote in elections, but from the government's point of view, they are very good people: they pay taxes when needed, serve in the army, and take their country seriously. The Americans you, Soviets, meet here are usual y atheists. But don't forget that this is a minority, that the United States is perhaps the most religious country in the world. If you don't understand this, you won't understand much about the current United States. We are returning to traditional values."

The number of adherents to fundamentalist traditional religions, to which I include myself, even though I don't attend church, has increased by about a quarter, Herman Kap developed his thought, bridging the gap from religion to politics, from religious conservatism to political conservatism. "The role and influence of the so-cal ed new conservatives, to which I also belong, are growing. Serious people listen to us, and now we are winning in al debates. Don't confuse new conservatives with the right. The latter are dogmatists, while new conservatives, for the most part, emerged from the left, although personal y, I have never belonged to the left. About a third of neoconservatives are Jews, and in this group, they are probably the most active. New conservatives are the fastest-growing group of intel ectuals in the United States, and they set the tone in al discussions—on defense, economy, politics, and so on. Can they come out on top? Yes, of course, if they find a president who can lead and strengthen this movement. Essential y, such attempts have been made since the sixties. At first, they saw their president in Nixon. However, in his first term, it was hard to distinguish him from Kennedy. They even

cal ed him John Fitzgerald Nixon. In his second term, Nixon could probably have lived up to the conservatives' hopes, but then the Watergate scandal happened. Nixon resigned. Ford came, and from a conservative point of view, he also seemed like a suitable person. But one day Ford happened to say that there was nothing wrong with smoking marijuana, and his wife publicly justified extramarital relations.

There you have the classic American couple! Of course, there was nothing special in their words, but to hear such things from the president and his wife—dismissed! Carter emphasized his deep religiosity, and besides, he is a businessman, farmer, engineer, and a naval officer.

What else? The most suitable, plain president from the point of view of the average American! But Carter's presidency showed that he also does not meet this dream of a truly American president. And here comes Reagan—our last hope. I'm for Reagan. I don't trust Carter. I don't trust Reagan either, but less than Carter..."

Kap chuckled.

The year came when the neoconservatives placed their bet on Reagan against Carter—and won. However, let's not interrupt Herman Kap. Let him elaborate further. Let's continue his reflections on Americans, their upbringing, and the peculiarities of their patriotism.

Despite their sketchiness, they are useful for understanding the ongoing processes in America and, in any case, suggest the idea that to understand America, one must use an American yardstick. Let's listen to Kap in a literal tape recording:

"Our biggest problem is that we are an incredibly rich country with colossal technological development. We make mistakes and don't pay for them. Western Europe pays for its mistakes, but we don't.

Paradoxical y, it would be better for us if we paid for our mistakes. We are too rich and too strong. And we fear nothing. It's just terrible...

He chuckled abruptly, expressing both outrage and admiration for the fact that his country does not pay for anything.

"Take our education system. What do we teach children in our liberal schools? That business robs natural resources, pol utes the environment, causes people to get lung cancer, profits from the exploitation of natural wealth—in short, that the whole system is corrupt.

For such a school, we should probably pay. It seems that after graduating from it, these people would say: why bother with this stupid system? But that doesn't happen. They calmly go into business and work conscientiously there; they serve wel in the army and, in general, have a patriotic mindset. How long can we avoid paying for al this? Ten years? Twenty? Perhaps. Just not fifty.

Our social system is fundamental y harsh, and our people are tough, growing up that way from childhood in their families. I have lectured at Harvard, Princeton, Yale, and Columbia University. I also conducted seminars for graduate students, with sixty people in each.

And sometimes I would ask them: 'How many of you have at least three rifles or pistols in your families?' How many do you think answered positively? Twenty people, a third of them. I then asked: 'Who among you received a smal -caliber rifle as a gift from your parents at the age of twelve?' It turned out al twenty did. By the age of fourteen, almost al of them had hunting rifles. And if a child has a rifle, from which, by the way, one can kil a person, he is no longer a child. In our smal settlements, teenagers learn how to handle weapons for two years. During this time, they wil also learn to build a fire, set up a tent, and general y survive in the wilderness. It matures a young man. If I had to choose, I would prefer a person who grew up with a weapon. He is more reliable and disciplined.

But we forgot about the remaining forty students. I asked them:

'Remember, have you ever had to wait for more than a year for the fulfil ment of any reasonable desire of yours?' If you demand a bicycle at six, it's unreasonable. If you want to go to Paris at twenty-two, it's reasonable; at eighteen, it's not. If you ask for a car at eighteen or nineteen, it's reasonable; at thirteen, it's not." And imagine, my students couldn't remember what they would be wil ing to wait for more than a year. Twice a year—on Christmas and Thanksgiving—in the United States, there is a real gift frenzy. Children are spoiled. They don't grasp the most important lesson in life—that life itself is not gracious, not generous. But somehow it doesn't ruin the children. They grow up general y fine. By the way, wealthy people raise their children differently.

If everyone could get to the DuPonts' or Rockefel ers' birthday parties—as I managed to—you would see that there are not many

children's toys there, and they are al durable toys. The rich are very afraid of spoiling their children..."

The idea expressed by Kap, that Americans are not accustomed to paying for anything, seemed significant, central even (not individual Americans, of course, not groups of the underprivileged, but the nation with imperial aspirations). It explained much in the behavior of the United States on the world stage, the more risk-taking attitude of the ruling class towards the possibility of war, even with the icy detachment with which Herman Kai contemplated nuclear war and life after it. Yes, they are not accustomed to paying. Yes, the rooster did not crow for them. Spoiled children of history. And war has always been the most convincing proof: others in Europe, in Asia, paid, and they mostly won. In the Second World War, they suffered human casualties fifty times less than we did.

Fifty times! Meanwhile, sorrow, suffering, and losses multiply the national experience in a geometric progression, ingrained in national memory. On the contrary, the Second World War in America ended the economic depression, provided a rare period of ful employment, and brought a pristine America onto the post-war stage with dreams of the "American century," with claims of being the world's master, asserting its rights among European and Asian ruins. Of the living generations of Americans, only one ful y experienced misfortune and hardship—those who survived the severe economic crisis of the late twenties and early thirties.

In assessing the prospects of American-Soviet relations, Herman Kahn showed sobriety and foresight, and his cautious forecasts, unfortunately, came true. Even in 1980, he foresaw new rounds of the arms race ahead, advocated for them, and believed that Ronald Reagan was the best figure to preside in Washington under such circumstances.

"When Carter increases military spending, he does it for cosmetic reasons, yielding to political pressure," Kahn remarked. "And Reagan believes in superiority. And our country can achieve what it truly wants. If I were Reagan, I would do two things—and I hope he wil . First, I wouldn't be as conciliatory towards the Soviet Union as Carter.

Somewhere, we have to draw the line. Secondly, Reagan should tel you: we are going to increase our armed forces very rapidly, but it is not a threat to you."

"Whether you like it or not, American armed forces wil be greatly increased," Kahn prophesied. "We no longer want to worry. From 1948

to 1970, we had a tremendous advantage. In 1965, for example, it was fantastic: we could destroy your ground nuclear forces without even destroying your cities. Now we want a little superiority. And we are going to impose it on you. We have the money, we have the technology. It may take five to ten years regardless of what you do in the Soviet Union," he threatened. Reagan wants to achieve this—either because he is very clever or because he is foolish. I don't know. Ultimately, I'm not so worried about it. It's much more dangerous to disengage. Run so run.

That's what we're trying to achieve..."

The famous futurist Herman Kahn died in 1983 at the age of sixty-one, as an ordinary mortal, from heart disease. In the end, he even seemed to have softened in his predictions, no longer frightening with the inevitability of nuclear war. His last book, published during his lifetime, was cal ed "The Coming Boom." He promised prosperity for

"industrial democracies" until the end of our century, economic growth, and a slowdown in population growth.

Speaking about himself to a journalist, he said: "I wil die in 2001, no earlier. I must know how my predictions came true, and I wil be very displeased if I leave before the deadline.

But sometimes it's harder to predict one's fate than the fate of the world. Perhaps it was obesity that betrayed Herman Kahn, or perhaps too lavish spending of intel ectual energy, which he did not spare while fulfil ing his contracts with governments and corporations.

A fragment of this energy survived on the cassette tape in the Americana's archive. The last words in the recording were:

"I am not advocating for war. I am just saying that we don't trust each other, that we cannot rely on the rationality of your judgments and assessments. Let me give you an example. Three years ago, I led a group of strategic consultants, consisting of twenty people, sixteen of whom held very conservative views, like Pipes, Litvak, and so on. I presented to them a scenario: by the end of the 1980s, the Soviet Union wil have the capability to strike the United States and annihilate approximately one hundred mil ion Americans. We wil retaliate, but with our surviving strategic forces, we wil only destroy five mil ion of them. As

a result, the Soviet Union wil be able to rebuild its cities quite quickly, while Americans wil have to relocate to Western Europe, Japan, Brazil.

After describing this hypothetical situation, I privately, one by one, pol ed the meeting participants. I asked them the same question: who among you thinks that Soviet leaders, knowing that such a favorable opportunity wil disappear by the end of the 1980s, wil decide to use it to launch such a strike? Not a single participant entertained the idea that the Soviet Union might seize such an opportunity. These were people with very conservative views. None of them assumed that the Soviet Union would engage in such a conflict, even if the odds were ten to one in its favor. Not a single one! I revealed the outcome of this closed survey in an open plenary session, and they were embarrassed. I asked, 'Perhaps now you would like to change your opinion?' Only one person took up this offer, and he was a nuclear physicist, not an expert in Russian affairs. Then I asked those present a second question: 'How many of you, in that case, think we can rely on the rationality of the Soviet leadership?' Absolutely not, under no circumstances, it's madness, madness! — that was the unanimous response. And in that, our attitude toward you was expressed. Yet, in my view, your government is more reasonable, more cautious than ours. But I trust neither my government nor yours.

He laughed for the last time with his husky, rapid laugh and suddenly concluded with unexpected pathos:

We live in a very tough world. Imagine, I can't sleep at night. As a person who only studies al these problems and gives advice, I am not responsible for the decisions made. And yet, I can't sleep.'

And how does the president, who makes decisions, sleep?' they asked him.

'They say he sleeps wel ...'"

The pleasant secretary, Ms. Morin, radiating health and contentment like a happy woman, escorted them back from the boss's office to the exit of the institute. They stepped out into August, which warmly embraced everything and everyone—the grass, the trees, the old house built for godly alcoholics, and themselves as they walked toward their car, and their car, heated by the sun. Seating themselves on the heated seats, they immediately turned on the air conditioner and headed

towards the steaming New York, engaging in a conversation with a person whose cruel thoughts couldn't find a way into the world of goodness, truth, beauty, into the flourishing heat of August with its hymns of life.

Carter slept wel . And Reagan doesn't complain of insomnia.

However, it turns out that Herman Kahn suffered at night, shortening his life with thoughts of the unthinkable.

From the notebook of the Americanist:

"San Francisco. Hyatt Regency Hotel.

Last night, Slava Ch. met me at the airport. He is now a correspondent for TASS in San Francisco, and for the second time this year, I find myself here, enjoying the hospitality of Slava and Valya, his wife. Slava is from our Americanist circle, but younger. We met about ten years ago in Washington. Now, people of our age, having completed their American wanderings, live in Moscow, but he stil wanders and has moved here to the Pacific coast. For me, on a business trip, acquaintances from past years are like saving anchors.

As we drove into the city from the airport, I scanned for familiar signs, and suddenly, among the green road signs, there it was—the exit to Cow Palace. It instantly came to mind. In the summer of sixty-four, Cow Palace (formerly an agricultural fairground) hosted the national convention of the Republican Party, which nominated Barry Goldwater, an Arizona senator, as their presidential candidate. Conservatives were already eager for power within the Republican Party and the White House. They took control of the Republican Party, but the November test turned out to be unsuccessful for them. Reagan, then just an actor, made his political debut at the San Francisco convention. His speech to the Goldwater supporters was wel -received. Now, this speech is considered a turning point in Ronald Reagan's life and the starting point of his political career. Wealthy ultraconservatives calculated that the actor had the talent to attract voters and made a long-term bet on him.

From Cow Palace, Reagan's path first led to Sacramento, the residence of the Governor of California, and then to the White House. Now there are no Goldwater supporters; there are Reaganites.

I didn't show foresight; I didn't notice Reagan or his speech at the time, even though I covered the convention at Cow Palace. One excuse—I considered him just an entertainer, a "fiery orator" brought in for entertainment.

I'm staying at the Hyatt Regency Hotel, where many curious onlookers stil peer in from the street. The hotel is a new extravagant concept in hotel construction, and the term was coined here in San Francisco. (Or was it in Atlanta?) The idea caught on. By the way, our International Trade Center in Moscow is a scaled-down and more modest example of the same style. The hotel's main hal is truly breathtaking and makes you tilt your head—there's no conventional ceiling; the multilevel hal , surrounded by open gal eries, extends to the roof. The space below is tasteful y organized with cafeterias, restaurants, and various shops. The elevators are exposed and, with stylish glass panels, rise and fal along the plane of the wal .

The room costs $120 per day. Not in my budget, but thanks to the San Francisco Chamber of Commerce, of which I am a guest member, it comes down to $50, almost fitting into the budget.

Stil , it doesn't feel right. This bold architectural design, this excessive comfort appears— and is—unnecessary, an unaffordable luxury in our eyes. The theme of "not in our plate" accompanies us everywhere in America and, I think, awaits its artistic embodiment by a new Zoshchenko or Ilf and Petrov.

The room in this hotel is like a peek into another world where you wouldn't want to live anyway. Hence the impression of formality and unnaturalness. Why do I need this spacious bed where you can lie down in any direction, the finest bed linen, a bedside table that doubles as a real remote control, requiring no less than a technical education to operate—adjusting the night lamp, an electronic alarm clock, multichannel radio, and remote control for the TV, and something else, you can't even guess. And in the bathroom, there's a fancy, exotic, transparent soap, like honeycomb, and a set of cleverly packaged shampoos in tiny pink bottles, a dozen fluffy large and smal towels, a sunken-in bathtub, and a massive, state-of-the-art showerhead with unfamiliar adjustments that can scald you with boiling water or drench you with icy water if you're not careful. And to top it al off, instead of a regular key, you get a flat rectangle made of polished cardboard. It has

perforations—like punch cards. You insert it into the narrow slot of the door, where the electronic miracle lock is hidden...

A balcony of the room is separated from the adjacent one by a solid concrete partition. On the balcony are three lightweight chairs; with some imagination, you can already feel like you're in a country house.

But for this, you need to close your eyes. Because to the right, tiers of the Aztec pyramid descend from the hotel's gray floors. And opposite, about two hundred meters away, a wide and tal building stares at the hotel with al its il uminated windows. It has thirty-eight floors. Whose?

Which corporation? Even here, in San Francisco, not in New York, such questions are no longer asked when the building has only thirty-eight floors. The hotel is located in the business district of San Francisco, and there are countless other mini-skyscrapers around. They are impressive, beautiful, you can't say anything against them. Not just matchboxes stacked one on top of the other. But even they kil each other with close proximity. Where are you, the former charming, low-rise San Francisco?"

In the morning, I met with Larry Thomas, the press secretary of the giant construction corporation Bechtel, in one of the buildings on Wal Street.

Bechtel currently has more enthusiastic and envious heads than the Hyatt Regency Hotel. The corporation gained fame through two individuals who emerged from its ranks—Secretary of State George Shultz and Defense Secretary Caspar Weinberger. The former held the position of president at Bechtel, while the latter served as the chief legal counsel.

Larry Thomas assures that neither Bechtel Sr. nor Bechtel Jr., the owners of the corporation, lifted a finger to secure the Reagan administration with two key ministers. After al , as he reminded, Bechtel recruited them from Washington, where both had previously held positions in the Nixon and Ford administrations. Shultz, for example, caught Bechtel Sr.'s eye during Nixon's time when he was the Secretary of Labor. By 1974, the corporation had a substantial amount of cash, and it was actively looking for investment opportunities. There were also disagreements with union members. It was then that Bechtel Sr. came up with the fortunate idea of offering Shultz, who had just left Nixon's cabinet, the position of the corporation's president. Shultz moved to California but maintained al his Washington connections, not to mention

the wealth of experience as a former Secretary of Labor, Secretary of the Treasury, and Director of the Office of Management and Budget.

Larry, however, didn't refer to him as "Shultz." Among themselves, it's customary to use the familiar, familial terms. Shultz is simply George.

Bechtel Sr. is just Steve. Caspar Weinberger is even shorter—Cap.

Cap also came to Bechtel from the government—and went back to the government.

The departure of George and Cap, Larry said, was a loss for the corporation.

— After al , every major corporation has pre-prepared plans for emergencies—such as the death of one of its leaders. The departure was quite sudden.

George and Cap are unlikely to return to Bechtel after Washington.

— Both of them have earned a lot during their years at Bechtel.

The corporation is known for its colossal construction projects in Arab countries, particularly bil ion-dol ar contracts with Saudi Arabia, where it is building an entire new city. It does not engage in business operations with Israel to avoid jeopardizing its Arab business, as Arab countries boycott Western corporations operating in Israel. Despite political pressure from the pro-Israel lobby in the USA due to its extensive business in the Middle East, the corporation, according to Larry Thomas, considers both Israel and Saudi Arabia as friends.

After the meeting at Bechtel, Slava picked me up at the hotel, and we drove around the city and towards the ocean. Familiar street names flashed by, where I had been once and which, alas, I only remembered by their names. We swung up and down on the swings of the famous San Francisco hil s, and at each summit, before I could ful y enjoy the beautiful wide view, the car, plunging down, would rol downhil . A curtain of rain hung over the ocean, and gray waves ran to the shore with viscous rubbery lashes. We passed through Golden Gate Park with its perpetual greenery, along Haight Street and Ashbury Street, which looked like abandoned sets on an empty stage—on this stage, in the late sixties, crowds of hippies and rebel ious students were in turmoil. The

"youth revolution" has passed and vanished. In the eternal ebb and flow of this country, which encourages and perplexes us foreigners, in its changing fashions and breezes, these adjacent streets are now infamous—known as the haunts of homosexuals. Who hasn't taken a

liking to San Francisco? In broad daylight, sweet men and boys in tight jeans and short jackets strol ed along the sidewalks.

On Gary Street, you can't miss the yel ow, dotted onion domes of the famous cathedral. They awkwardly rise above American houses on an American street, cluttered with American cars. The ranks of immigrants from the Soviet Union have grown in recent years, and they say that Gary Street is already cal ed Garybasovskaya.

Wel , how can you not look at the famous Golden Gate Bridge? We are not al owed on the bridge itself—on the other side of the strait is off-limits to Soviets. Just admire it from the shore. This powerful creation of human hands rises above the watery expanse with bright red steel trusses. The bridge stil attracts the unfortunate ones who decided to end their lives; recently, they recorded another round number—seven hundredth suicide...

On the same day, there was a meeting at the San Francisco Chamber of Commerce. I was elevated to the status of a guest of the chamber by its executive director, Harry O. He also conducted the meeting between the Soviet guest and San Francisco businessmen. The Chamber of Commerce is located in one of the buildings on California Street, the main thoroughfare of the city's financial district. Dignified individuals attended, sitting in massive leather chairs and engaging in, from an outsider's perspective, substantial conversation. Each of them is wel -known in the city, each involved in significant business. However, an old truth became apparent immediately: they know very little about us, about our country. Much less than we know about them. One participant in the discussion, the president of a major insurance company, a tal , gray-haired man with a dry and strong face, disarmingly admitted his ignorance. "We don't know, and therefore we are afraid," was the essence of his brief speech. So find out then! The trouble, however, is that even if they do find out, it wil mostly be from those who only want to increase fears and concerns.

One of the attendees was something of an international relations professional, a professor leading the local council on international relations. He was dismayed by what he cal ed the lack of a "creative approach" in U.S.-Soviet arms control negotiations. There was a former mayor of San Francisco, who had met with many prominent international figures. But even he did not display erudition and somewhat naively and

randomly suggested that the main obstacle in negotiations is the issue of verification and inspection: he asked why one couldn't use cameras when flying over Soviet territory, as if he himself wanted to become an inspector and verifier. The smartest questions came from a businessman with a Serbian surname—the president of the Chamber of Commerce of San Jose, located south of San Francisco, a rapidly developing center of the electronics industry.

On my part, I asked the opinion of those present on a specific issue: do the current leaders in Washington hope, by unleashing an unprecedented arms race, to economical y exhaust the Soviet Union, so to speak, force it to burst at the seams? The president of the Chamber of Commerce answered something like this: if anyone in Washington has such intentions, they wil not be able to realize them because the American people are impatient and wil not support a policy of record military expenditures for a long time...

Harry was pleased with the meeting.

Americans, too, like to put checkmarks, and now he can add one more—an symposium on U.S.-Soviet relations with the participation of prominent representatives of the business community in San Francisco and a special y invited Soviet Americanist.

Unfortunately, other meetings that Harry promised to arrange did not take place. In the Bank of America and Crocker Bank, they were canceled at the last minute. "Damn it," Harry exclaimed, "this is not how things are done in this country." And the current American businessmen did not resemble the previous ones. The consulate also says that in the current climate, Americans are not interested in establishing and maintaining contacts with Soviet people. After each meeting with the Soviets, they are visited and interrogated by FBI agents. Hence the typical reaction: "Why bother with this hassle."

Yes, Harry was an indispensable assistant and guide in places where others could not help or conduct their own, busy people. After al , no one in the consulate is obliged to help a newspaper correspondent unless he is a relative, a brother, or a visiting chief. And Harry helped the Americanist draw from the realm that was foreign, beyond reach. He himself was a part of that realm but a part of a special one.

He was about sixty years old, of average height, and walked confidently and upright. His wide, pale face maintained a stern

expression as he discussed business matters, characteristical y shaking his long gray hair. Sometimes, especial y in conversations with Soviet people, a sentimental and somewhat guilty expression would appear on Harry's face. Immediately, it would change to a firm and confident look as he shook his straight gray hair, which remained only on the back of his head, saying, "I wil do it, I wil help..."

"I want our people to live like human beings," Harry said this amusing phrase in Russian, sitting across from the Americanist at the desk of the executive director of the San Francisco Chamber of Commerce.

When Harry spoke about "our people," he meant specifical y "our people," not the American people. However, the Americanist never heard Harry say "your people" when talking to Americans. This strange duality spoke of an unusual fate. At one time, he was a Soviet citizen, and by the circumstances, he became an American citizen. Yet, he did not want to sever ties with his homeland; on the contrary, he strengthened them with al his might. The turn in his life that made him an American seemed to redeem and justify, in the eyes of Soviet people, the role he wil ingly took on—a role of a living and tiny bridge between two nations, woven into one human destiny.

In his childhood, he was known as Garrik, an Armenian boy in Baku. He later fought in the war, was captured by the Germans, and eventual y found himself in the American occupation zone, then in America itself. The times were heroic and harsh, and he reasoned that his homeland, now that he was a former prisoner of war, was unlikely to welcome him with flowers and hugs. Nearly forty years had passed since Garrik's transformation into a U.S. citizen. It turned out that two-thirds of his life had been spent across the ocean, yet his roots remained in his native land—with his mother, an old Bolshevik whom he occasional y invited to stay with him and who always longed for home while in San Francisco, and with his brother, a People's Artist and the leader of a popular ensemble. His childhood and youth, which increasingly visited him in the twilight of his days.

In America, Garrik made his way and succeeded. He started from scratch, sweeping the streets without a single American penny.

Armenian brothers helped him; life in exile taught them unity and mutual

assistance from generation to generation. They also brought with them their own abilities, perseverance, and resilience. In the end, he became a salesman in a jewelry store and, like many of his compatriots, ventured into the business sector—leading to his current position in the city's chamber of commerce, where he lived his second, American life.

Who would doubt that Garrik possessed a business and commercial vein? Starting from nothing, he went through fire and water before reaching the point of recognition in a foreign city. If, in addition to being a businessman, he also possessed literary talent, his stories about how he carved his path in San Francisco, about the internal workings of American life, about the hidden aspects that outsiders like us do not see, would perhaps be priceless. But he was not a literary figure; he was an entrepreneur among entrepreneurs, with a special grip and skil , knowing how to deal with different people and when and where to, for example, buy a house—and sel it to a large construction corporation a year or two later, which happened to be clearing the area for a multimil ion-dol ar project. And from this resale—just from the resale—he could pocket, let's say, a mil ion dol ars. Yes, a mil ion! In our eyes, it may be speculation, but in theirs, it's legitimate real estate trading, a talent for making money, and it is valued above al other talents. It's a way of life, a success without which a person cannot establish themselves. Garrik established himself in America—with a prestigious job, sufficient capital for the remainder of his days, a country house, a loving Russian wife, and two sons who chose creative paths: the elder as a sculptor, the younger as a musician (his father bought him a cooperative apartment in New York and helps him with foreign tours, sometimes together with Soviet musicians).

Garrik also established himself in relations with Soviet people. If it weren't for Garrik—the successful businessman, there would be no Garrik—the lively bridge, energetic and tireless, a voluntary helper to Soviet col ectives, delegations, and individual workers who came for a short or longer period to San Francisco. For the Soviet consulate, he was the most active local activist, not shrinking or hiding even in severe frosts and, without losing hope, working for the sake of bringing warmer days closer.

The Americanist and Garrik were just casual acquaintances—they had met once at the Irene House and had mutual friends. And if we focus on sheer utility, what benefit did Garrik gain from the Americanist?

At best, there would be a mention in the newspaper about the meeting at the Chamber of Commerce, and whether it would reach San Francisco, let alone be mentioned in the Soviet newspaper—was uncertain. But Garrik looked after the Americanist as a friend and a close person who needed an understanding soul far from home. True to his funny motto, "I want our people to live like human beings," Garrik turned him into a guest of the Chamber of Commerce and arranged a discounted stay in a fashionable hotel. Although the Americanist might have felt out of place, at least he looked like a respectable person. The "Hyatt-Regency" was the best cal ing card he could present to the citizens of glorious San Francisco, with whom he wished to meet.

In the evening, they had dinner with Garrik at the World Trade Club, where prominent businessmen were members. They sat at a table by the window, and outside, the harbor lay in darkness, where trading ships under the flags of al nations never forgot their way.

Warming up and relaxing, Garrik indulged in the manner of drinking and eating that he seemed to revive each time during his trips to the Soviet Union or when meeting Soviet people in San Francisco.

In doing so, loudly and distinctly, in his Americanized Russian, he developed his favorite topic in the presence of compatriots: how to improve Soviet-American relations? The Americanist listened attentively to Garrik and nodded in agreement, although he saw that this experienced man was naive as a child in the field of international relations.

In Harry's words, the password sounded like the name Christopher. He pronounced it in American style, emphasizing the first syl able. Christopher (Khristofor) was an American of Greek descent, a former mayor of San Francisco. Christopher stil enjoyed fame and influence in the city, and in the perpetual power struggle among various groups of San Francisco's elite, it seemed that Harry, an Armenian, belonged to Christopher's group. From Harry's words, it emerged that he believed in Christopher's power and thought that it extended far beyond the city on the bay. This belief constituted the essence of an ambitious project that Harry passionately explained to the Americanist. The plan

was to create a representative trade and economic delegation led by Christopher, including the president of the Bank of America and other prominent representatives of California business. The goal was to secure the approval of Secretary of State Schultz and President Reagan, both Californians, and to travel to Moscow with broad powers for high-level meetings and discussions. Here it was, the most suitable and truly miraculous lever. Grab hold of it, and everything wil fal into place.

The experienced Harry clearly did not understand how cumbersome and heavy the world he wanted to correct and straighten out with Christopher from San Francisco was. As a practical, business-minded individual, and moreover, an Eastern, Caucasian man, he did not know or recognize intricate theories, doctrines, or concepts. In his mind, everything boiled down to people and personal connections, even in the complex relations between two gigantic powers representing two socio-economic systems and two perspectives on the development of world history. In essence, his creed was that everything could be settled through the right person in the right place. And at the table in the World Trade Club, the magical word "Christopher" continued to fly out of his heated mouth. With emphasis on the first syl able. And from neighboring tables, respectable elderly people, businessmen who had come to dine with their wives, friends, and children in their club, looked over at them. In Harry's peculiar Russian-accented speech, they only understood the English word "Christopher." The eccentric Armenian, playing with the Russians, brought in another guest and once again got excited, perhaps fueled by a drink. This was roughly what they thought.

Russia and relations with it, despite their importance, did not occupy a significant place in the lives of these people, and they would probably be surprised to learn in what dramatical y global context Harry was invoking the name of the former mayor.

It was already late in the evening when they ascended Nob Hil in a smal , new-model Cadil ac, where, next to the Mark Hopkins and Fairmont hotels, the nightlife was open only to the wealthy. Leaving the car in the care of an African-American valet, they entered the basement bar, Alexis. In the dimly lit space, the bar with bottles glowed faintly, there were no visitors except for a young couple sitting quietly in a distant corner. A bearded young man at the piano played something

familiar from the pre-war childhood years. A ful -figured woman in a black silk dress, unlike a regular waitress, brought a high glass of whiskey with ice and soda. The Americanist kept himself in check, not al owing himself to relax, while Harry, weighed down by what he had drunk and unexpectedly darkened by the conversation, sat back on his favorite subject.

He was back on his favorite topic. According to his calculations, the delegation led by Christopher was supposed to go late spring or summer, and he himself was flying to Moscow in a few days with another delegation—the American-Soviet Trade and Economic Council. He was nervous about the trip, unsure if he would be accepted.

The Americanist suddenly realized that despite Harry's confident demeanor in San Francisco, returning to his homeland with a U.S.

passport was chal enging for him. In San Francisco, Harry was an assistant, guide, and friend to visiting Soviet people. In Moscow, for those who did not know him or his story, he was incomprehensible and even suspicious—an American with an Armenian name and knowledge of the Russian language. In San Francisco, he spoke of "our people" as if he had not ceased to be a part of them. But in Moscow, at Sheremetyevo Airport, he could not say "we" when facing a Soviet border guard or customs officer.

Before each trip, a sense of homelessness and duality tormented him. And now, slightly inebriated in the dimness of the basement bar on Nob Hil , Harry told the Americanist a story that haunted him and wouldn't leave his mind—the story of how he was once searched at Moscow customs.

He and his wife were returning to the United States after another trip to the Soviet Union. It happened at Sheremetyevo Airport; his wife had already cleared customs, but he was suddenly detained, asked to go to a service room, where they informed him that they needed to subject him to an additional and more thorough inspection, a search. He was surprised, offended, and humiliated, asking on what grounds and what they suspected him of. They told him that the basis was that he visited the Soviet Union too frequently, and therefore, not without reason.

At least, that's how he remembered the customs officer's words, and they shook him to the core because these words seemed to deprive him of the right to make such trips, even though his American passport

undoubtedly had the corresponding Soviet visa issued by the consulate in San Francisco...

Now, before the new trip, his wife was advising Harry, "Why do you need al this? Especial y in such cold weather? You could just stay at our dacha..."

Oh, what a walk it was! Once energized, Harry didn't want to stop.

Taking his guest along, he entered a Russian establishment. The brick corner house on Pacific Avenue was silent in the night. However, when the young, shivering African-American valet and guard opened the door for them, loud, disorderly sounds of restaurant revelry echoed from the second floor. Amidst tobacco smoke, people buzzed, fueled by wine and music. The tables in the hal were unusual, long, and about a dozen men and women sat at each, as if forming an artel. A short woman of Armenian appearance, smiling, hurried toward Harry. They greeted each other with kisses and jokes, like old acquaintances. The middle-aged Armenian woman was the owner of the Russian establishment. Smiling and habitual y shaking her long gray hair at the nape, Harry introduced the Americanist to her with a familial tone, as if he was confident that a guest from Moscow could not fail to evoke warm feelings. Al three understood, however, that a guest from Moscow could not be part of their circle, and in the words and gaze of the hostess, the Americanist felt nothing more than courtesy, appreciating it as a correctly defined distance: passionate, kind feelings would have been insincere.

Slightly squeezing into the company, they found a place at one of the long tables. The Americanist looked around, getting accustomed to the unfamiliar place. In the Russian establishment owned by the Armenian woman, the lively night crowd spoke more English, although many with an accent.

This establishment attracted people who had left Russia or the Soviet Union at different times and retained a nostalgic memory of Russian entertainment. Accordionists and violinists battled the restaurant noise. Harry recommended them as former Odessites. The main figure in the duo was accordionist Boris. Half-sitting on a high stool, he not only played but also sang into a microphone attached to his accordion through a curved metal tube. Boris had a rough, wide-mouthed, and expressive face, and he sang wel , with soul, enunciating Russian song

lyrics very clearly. With this clear pronunciation, he aimed to help his listeners, living in a different linguistic environment, better understand and feel the old, distant beautiful songs.

"Oh, snowfal , Semyon, keep fal ing, Semen," sang Boris, transforming the lively Semenovna from a Russian song. The Americanist liked Boris's style; listening to his singing, he, too, succumbed to a nostalgic mood, but the awkward feeling of being in such a Russian establishment did not fade; on the contrary, it intensified.

Only Harry, sitting next to him, provided a reliable left flank, and while glancing around, he caught looks fil ed with confusion, questioning, and cold curiosity.

However, he found one genuinely friendly gaze. The man sitting across the table in shaded reflective glasses started speaking Russian with him. He turned out to be a professor from Berkeley and briefly told his story. He was born in Harbin, where his parents ended up, leaving Russia after the revolution. He later moved from the Far East to the Far West, the American one. Recently, by the way, he visited Harbin, even found the house where he was born, and entered the room where he lived; four Chinese people occupied it now. In the restaurant noise, it was pleasant for the professor to speak about his childhood in Russian, and other people at the table listened attentively to his Russian speech.

He had traveled to the Soviet Union three times, and he kept his Russian language in excel ent condition also because he considered himself a person of Russian culture. Maintaining the Russian language, keeping it active, cost him considerable effort: neither his wife nor daughter spoke Russian, and among col eagues, only very few did.

"Along the street, the snowstorm sweeps," Boris sang in the meantime, and from his large mouth, it flew out deliciously, beautiful y, and expressively: "You wait, wait, my beauty, let me gaze upon joy, on youuu…"

He masterful y handled the Russian language with al its melodic nuances, but he also sang wel because he sang like a foreigner. He had distanced himself from this song long ago, changed it, and now, realizing what he had lost, he returned to it, feeling its beauty anew, and this precisely added a special sadness, liveliness, and charm to his performance.

Soon, the Americanist began to nudge Harry. It was getting later, and in this Russian establishment, the oppressive feeling of being a stranger wouldn't let him go. There was something deeply false about his restaurant seat with these people. He couldn't play the role of a carefree person enjoying himself in San Francisco under the songs of the Russian people with fel ow countrymen, second or first-generation Americans. The native songs were not native to them, and they had exchanged their native language for another, al of which didn't unite but separated him from them.

The door slammed heavily, the restaurant hubbub ceased, and only the African-American valet, the Swiss guard, and the chil y-jacketed security guard remained with them on Pacific Avenue at night.

It was warm. Through the open balcony door, the dark sky was visible. The balcony, resembling a tribune, protruded from the steeply descending wal . From there, a breathtaking panorama of the city unfolded, running along the waves of the hil s next to the ocean waves.

Below, the main street, Market Street, slanted towards the bay, ablaze with advertising lights, street lamps, and car headlights. At the foot lay City Hal , built in the style of administrative neoclassicism. Municipal buildings and green squares surrounded it on al sides. But the gaze beckoned further. In the evening glow of lights, breaking off at the dark edge of the water, the long, luminous dash of the Bay Bridge began—a bridge across the bay. On the shore, new skyscrapers of banks and corporations huddled together, as if gathering for a decisive advance on the old, cozy, low-rise San Francisco.

A large part of the building was dedicated to apartments, and two-thirds to various offices. Slava and Valya had been living on the twenty-ninth floor for four years. In the morning, he went to his office in the same building, connecting via teletype to the new TASS building near Nikitskiye Gates in Moscow, where his col eagues, friends, and comrades worked. He received instructions, assignments, and information releases from them, which they distributed worldwide. From the Pacific coast of America, he typed, punched, and telexed messages to Tverskaya Boulevard, near Nikitskiye Gates, about San Francisco, California, and al -American events.

Slava was nearby, working as a correspondent in the same building, while Valya languished in the apartment with dizzying views.

The beautiful city lay at Valya's feet. Many would envy and dream of visiting, but when it's not just a dream but a life that has lasted four years, what use is it lying at the feet of a beautiful city? How many doors are there that wil open in a friendly way, and windows where you can knock

in

your

own

way?

The

same

story

with

different

variations—Andrey and Natasha in New York, Kolya and Rita, or Sasha and Tamara in Washington, and Slava and Valya in San Francisco, even further from home, fewer of our people, and fel ow countrymen rarely visit. But, on the other hand, this strange life didn't start yesterday, and there was time not only for longing but also to get used to it, to get involved in it and make it your way of life. And Valya got used to her high nest, where American-style security was ensured by locked doors and special guards, and residents were even given special keys and passes to access the part of the huge building where apartments, not offices, were located.

The American city, buzzing below in the evening, was temporarily forgotten by three Muscovites, reminiscing about past days and common acquaintances. Meanwhile, on the low table where they sat in armchairs, among plates and glasses, there was a sheet of text in English. Slava brought it from his office, tearing it from the continuous stream coming from the smal , light teletype, fil ed with messages from the UPI American news agency. The UPI Moscow correspondent reported that, for reasons not yet announced, the television broadcast of the concert in honor of Police Day and the hockey match had been suddenly canceled in the Soviet capital. Instead, the correspondent reported, Beethoven and other classical music were being broadcast. Television announcers appeared in dark ties. The correspondent cautiously reported that there were rumors of the possible demise of one of the highest officials.

Similar reports were also transmitted by other foreign correspondents, and two Soviet journalists, meeting in San Francisco, speculated about what it could mean. After dinner, as they descended to the garage, they peeked into Slava's office. The teletypes were silent, and there were no new explanations or clarifications. Slava drove the car onto the deserted Market Street at night and took the guest to the hotel.

...He was stil dozing, and it was dark outside when a sudden phone cal jolted him from bed. The transparent green numbers on the electronic bedside table showed seven in the morning. He recognized Slava's voice. The businesslike tone in his voice indicated that Slava had been up for a long time.

— Didn't wake you up? — And, without waiting for an answer, he said: — It's Brezhnev.

Jumping up, the Americanist turned on the television. The television was awake, and on al channels, it was processing the gigantic news. In Washington and New York, where the broadcasts were originating, it was already eleven in the morning. ABC showed a recorded video of President Reagan. The president spoke to elderly but sprightly Americans with medals on their chests, greeting them on Veterans Day. In his greeting, he informed the veterans that he had sent condolences to Moscow on the occasion of the Soviet leader's death.

ABC also hosted a special program—a voiceover by former President Ford, responding to a correspondent, footage with former President Carter, whom reporters found, and a video recording of a conversation with former Secretary of State Kissinger—half a year ago, he was extensively interviewed about what would happen to U.S.-Soviet relations if... Television footage from three years ago transported viewers to Vienna, where the leaders of the two countries signed a treaty on the limitation of strategic arms—SALT II. After signing the treaty at a solemn ceremony and congratulating each other, they suddenly reached out to each other and, experiencing a fleeting confusion, kissed. The kiss was unplanned and touching. A minute-long impulse. An unplanned sentimental episode in history. At that time, with a stroke of the pen, they crowned the immense multi-year work on both sides. The American president did not bring it to an end—the signed treaty was never ratified by the U.S. Senate.

Television comments were respectful and already calm in tone, as the initial shock caused by the sudden news had passed. Speculations about the future were rife, and both government officials and journalists unanimously assumed continuity and stability in Soviet foreign policy...

The Americanist shortened his stay in San Francisco by two days, changing his ticket from Sunday to Friday. When mourning days are

declared in your country, it's not appropriate to conduct business as usual, especial y abroad. Besides, obstacles were encountered in his affairs. He wanted to visit the university town of Palo Alto, a few dozen miles from San Francisco, where the archconservative Hoover Institution on War, Revolution, and Peace was located. He was stil seeking a face-to-face meeting with Reagan supporters, particularly with theorists who supplied anti-communism. However, the State Department did not approve the trip to Palo Alto.

He headed to the Soviet consulate. The flag over the Green Street building was lowered, and black ribbons hung next to the red fabric on the flagpole. Inside, in the first-floor hal , the consul, dressed in a dark suit, supervised the instal ation of a mourning portrait and awaited American visitors. A condolence book lay on the table in front of the portrait.

The

news

from

Moscow

coincided

with

the

American

holiday—Veterans Day. Official institutions in San Francisco were closed, and there were fewer cars on the streets and roads than usual. A gloomy morning gradual y cleared up. Would he make it to the funeral in Moscow? Although the Americanist's thoughts were at home, sitting with them within the four wal s of the "Hyatt Regency" room made no sense.

He walked along the bay towards the famous Fisherman's Wharf district.

There, among restaurants and souvenir shops, the usual festive crowd reigned, permeated with the raw smel of the sea—shrimp, crabs, oysters, lobsters, and various fish were sold, displayed on countertops with pieces of crushed ice. He noted changes that confirmed that San Francisco residents and merchants retained the ability to settle into their city, tasteful y build new things, and adapt the old to changing times and needs. It turns out that from the old brick buildings of the chocolate factory in the Fisherman's Wharf area, an elegantly decorated shopping passage with gal eries, walkways, and numerous stal s could be created.

Another trading row emerged on the old pier, appropriately named Pier 39. It became popular among the citizens, who strol ed there with their children, examined the old museum ship, and looked at the new yachts.

The shops were fil ed with souvenirs to remember a visit to the beloved San Francisco.

When the Americanist returned to the hotel, the TV screen continued to process the sensational news from Moscow. It was not yet announced that Vice President Bush would lead the American delegation to Moscow, so speculation arose about whether the American president would fly to the funeral of the Soviet president. Most commentators believed that he should, for reasons of diplomatic courtesy and state policy. This trip should be used to acquaint himself with the new Soviet leadership, to demonstrate respect for another nuclear power at a moment reminding of the transience of life and the mortal fate of even the greatest people, and to symbolical y express a desire to live in peace with it.

Now the Americanist did not leave his room and did not take his eyes off the TV screen. He knew that on such days, the newspaper does not expect material from its own correspondents or from a special one, that al coverage of the event wil be purely official and protocol, nevertheless, he kept his vigil at the TV screen, and a swarm of thoughts hovered in his head—thoughts about the past years, the future of his homeland, and Soviet-American relations.

Around midnight, a special hour-and-a-half program started again on ABC. Former presidents—Nixon, Ford, Carter—appeared again, meeting with the deceased Soviet leader, former secretaries of state Kissinger and Haig, and wel -known experts from the New York Council on Foreign Relations. Al of them, in one way or another, defended the foundations of American foreign policy. On this special day, they avoided anti-Soviet attacks, maintained a calm and thoughtful, respectful tone. In various words, al participants in the program spoke about the importance of understanding and respecting mutual interests at a time when people at the helm of another great power are changing.

When the Americanist fel asleep at one in the morning, the program was stil ongoing.

In the morning, Slava drove him to the airport, and he took off from San Francisco. By evening, he was in Washington. Just a day later, on a Sunday morning, he arrived at the embassy with other Soviet correspondents. President Reagan was scheduled to pay a condolence visit, and the correspondents were invited to witness it.

This time, the grand door of the embassy and the metal gates through which the presidential limousine was to approach the door were open. There was an atmosphere of tense anticipation and heightened attention to every detail, typical before the appearance of an extremely important figure.

The President, who lived and worked three blocks away from the Soviet embassy, had never been there before, just as he had never been to the Soviet Union. A mourning portrait was placed in a room on the second floor, next to the Golden Hal , which was closed. The correspondents were told that just before the president's arrival, they would be ushered to the second floor. From there, standing close to the columns opposite the room with the mourning portrait, they would be able to observe the ceremony, which held significant symbolic importance. Assembled on the first floor, in the press department's room, the correspondents awaited the signal.

Ambassador quickly walked past them through the corridor, wearing a mourning band on the sleeve of his dark jacket, as energetic and friendly as always. Judging by the fact that he was coming from his office towards the vestibule, the moment was approaching.

However, the correspondents never received an invitation to the second floor. Whether the ambassador changed his mind or the American secret service didn't want extra witnesses, American reporters did not accompany Reagan, while the Soviet ones found themselves locked in the corridor on the first floor. In vain, they tugged at the door, trying to open it; from the other side, it was held firmly with an iron hand.

Only two were invited to the second floor – television and TASS

correspondents, for the visuals and the official report.

The others waited for their return and the account. The two eyewitnesses returned quickly, bursting into the room, excited and disappointed. The TASS reporter immediately started correcting his pre-prepared version, the so-cal ed draft. He had to strike out the minute of mourning silence. There was no minute. The eyewitnesses shared details with their col eagues that didn't find a place in the brief TASS

message sent to Moscow. They recounted that the President was not in black but in a regular brown suit, without his wife, who was also inexplicably expected. He ascended to the second floor accompanied by the ambassador and his guards, sat in the red armchair placed in front of

the mourning portrait, and made his concise entry in the condolences book. Stepping into the Soviet embassy for the first time, the president looked around. Here, eyewitness accounts differed. One said the president glanced around merely out of curiosity. Another insisted – out of fear…

In the embassy building, Americophile once observed another U.S.

president. In June 1973, during his official visit, the Soviet leader hosted a luncheon in honor of the American head of state. The luncheon took place at the embassy. In the Golden Hal , round tables were set up, gathering the cream of official Washington. Press representatives, not al owed into the hal , crowded the staircase landing. Americophile, suppressing the awkwardness for the sake of professional curiosity, along with Vitaliy, who was a New York correspondent at that time, managed to approach the opening door to the hal . Peeking in, he saw not only the round tables with senators and ministers and their wives but also the main table with the key figures, to the left, under a large mirror in a gilded frame.

The grand hal had never shone as it did that evening. It had been regilded and redecorated by craftsmen special y sent from Moscow before the state visit. Due to the rental of gilded chairs for the official lunch, a smal mishap occurred – the paint hadn't completely dried, and two or three senators left the hal after lunch with gold stripes on their backs.

So, with Vitaliy, they peered into the hal from the door, and our guard, standing right there, said to them with significance, "I'm counting on you, guys!" With these words, their presence was legitimized, and Americophile could observe the exchange of speeches behind the main table, how our state spoke with their state, and the words spoken with great optimism. They were particularly memorable because of the fantastical y optimistic tone he heard with his own ears, rather than just reading it in press releases and newspapers.

"We are optimists," he heard, "and believe that the course of events and understanding of specific interests wil lead to the conclusion that the future of our relations lies in the path of mutual y beneficial development for the benefit of the current and future generations of people."

"We are convinced that, relying on growing mutual trust, we can steadily move forward. We advocate that the further development of our relations

takes

on a maximal y stable, moreover, irreversible character…"

History has its own ideas about time and the speed of its movement, and for an ordinary person immersed in the midst of current events, it is not always easy to accurately assess what is fast and what is slow from a historical perspective. Were nine years, which had passed since those optimistic words were spoken in this building, a lot or a little?

When the iron door was released, and they stepped out of the corridor into the vestibule, neither there nor beyond the embassy gates was any trace of the arriving and quickly disappearing presidential motorcade. Sixteenth Street was clear, al the way to Lafayette Square, where the White House gleamed white, and to the right, towards the monument of some green-bronze equestrian general. In its official part, Washington seemed to have died down on a Sunday – no people, no cars, no parking restrictions on the roadside.

Together with his companion, Americophile turned right and then right again onto M Street and Fifteenth Street. Fifteenth Street was also deserted on a Sunday, visible in both directions, like a forest clearing.

Retrieving their car from the parking lot, they headed towards Constitution Avenue, which, they knew, should not be empty on this sunny and cold-windy day.

Gaining cosmic speeds, people began to repeat that the Earth is smal . Is it real y smal – around the globe in an hour and a half?! But for whom and for what is our planet Earth smal ? For cosmonauts, even in their special nostalgia, gazing at the blue-white beauty from the black abyss of space, it was not smal at al . Moreover, Americophile, by the nature and character of his work, constantly felt not the smal ness but the vastness and diversity of the Earth.

And on that Sunday in November, the Earth, among other things, accommodated mourning in Moscow and a parade in Washington. It was an American parade – a procession of civilians with military interjections, mostly veterans. This American parade moved along Constitution Avenue, a parade that had been prepared with great effort, loudly and advertisedly – a parade of Vietnam War veterans. The war was receding

into the past, but in America, they could not reconcile with the memory of it. This was because the war ended in a disgraceful defeat for that chauvinistic America, which throughout the conflict repeated its favorite slogan that America wins al its wars. The unpopularity of the war, which divided the nation, also extended to its participants – American soldiers who had done a cruel, bloody, dirty job. And after the war, having retreated from a foreign country, Americans continued to fight among themselves, interpreting the lessons of Vietnam differently. In scholarly terms, this hangover was cal ed the Vietnam Syndrome. Avoiding new Vietnams, new armed interventions abroad – or continuing the same imperialistic practice, but without hesitations, and winning in new Vietnams, not losing. Answers changed depending on the prevailing public sentiments, or more precisely, who was more successful in creating and directing them. Coming to power, the new administration quietly began preparing the country for the possibility of new Vietnams and at the same time urged to forget the quarrels and strife of the war period and not to regret the patriotic oil on the clean and good guys, who returned from the cursed jungles stil very young veterans. Whoever you were, an American, and whatever you did in those years, from now on, your patriotic duty is to honor and glorify these guys.

That's what the parade meant, and the two Soviet Americophiles, who once observed and experienced the course of a distant war in America and wrote a lot about it in their newspapers, could not help but come to Constitution Avenue on that day.

The parade was conceived as an epilogue, but it lacked grandeur and, therefore, a sense of completion. In motley groups, raising the standards of their states, Vietnam veterans of the thirty-year-old age moved in disarray along the pavement. Their spotted, venomously green jackets and similarly crumpled military hats with narrow brims recal ed television scenes from the wartime period—soldiers dressed similarly but not against the backdrop of Washington's ministerial buildings, but against the backdrop of straw huts and low slant-eyed people, shielding themselves from the scorching sun with conical straw hats. Those soldiers who appeared alive on the television screen, and who had yet to become either dead or veterans, held M-16 rifles in their hands, not star-striped flags. In the television scenes of those years, they didn't march but roamed through those vil ages, warily looking around and

gesturing with their rifles from side to side. Sometimes, as they looked around, they feverishly lifted wounded comrades on stretchers into medical helicopters. Now, on Constitution Avenue, those same wounded were being pushed in wheelchairs, waving star-striped flags. Yet, it didn't make things easier for them; the war stayed with them, in their maimed bodies, in their shattered destinies.

No, it's stil not easy to cope with the legacy of that war, thought Americophile, watching the Vietnam veterans. It's not easy for those who were there. And so, the most solid and confident participants in the parade looked like gray-haired men not in venomously green jackets but in black blazer jackets. They didn't experience Vietnam and memories of jungles, napalm, and straw huts. The gray-haired ones were veterans of other wars, after which one could stil maintain respect for oneself and one's military past.

Thundering,

brass-shining

military

orchestras

occasional y

interspersed the disorderly and not very crowded procession, boosting the spirits of parade participants and the crowd of onlookers standing on the sidewalks. The crowd responded with applause, but the claps sounded weak, and the crowd itself was not dense and sparing in patriotic displays. No, what happened was too fresh; it was not yet time to look at this war through the lens of sentimentality and sweet falsehood.

The parade participants marched from the White Dome of the Capitol toward the Lincoln Memorial, where the monument to those fal en in the Vietnam War had been unveiled the day before. A cold gusty wind blew, fluttering the flags, carrying away the coppery sounds of marches. In this wind, behind the spectators' backs, two guys unfolded a white canvas of a banner. The wind interfered with them, but when they managed to do it, when the canvas smoothed out and bil owed like a sailing ship, our two Americophiles read the words that pleased them:

"Stop turning the past inside out for the sake of a future third world war!

Enough of chauvinism from us!!!"

A few days later, Americophile was inspecting the new monument, which had been widely written about. It found an honorable place next to the Lincoln Memorial, in the same area where monuments to Jefferson and the first of American presidents, George Washington, were erected.

However, they didn't erect a Vietnam monument, but rather, it was buried

or hidden. Without such a conspicuous landmark nearby, like the majestic Lincoln Memorial, it might not have been found. This new Washington monument resembled a giant trench, shaped like a wide-open letter V, which in this case could only mean Vietnam, not victory. The inner side of the trench, its two long wal s spread out like the letter V, was lined with magnificent black marble slabs imported from India. By some extraordinarily precise electronic method (as reported in free booklets available to anyone interested), the marble slabs were inscribed with the names and surnames of al Americans who died or went missing in Vietnam. The mournful list started in 1959 and proceeded chronological y to 1975, the last year of the war and losses. It included more than fifty-eight thousand people.

Narrow concrete paths ran along the marble wal s. On them, stopping and scrutinizing the names, curious Americans walked. The monument set a somber tone. Aiming at the marble slabs, some visitors engaged in photography. A familiar surname? A loved one? These were strange pictures for memory.

From Independence Avenue, which ran very close, the Vietnam monument was not visible, hidden in the ground, like the people who came to see it. But nearby, clearly visible, in a tal , white, Greek mausoleum, Lincoln with curly hair and a sharply sculpted forehead rose, placing his thin hands on the arms of the chair. Broad steps led to him. From the height of marble Lincoln, there was a view of the rectangular pond, reflecting autumn trees with remnants of leaves, and beyond to the gigantic gray obelisk dedicated to George Washington.

Further, behind the buildings of the Smithsonian Institution's museum complex, piercing the sky-blue opening, the white dome of the Capitol hovered.

Why does the action in our narrative, devoid of romance, so often take place in the evening or at night? The reader has repeatedly observed: due to the time difference with Moscow—eight hours in Washington and a whole eleven in San Francisco.

In America, Americophile continued to live on Moscow time. And to stay awake at night when Moscow was waking up.

And there was another lonely night in Irene House and sleepy Somerset outside the window. He fel asleep at one in the morning

without undressing. And immediately woke up, fearing to oversleep, lying there, listening to the silence. Around two in the morning, he got up, lit a lamp by the sofa in the living room, and, to avoid disturbing the general silence, woke up the large television box standing on the floor. The screen instantly came to life, and amid the sleeping Washington suburb, as if in a dream, appeared stern November streets, the yel ow building of the "Moscow" hotel, the gray building of the Council of Ministers, and the House of Unions with its columns. A large portrait hung on the facade of the House of Unions in a black frame.

It was ten in the morning in Moscow, two in the morning in Washington. By the ordinary miracle of our time, thanks to communication satel ites drifting alone in cosmic darkness, he found himself in a familiar stretch of the old, transformed and renamed Okhotny Ryad. The street, cleared of people and usual traffic, was prepared for a solemn funeral procession. Until five o'clock, he sat alone in front of the quietly working television.

ABC television, seeking primacy in political news and reports, provided live coverage from Moscow that American night, and Americophile, sitting by the television, at the same moment as mil ions of compatriots, saw everything they saw—the last watch of the honor guard at the elevated coffin, generals carrying red pil ows with orders, a slow march behind an armored personnel carrier carrying the coffin on a gun carriage, Red Square fil ed with patiently waiting motionless people, the Kremlin towers and wal s—and increasingly frequent and close-up shots of the Mausoleum...

None of the Soviet workers slept during these night hours—neither in the embassy, nor in the complex, nor in the apartments scattered around Washington and its suburbs. But during this unusual time, an attentive audience was composed not only of Soviet people. Forgetting about sleep, Sovietologists from American government and private services—and intel igence agencies—were watching the "changing of the guard" in Moscow.

Thus, slowly and tediously, sometimes accelerated by electric discharges of events, the American life of a Moscow journalist unfolded, set for exactly one and a half months of a business trip—from the airplane prologue to the airplane epilogue. He remained concerned about obtaining the maximum amount of information per unit of time,

was busy with meetings with Americans, faithful y consumed his portion of newspapers and magazines, and thought about correspondence that would justify his shortened trip to San Francisco due to an extraordinary event. There was also the concern about having a roof over his head.

Here, it might be appropriate to remind the reader that our hero arrived in the United States only as a person temporarily replacing the permanent

correspondent

of

his

newspaper.

The

permanent

correspondent could not return to Washington after one American journalist was expel ed from Moscow for unreasonably expanding the scope of his activities. In Irene House, the col eague left an archive and other belongings, and his wife, with the appropriate permission, flew to pick up what was left. Yielding the place to the lady, Americophile, not without regret, parted with the apartment in Irene House, where he somehow arranged bachelor life and learned to defend himself from the initial y oppressive memories.

Not far from Irene House was the Holiday Inn hotel, one of hundreds scattered across North America, and also the South and other continents. Americophile had many years of positive experience with Holiday Inn in different places. The acquaintance had to be interrupted at some point after the prices in these hotels rose above the amount al ocated in the estimate. However, sometimes there were mitigating circumstances of a seasonal nature.

It was late autumn, and the Holiday Inn on Wisconsin Avenue was half empty. The young duty clerk, accommodating the foreigner, promised to reduce the price to fifty-nine dol ars per night. Yes, don't be surprised—that's a moderate price. He immediately submitted his application for a discounted room to the computer at his disposal, but there was no agreement on the greenish flickering screen. Whether guarding the interests of the company or expressing the computer's rights, it did not comply with Americophile. However, the young guy didn't get scared; he assured the Muscovite that the room at the promised price would be there—with or without the computer's consent.

A young African American bel hop in a brown uniform escorted Americophile to the tenth floor and showed him a room that faced not the noisy avenue but the quiet opposite side.

Three hours later, returning with his suitcase and the required deposit, Americophile found another duty clerk. His computer also

rebel ed against the reduced price, but this young man was not afraid either, although he had to issue a handwritten receipt to the guest, and the pen, noticed by Americophile, did not behave wel for the young man already living in the electronic age.

On Saturday, there was only one duty clerk in the entire hotel—answering phone cal s, issuing keys, settling with guests, and monitoring four displays.

So, leaving Irene House, Americophile moved to a hotel where it was quiet and convenient, lacking only his own little kitchen, this unnecessary support for a business traveler. Now, in the window frame, instead of Somerset's trees and cottages, one could see neighboring multi-story houses, a fountain, and Friendship Heights Square, where he used to enjoy walking while living in Irene House, some Maryland bank, and Elizabeth House, where Kolya and Rita, Soviet veterans in America, continued to welcome him. From the window, about three hundred meters away, even a corner of Irene House was visible. Familiar houses and views, the proximity of friends, made life easier.

Americophile got newspapers downstairs, in the hotel, or at the nearest pharmacy. He didn't part with the car of his absent col eague, the heavy cherry-colored Bonnevil e, and now kept it not in Irene House's underground garage but under his window in the open parking lot. Every day began with a morning look out the window—was the car intact?

Wil iam Brockett, a forty-year-old lawyer from San Francisco, is a co-owner of the law firm "Coker and Brockett." The firm is located on Montgomery Street, in a two-story red-brick building, stil quite sturdy but moral y aged by the proximity of gleaming new skyscrapers on California Street in the financial district. The reader may ask: what business does a Soviet journalist have with an American lawyer when visiting the United States? What common cause do we, the reader, have now with American lawyers, doctors, nuclear physicists? With those who add the word "concerned" to the name of their profession. Concerned about the threat of nuclear war.

And while we have not yet reached Bil Brockett on the second floor of the red-brick mansion, I wil provide just one example...

But here the reader may ask another question: how did Amerikanist, who had just moved to the Holiday Inn in Washington, end

up in San Francisco again? It's a simple newspaper trick, reader. He sent correspondence from Washington about his impressions of San Francisco. After the days of mourning, he supposed, the newspaper would return to its usual topics and would need regular materials.

Despite cutting down his days and meetings in San Francisco, he did not return empty-handed. After moving to the hotel, he provided the editorial team with his new phone number, and they cal ed him again, this time at night, and he was now reporting from San Francisco.

...I wil give just one example of why they are so concerned," he continued. "The New York publishing house 'Random House' has just released a book with a mysterious title — 'As Long as There's a Shovel.'

Its author, Robert Sheer, while heading the Washington bureau of the

'Los Angeles Times,' had numerous conversations with high-ranking representatives of the Reagan administration. They were candid with him. Sheer had the opportunity to convince himself that the current administration is playing more than any previous one with the idea of the possibility and 'survivability' of nuclear war. A certain T. K. Jones, assistant to the Deputy Secretary of Defense for strategic nuclear forces, friendly explained to Sheer what should be done in case of a nuclear conflict: 'Dig a hole, cover it with a couple of doors, and throw a meter-thick layer of dirt on top... The earth wil save you... If you have enough shovels, anyone can handle it.'

It sounds like a joke, but these are the verbatim words of Mr.

Jones. And, apparently, his genuine philosophy. If surviving a nuclear war is as easy as pie, why not start one?

That's why San Francisco lawyer Bil Brocket is among the concerned. Tal , with a high forehead and a boyish, clean smile, he jokes, 'Lawyers are known for their eloquence. We can't al ow our gift to go to waste.'

Two years ago, in Boston, Massachusetts, on the Atlantic coast of the USA, an organization of lawyers opposed to the threat of nuclear war was created. It became national. Brocket heads its San Francisco branch, which has about four hundred members. Its task is to educate people about the realities of the nuclear age. Meetings, gatherings, symposiums... Bil Brocket and his col eagues want to convince

Americans that even with an abundance of shovels, you can't escape nuclear warheads.

In recent months, the California public has launched a broad movement to freeze the nuclear arsenals of the USA and the USSR.

They col ected signatures to put this proposal on a referendum for the state's residents. They col ected more than enough. It didn't stop with California. During the November 2nd elections in nine states and thirty counties and cities, a proposal for nuclear freezing was voted on. I remind you that it was supported by the majority of voters in eight out of nine states and almost al counties and cities.

According to press estimates, out of eighteen mil ion voters who expressed their opinion on this issue, 10.8 mil ion approved the principle of freezing nuclear arsenals. A significant majority, considering that an American was going against the policy of his government on this issue.

But this is not a national referendum; it does not have binding force for the authorities. According to the terms of the vote in California, the governor of the state wil inform the president that the majority of Californians have spoken in favor of freezing the nuclear arsenals of the two powers. But the White House already knows about it, and the results of the vote have made no impression on it whatsoever. Even after suffering political damage in the recent elections, the White House has no intention of "one iota," as the official representative stated, of reducing the military expenditures planned at 1.6 tril ion dol ars for the next five years...

It's been half a month since the elections, and Amerikanist returned to them, highlighting a topic he couldn't thoroughly cover in the general analysis of the results — the theme of the anti-war movement and the unfolding struggle for the freezing of nuclear arsenals. This theme was topical, justified, and propagandistical y advantageous. There was a keen interest in the new American social movement from our side.

However, there were il usions that needed to be cautioned against.

The son of a retired admiral, a former naval officer, and now a lawyer concerned about the threat of nuclear war, Bil Brocket, feared being labeled unpatriotic due to his association with the "reds." On the eve of their meeting, having agreed to it, he warned over the phone that

he would record their upcoming conversation on a tape recorder. He cal ed the Americanist at the hotel, and this phone warning seemed to be directed to two addresses at once. When they sat in the office, the tape recorder was conspicuously placed on the table, and the door was demonstratively wide open. The conversation was in plain view. Bil Brocket did not want to take risks: "Yes, I accept the 'red,' al of you witnessed that I have no secrets with him."

The shadow of suspicion did not leave his boyish face. Meanwhile, the guest, asking questions and jotting down answers (old-fashioned style in a notebook), managed to think with sadness that the girl downstairs at the entrance, who brought him a cup of coffee while he was waiting for the lawyer, somehow resembled his younger daughter—equal y ready to help strangers and equal y shy and angular.

How vulnerable these pure, unprotected beings of youth and inexperience are in the face of life's cruel and indifferent pressure! How to preserve and protect them?