My Father Nikita Khrushchev’s Downfall

On Oct. 15, 1964, the world heard the shocking news: Nikita Sergeyevich Khrushchev had been removed as leader of the Soviet Union. Weeks earlier his son Sergei, then 29 and an engineer working on a rocket project, had been told by a former kgb guard about the plot, but Nikita initially dismissed the story as nonsense. As the days slipped by and the intrigue grew, the senior Khrushchev realized that his son was right. But it was too late. After more than a decade as one of the globe’s two most powerful leaders, Khrushchev became a nonperson overnight. He died in 1971.

In the months after Khrushchev’s ouster, Sergei began to record impressions of his father’s last days in the Kremlin so that, as he puts it, the story “would not be lost to history.” Last July, after Mikhail Gorbachev praised Khrushchev and the Soviet press began to rehabilitate the former leader’s reputation, the editors of TIME encouraged Sergei to write about his father. In October the first of four installments appeared in the Soviet weekly Ogonyok.

Sergei, now 53, lives with his second wife Valentina in a Moscow apartment building that is reserved for the elite. Transferred from his high-security job in 1968, Sergei serves as a deputy director of a scientific institute. Sergei insists that he wanted his story to be published not to glorify his father but to correct the “fabrications” that have appeared. “Many people may find it hard to believe,” he says, “but Nikita Sergeyevich was a very trusting man, sincere almost to the point of naivete.”

The younger Khrushchev’s story not only sheds light on one of the century’s great palace intrigues but also points up circumstantial parallels that may be viewed as cautionary by Gorbachev. Like Gorbachev, Khrushchev was a larger- than-life figure who, in attempting reforms that pale beside those being tried today but were radical for their time, made powerful enemies within the collective Soviet leadership. Sergei’s tale is also a parable of treachery. Even Anastas Mikoyan, then Soviet President and a putative Khrushchev ally, comes off as a bet hedger who bows to pressure from a web of plotters that includes Presidium ((now called Politburo)) members Leonid Brezhnev, Nikolai Podgorny and Mikhail Suslov, Deputy Premier Alexander Shelepin and KGB chief Vladimir Semichastny.

One evening in early September, the special government phone rang. That surprised me. Everyone knew my father was not in Moscow. I heard an unfamiliar voice.

“May I speak to Nikita Sergeyevich?”

“He’s not in Moscow.”

“To whom am I speaking?” I could hear the disappointment in the voice on the other end.

“This is his son.”

“How do you do, Sergei Nikitovich. This is Vasily Ivanovich Galyukov. I’m the former chief of security for Nikolai Grigoriyevich Ignatov ((President of the Russian Republic)). I’ve been trying to reach Nikita Sergeyevich all summer. I have to tell him something very important.”

I was all the more surprised. What could Ignatov’s former chief of security have to tell Khrushchev? “Please, hear me out,” said Galyukov hurriedly. “I happen to know that there is a plot against Nikita Sergeyevich. I wanted to tell him about it personally. There are many people involved.”

I thought the man must be insane. What kind of plot could there be nowadays? It was nonsense.

“Vasily Ivanovich,” I said, “you’d better call Semichastny at the KGB. They’ll take care of everything.”

“I can’t go to Semichastny. He’s an active participant in the plot, along with Shelepin, Podgorny and others. I wanted to tell all this personally to Nikita Sergeyevich. He’s in great danger.”

“Call back in a few days. He’ll be back soon.”

“I may not be able to do that. It was only by chance that I got access to this special phone and managed to be alone in the room. Perhaps you can listen to what I have to say and then tell Nikita Sergeyevich about our conversation.”

I didn’t know what to do. If he was crazy, he would torment me with groundless suspicions. But what if he wasn’t crazy? Maybe I’d better meet him and find out. “All right. Give me your address. I’ll come this evening and you can tell me everything.”

“No, no! It’s dangerous to talk there. Do you know the Central Committee apartment building on Kutuzovsky Prospekt? Tell me what your car looks like, and I’ll be waiting for you.”

“I have a black car — license 02-32. I’ll be there in half an hour.”

Sergei and Galyukov drove to the woods outside Moscow. Galyukov explained how he had overheard several of Ignatov’s telephone conversations with Brezhnev and Podgorny. Though Galyukov had caught only snatches, he was convinced they planned to oust Khrushchev before November.

We’d been walking for almost two hours. As we were saying goodbye, Galyukov said, “Sergei Nikitovich, call me only in an emergency, and don’t say anything on the phone beyond arranging a meeting. My telephone is bugged — I’m sure of it.”

All this was not just unusual but scary and unreal. On the way back into town, Galyukov and I were relieved to see that there was no one tailing us. How naive we were. His fear that his own phone was bugged was only part of the truth. The lines into Khrushchev’s apartment were also bugged, so my meeting with Vasily Ivanovich was traced from the first step to the last.

When Father returned to Moscow, I was hesitant about telling him everything I had heard. What if all this was just an invention of a stranger who was talking nonsense about members of the top leadership — many of whom I had known since my childhood in Kiev and had many times been to our home? “You know,” I began, “something unusual happened while you were away. It may be nonsense, but I can’t keep it to myself.”

Father heard me out without saying anything. When I finished, he said, “You’ve done the right thing to tell me. Tell me again, who did that man mention by name?”

“Ignatov, Podgorny, Brezhnev, Shelepin.”

Father thought for a moment. “No, that can’t be. Brezhnev, Podgorny, Shelepin — they’re completely different people. Ignatov — that’s possible. But what can he have in common with the others?”

The next day, when Father returned from the Kremlin, he started right in: “It looks like there’s nothing to what you said. Mikoyan, Podgorny and I were coming out of the Council of Ministers, and I told them what you’d said. Podgorny simply laughed it off. ‘How could you even think such a thing, Nikita Sergeyevich?’ But just in case, I asked Mikoyan to meet with this man ((Galyukov)).”

I was very upset. It was one thing for Mikoyan to be put in charge of the investigation, but how could this be set in motion so casually — and in the presence of Podgorny, who after all was one of those mentioned as part of the plot?

A few days later, Mikoyan summoned Sergei and Galyukov to his apartment, where he greeted them coolly and ordered Sergei to take notes. Galyukov recounted his tale, adding that over the previous few days Ignatov had grown agitated because Khrushchev had not left yet for his vacation in the Crimean resort of Pitsunda. Galyukov’s conclusion: the plot would begin in earnest while Khrushchev was away.

A heavy silence had fallen over the room. Mikoyan sat there thinking as though we weren’t even there. Finally he turned to us. “Everything you’ve said is very important. You’ve shown yourself to be a genuine Communist . . . I want only to say that we also know Nikolai Viktorovich Podgorny, Leonid Ilyich Brezhnev, Alexander Nikolayevich Shelepin and other comrades as honest Communists who without even a shred of doubt have devoted all their strength to the good of our people, to the good of the Communist Party, and we continue to regard them as our comrades in arms in the common struggle.” Seeing that I had put down my pen, Mikoyan snapped, “Take down what I just said!”

Galyukov in bewilderment looked at Mikoyan. There was fear in his eyes. Turning to me, Mikoyan concluded, “Write up your notes from this conversation and send it to me. I’m leaving for Pitsunda. You can bring the report there. Don’t show it to anyone — not to a single person. I will tell Nikita Sergeyevich about all of this, and we’ll decide what to do.”

The next morning, when I reached the last page of the report, I decided to omit Mikoyan’s final declaration since it didn’t fit with the overall tone. And then I went off on vacation. An hour or two after I got to my father’s dacha, we went by Mikoyan’s house to pick him up.

“I brought the report, Anastas Ivanovich,” I said. “What should I do?” My father responded for Mikoyan: “When we get back, you give it to Anastas.” Only much later did I figure out the cause of Father’s attitude. He did not want to believe that such a thing could happen. These people who were accused had been friends of his for decades. If he couldn’t trust them, whom could he trust? Besides, he was infinitely tired and had neither the strength nor the desire to get into a struggle for power.

I gave the report to Mikoyan. Later that night he asked me to come see him. In his bedroom he opened a wardrobe and, kneeling down, pulled out my report from under a big pile of clothes. “Everything’s written down here correctly,” he said. “Only add at the end my words about how we have complete confidence in, and no doubts whatsoever about, the honesty of Comrades Podgorny, Brezhnev and the others, and that we don’t accept the idea < that any sort of separatist action on their part is possible. Sit down and write that.”

He watched me write it out. When I finished, he said, “Now put your signature on it.”

I was astonished. “Why? This isn’t an official document.”

“It’s better this way. After all, you’re the one who took the notes.” I signed. Mikoyan hid the folder under a pile of shirts. Catching my look of bewilderment, he explained, “Here it will be better preserved. Besides, this man of yours probably invented a lot of that stuff.”

On the morning of Oct. 12, the spacecraft Voskhod with a crew of three had been launched into orbit. Father knew the time of the launch, and he kept looking at his pocket watch. Finally he said, “They’ve launched already.” He looked toward the telephones but they were silent. Usually everybody wanted to be the first to call with the good news. But this time the phones were silent.

Father busied himself with his papers, but he couldn’t concentrate. Half an hour, 40 minutes passed. I felt uneasy. It was as though everyone had forgotten about Khrushchev. Similar thoughts were apparently troubling my father. “Connect me with Smirnov ((his aide of 30 years)),” he ordered.

The call went right through. “Comrade Smirnov, why haven’t you reported about the launch of the cosmonauts?” Smirnov said something about how there was nothing unusual about the launch. Father’s irritation grew. “Then why didn’t you report? You’re supposed to report the results immediately.” Of course, by now Smirnov knew everything and was in no hurry to call. Father hung up furiously.

Evening was falling. Father and Mikoyan were strolling along the beach. They were interrupted by a duty officer who ran up to them panting.

“Nikita Sergeyevich, Comrade Suslov asks that you come speak to him on the phone.” Father went into a little office and picked up the receiver. “Yes, Comrade Suslov?” There was a long pause. “I don’t understand. What questions? Go ahead and deal with them without me.” Another pause. “What can be so urgent? I’ll be back in two weeks, then we can discuss everything.” Father’s nerves were beginning to show. “I don’t understand any of this. What does that mean, you ‘all got together’? We’ll discuss agricultural problems at the plenum in November. There will be plenty of time to talk it all over then.”

“Well,” Father finally gave in, “if it’s so urgent I’ll come tomorrow. Goodbye.”

The next afternoon Khrushchev and his entourage boarded an Ilyushin 18 jet for the more than three-hour flight to Moscow.

He and Mikoyan went into the rear cabin. My father did not like to be alone and always had company. This time it was different. “Leave us alone,” he curtly ordered. The two men were working out what line they would take, playing with alternatives, trying to guess what lay in store for them at the airport.

The landing was smooth as usual. In recent years members of the Central Committee Presidium came to see off or meet my father. This time the tarmac was empty, with only two figures barely seen in the distance. It was a bad sign. The ramp was slowly rolled up. The mysterious figures approached. It was KGB Chairman Semichastny, accompanied by an aide.

Semichastny offered a polite but reserved greeting: “Welcome back, Nikita Sergeyevich.” He leaned over to my father, and, as if in confidence, told him in a low voice, “Everybody has gathered at the Kremlin. They are waiting for you.”

My father turned to Mikoyan and calmly, almost lightheartedly, said, “Let’s go, Anastas.”

My father came home around 8 p.m. We walked for a while in silence. I didn’t ask him anything. He looked upset and very tired.

“Everything happened just the way you said it would,” he said.

“Are they demanding that you give up all your posts?” I asked.

“So far, only one of them, but that means nothing. This is just the beginning. We should be ready for anything.” He stopped speaking.

“Don’t ask any questions. I’m tired and have to think this over.”

We walked on in silence. He suddenly asked: “Are you a doctor?”

I was dumbfounded.

“What do you mean, a doctor?”

“A doctor of science?”

“No, just a master’s degree.”

“Forget it.”

Silence again. We made another round, and my father turned toward the house. He went upstairs to his bedroom and asked that a cup of tea be brought him there. Nobody dared to disturb him.

Later that evening Sergei, with his friend Sergo Mikoyan, the son of the President, paid a visit to the apartment of academician Anushavan Arzumanyan, who had spent the previous hours conferring with the elder Mikoyan.

“Anastas Ivanovich has asked me to keep our conversation a secret,” said Arzumanyan hesitantly. “But I can tell you. Various charges have been made against Nikita Sergeyevich. Everyone but Mikoyan has formed a single front. Khrushchev is accused of various sins: the unsatisfactory situation in agriculture, disrespectful treatment of members of the Central Committee Presidium and disregard for their opinions, and many other things.

“But this is not the main thing. What’s at issue now is not his mistakes but the line that he embodies and carries out. If he were not there, Stalinists could seize power and nobody knows what would happen. It’s necessary to put up a fight and prevent the ouster of Khrushchev.”

The accusation that Khrushchev had undervalued other members of the Presidium and was tactless in dealing with them was a serious one. There was a considerable measure of truth in it. Everyone recalled old and new insults.

“By the way,” Arzumanyan turned to me. “Shelepin said that you got your doctor-of-science degree without defending it.”

“So that’s what it is!” I exclaimed without thinking. “My father asked me today whether I was a doctor. I couldn’t understand it, and told him that three years ago I defended my master’s thesis and explained the difference between a master’s and doctor’s degree. It’s clear now how that question came up. This was a pure fabrication.”

At the time we didn’t know that my father had already decided to retire without putting up a fight. Late at night he called Mikoyan and said that if everyone wanted to relieve him of his posts, he would not object. Our telephone was bugged and his words became known immediately to his opponents, but we knew nothing. The whole morning of the 14th of October passed in exhausting expectation. At last there was a phone call from the Kremlin to say that he was on his way home.

Normally, he would never come home during the day. I met the car at the gate. My father thrust his black briefcase into my hands and exhaled, “It’s over . . . retired.”

After a brief pause, he added:

“Didn’t want to have lunch with them.”

All was over. No one knew what was in store for us. One thing was clear. Nothing depended on us. There was nothing to do but wait.

“I wrote the statement myself, asking that I be relieved for reasons of health. I said that I would live where they tell me to, either in Moscow or elsewhere.”

Only years later did I learn some details. The key figures who ousted my father were not Shelepin and Ignatov but Brezhnev with Podgorny, who had more than once in conversations with other members of the Presidium touched on the subject of relations with Khrushchev. Brezhnev would complain about Khrushchev’s intolerance and the strong words addressed to him, particularly the fact that my father once called him a “loafer.”

But during these conversations there was no talk of ousting Khrushchev. Brezhnev only suggested convening the Central Committee plenum to “criticize” my father’s work style. This, obviously, showed the indecisiveness of Brezhnev, who was afraid to take the final step.

Until the end of his life, recollections about these events were unpleasant for my father. Only at the very end of his life could I piece together a more or less complete picture of what had happened from occasional disconnected remarks he made, particularly about what he had said himself in his last speech.

At that meeting of the Presidium, my father said that he would not fight for power because he did not think it possible to go against the opinion of the majority. He apologized for rude remarks he might have made and tactless actions. However, he resolutely brushed off the main accusations against him. My father reproached his former colleagues for their lack of courage. Each had tried to outdo the other in saying yes and had agreed with all his proposals.

Serious charges were made against my father concerning certain foreign policy steps. According to him, those were the Caribbean crisis ((the Cuban missile crisis of October 1962)), events at the Suez Canal and our relations with China. My father had answered that apparently somebody’s memory was failing, because all the decisions had been made collectively by majority vote.

Back on that day in October, my father went out for a walk after lunch. Everything was unusual that day, such as this walk during working hours and its purpose — or rather, lack of it. In the past he would go out for exactly an hour after work to shake off the fatigue that accumulated during the day, and after some rest he would start reading his evening mail. Now a few last papers, some materials for the next session of the Presidium, were left in his briefcase. They were fated to remain there unopened and forgotten until my father’s very death. He never looked into his briefcase.

We walked in silence. Finally, I couldn’t stand it and asked a question that interested me: “Who was appointed?”

“Brezhnev will be First Secretary and Alexei Kosygin, the premier. Kosygin is a worthy candidate. He knows the economy quite well and would do a good job. It is more difficult with Brezhnev. He has too soft a character and is too easily influenced. I’m not sure he has enough strength to carry out the correct line, but it’s not my business anymore. I am a pensioner now.” Bitter lines appeared at the corners of his mouth. We never returned to this subject.

Mikoyan came to see us in the evening. “I was asked to tell you the following,” Anastas Ivanovich began hesitantly. “This dacha and the city apartment are yours for life.”

“Good,” Father said vaguely, “I am ready to live where I am told to.”

“You will keep a security and maintenance staff, but it will be changed.”

My father grunted.

“Your pension will be set at 500 rubles a month, with a car and driver thrown in.” Mikoyan hesitated. “I also suggested that we create for you a new job as consultant to the Presidium, but my proposal was turned down.”

“There was no need to,” said my father firmly. “They would never agree to that. Of course, it would be good to have something to do. I don’t know how I can live as a pensioner without doing anything. Thanks anyway. It’s good to know you have a friend at your side.”

The conversation was over. My father saw his guest off to the front of the house. Anastas Ivanovich embraced and kissed Khrushchev. At that time it was not customary for leaders to kiss each other. And so everyone was moved by this farewell.

Mikoyan walked briskly to the gate. His short figure disappeared around the turn. Nikita Sergeyevich watched him leave.

They never met after that.