(4 of 19)
The Germans say that Gromyko has "an Anglo-Saxon sense of melancholy." If this is so, it may be explained by the fact that he knows that he works for men who will blame him if he permits himself to be tricked by the Americans.
My talks with him went on to the end of a gray and overcast afternoon. At the time, Gromyko was 72. At the beginning of the meeting, he had seemed fit and younger than his years, but at the end he looked aged and tired, and wiped his brow with his bare hand in apparent fatigue and relief. Perhaps he was glad that nothing worse had been said about Poland. He may also have realized that when he and I met again, the subject in all its danger for the world and shame for the Soviet Union would not be so easy to avoid.
As 1981 approached its end, a deceptive calm settled over the question. Then, during a visit to Brussels, at 3 a.m. on Dec. 13, I received the news that General Wojciech Jaruzelski, the Polish leader, had declared a "military government of national salvation," suspended the operations of Solidarity, closed the borders, broken communications with the outside world and arrested a large number of citizens. We recognized at once that, for the time being at least, martial law, rather than something worse, had been imposed upon Poland. We had known for many months what we would do in case of direct Soviet intervention—and indeed there had been a good deal of speculation in public about a variety of sanctions—but there was no certain plan of action in the more ambiguous case of an internal crackdown.
Over a secure telephone that had been placed in my hotel room in Brussels, I spoke with William Clark, still my deputy at the State Department, who would soon replace Allen at the NSC; he told me that the President's staff was thinking of calling Reagan back to the White House from Camp David for a special NSC meeting on Poland. I advised against this. A hurried return by helicopter, followed by a crisis-style meeting, might prematurely raise international temperatures. Our objective was to remain calm and steady.
Caspar Weinberger was somewhere above the Atlantic, returning to Washington from one of his many missions abroad. I took the opportunity to call him aboard his aircraft and mention that it behooved us all to speak cautiously in public, and especially to the press, on this issue. Weinberger's tendency to blurt out locker-room opinions in the guise of policy was one that I prayed he might overcome. If God heard, He did not answer in any way understandable to me. The arduous duty of construing the meaning of Cap Weinberger's public sayings was a steady drain on time and patience.
At White House meetings, the hard-liners spoke of draconian measures. I kept telling the President to remember Hungary. Vice President Bush and Weinberger and their supporters urged tough talk to the Russians in private and to the world. It was suggested that the President publicly demand the release of Lech Walesa, the leader of