The Presidency: Measuring Mission

The black, Russian-built Chaika, right on time, drove past the barbed-wire fence up to the door of the massive stone and stucco building that serves as the U.S.

embassy residence in Vienna. Out of the residence door, like a broncobuster sprung from his chute, bounded John Fitzgerald Kennedy. He dashed down the steps to meet his bald, fat guest. “How are you?” he asked smilingly. “I’m glad to see you.” Soviet Premier Nikita Khrushchev grinned politely and shook Kennedy’s hand. Thus, one cold, wet day last week, the youthful leader of the Western alliance greeted the tough leader of world Communism.

As Wilson and Roosevelt and Dwight Eisenhower had gone to Europe before him, President Kennedy went to Paris and Vienna with the express diplomatic purpose of winning friends and influencing enemies. In his luck-starred political career, John Kennedy had often handled that sort of challenge with smooth, winning assurance—but never before had he faced such a difficult friend as France’s Charles de Gaulle, or such an unpredict able enemy as the Soviet Union’s Khrushchev. As he carefully told the country beforehand, Kennedy’s European rendezvous with history were not intended for strategic decision or diplomatic agreement. Instead, his mission was to take personal measure of the man De Gaulle and the man Khrushchev—and to let them take their measure of the young Bostonian who directs the most powerful nation on earth.

Advance Billing. No momentous decisions were expected, and if any were made, they were not immediately an nounced. But the job of measuring was thoroughly done. Kennedy found De Gaulle to be in accordance with the advance billing: a messianic, convinced statesman who, in six frank and open talks, came not an inch closer to accepting the U.S. view that France should cut short its do-it-yourself nuclear-arms development and live up to its NATO commitments. De Gaulle found Kennedy to be clever and knowledgeable, but still unsure in the manipulation of national power. But the personal relationship went better than anyone had expected. Thanks in large part to the help of Jackie Kennedy at her prettiest, Kennedy charmed the old soldier into unprecedented, flattering toasts and warm gestures of friendship. The young aristocrat of Massachusetts and the old aristocrat of Colombeyles-Deux-Eglises achieved a rapport that would help when France and the U.S. try to resolve the issues that divide them.

But measuring an enemy was not the same as measuring a friend. Kennedy found Nikita Khrushchev in good humor—at least on the surface. Khrush was ready to trade quips and toasts—but not a bit interested in making concessions on issues. If Khrush has a telling weakness, Kennedy seemed not to have found it.

In spending long hours in private consultation with Nikita Khrushchev, as with Charles de Gaulle, Kennedy was engaged in personal diplomacy to an extent never before attempted by a U.S. President. There were potential benefits—and obvious hazards. Both Khrushchev and De Gaulle have greater power than Kennedy to translate their personal impressions into political action within their countries. And if, in their taking of his measure, either found him wanting, then the meaning to the future could be dire.

Down Through Clouds. Kennedy had prepped well for the journey. After days of conferences with aides, he spent the holiday weekend resting at Hyannisport; there, on his 44th birthday, he flipped through De Gaulle’s memoirs, scoured a stack of position papers on how to deal with both the French and the Russians. In Manhattan before his flight, he summed up the purpose of his trip at a dinner for the Eleanor Roosevelt Cancer Foundation. “We go to many countries,” he said, “but we sing the same song, and that is: this country wants peace and this country wants freedom.”

Then, while it was still dawn in his own country, President John F. Kennedy’s scarlet-nosed Boeing 707 jet (code name: “Air Force One”) angled down through the pattern of clouds that covered northern France, and it came time for John Kennedy to prove that the words of the song had real meaning. Five minutes ahead of schedule, the huge craft eased onto the runway at Paris’ Orly Airport. A light haze filtered the bright sun, and there was no hint of rain to come later in the day; except for the chill (58°), it was Paris at its seductive springtime best. As the jet taxied toward the terminal, Kennedy pulled up the knot in his tie, brushed down a stray lock of hair; Jackie Kennedy carefully settled her pillbox hat—blue, to match the spring coat created by Designer Oleg Cassini—on top of her well-combed, bouffant hairdo. Press Secretary Pierre Salinger came forward with a last-minute report on details of the arrival ceremony; Kennedy listened, nodded his approval.

When the presidential plane wheeled to a stop in front of the terminal, the drums of a French air force band rolled out a rhythmic welcome. Dressed in a double-breasted grey suit, the Savior of France led his welcoming party—including Madame de Gaulle, U.S. Ambassador to Paris James Gavin, France’s Ambassador in Washington Herve Alphand—along 75 yards of red carpet to the debarking ramp. With a grin and a choppy, campaign-style wave. Kennedy stepped from the plane, Jackie a pace behind him. When the President of the U.S. and the President of France shook hands, De Gaulle gave greeting in his stilted, seldom-used English: “Have you made a good aerial voyage?” When Kennedy, grinning, answered yes, De Gaulle said: “Ah, that’s good.”

As the crowd cheered and waved tiny flags, the two Presidents strode toward the ornate, gilded Salon d’Honneur for the formal speeches of welcome. Talking all the way, Kennedy started to walk past the polished guard of honor. Placing a fatherly hand on Jack’s arm, De Gaulle turned his guest toward the flags, and the band played La Marseillaise and The Star-Spangled Banner.

“Daughter of Europe.” Kennedy came shrewdly prepared to humor the political mysticism of his imperial host. His words of greeting in the salon carefully echoed phrases from De Gaulle’s own pronouncements. “I come from America,” he said, “the daughter of Europe, to France, which is America’s oldest friend. But I come today, not because of merely past ties and past friendship, but because the present relationship between France and the United States is essential for the preservation of freedom around the globe.”

Then De Gaulle guided his guest to a waiting Citroën for the ten-mile motorcade to the Kennedys’ residence in Paris, the Palais des Affaires Etrangeres on the Quai d’Orsay. In deference to onetime (1950) Sorbonne Student Jackie, who followed in a car with Madame de Gaulle, the route included the famed Boul’ Mich’—cobblestoned main drag of the university district—before crossing the Seine into downtown Paris.

De Gaulle—and Paris—had arranged a hero’s welcome. There were two dazzling escorts: first, 50 epauleted motorcycle police, then the plumed, sword-bearing cavalry of the Garde Républicaine. Gay banners of red, white and blue bedecked the streets; kiosks were dotted with magazine pictures of the visitors. The huge crowd—including some Latin Quarter students who hoisted a Harvard banner and others who roared out a football-chant countdown of “Kenne-un, Kenne-deux, Kenne-trois . . . Kenne-dix!”—warmly greeted Jack and Jacqueline Kennedy. After the trip. De Gaulle proudly told Kennedy: “You had more than a million out”—although reporters guessed that 500,000 was a safer head count.

After settling briefly into “The King’s Chamber”—a Louis XVI bedroom paneled in blue-grey silk—Kennedy drove to the Elysee Palace for the first of his formal talks with De Gaulle. France’s President walked stiffly outside to greet his visitor. He paused impatiently for photographers, then guided Kennedy toward his second-floor office for the work at hand. The two men settled down in armchairs behind windows overlooking a superbly manicured lawn; between the chairs was a glass table, holding French and American cigarettes. (De Gaulle neither smokes nor likes others to indulge in his office; Kennedy, who brought his own cigars to Paris, abstained.)

“Tenir le Coup.” Carefully starting out on charted ground, De Gaulle and Kennedy devoted their first, 35-minute talk to Berlin. De Gaulle, who has long feared that the U.S. might be willing to negotiate away the future of that city, did most of the talking, urged Kennedy to hold firm (“tenir le coup”). The President, in turn, assured De Gaulle that firmness “is also our wish, our desire.” Without exploring specific strategy, the two agreed that there would be no Western surrender to Russian demands for a change in Berlin’s status. Kennedy agreed to closer consultation among Britain, France and the U.S. in shaping strategy for Berlin. That initial encounter went well; so far, Kennedy whispered to an aide later, he and De Gaulle were in “perfect agreement.”

On that note, the leaders adjourned for a small ceremonial lunch—langouste, pate de foie gras, noix de veau Orloff and three French wines. Jackie sat at De Gaulle’s right, charmed him with her careful, schoolbook French. When he rose to toast his visitors, De Gaulle again spoke in austere tones, but veteran observers of his methods noted a rare, genuine warmth as he told the Kennedys: “You saw this morning how happy Paris was to see you. I do not need to add anything to this.”

Lunch over, Kennedy and the general returned to the Salon Dore for nearly two hours of further talk. Principal topic: Laos and Southeast Asia. Both men agreed on the need for a certified ceasefire, expressed mutual hopes for a unified, neutralized Laos; but De Gaulle made it clear that no French troops would be committed to preserve Laotian freedom. At this conference, Kennedy shared equally in the conversation time, impressed De Gaulle with his sure knowledge of the subject matter (he used no notes), his occasional sharp turns of phrase. There was no glimmer of possible friction, and Kennedy told an aide later: “You know, we do seem to get along well.”

Afterwards, deliberation once more gave way to ceremony. Kennedy received the Paris diplomatic corps, then De Gaulle escorted Kennedy on the day’s second motorcade—to the Arc de Triomphe, where the President laid a wreath on the grave of the Unknown Soldier.

Social Niceties. That night De Gaulle was the host at a brilliant formal dinner at the Elysee Palace. By this time, the crusty old soldier had obviously warmed to his young guests. Referring to Kennedy as “mon ami,” the French President in his toast paid tribute to Kennedy’s “intelligence and courage,” noted “the philosophy of the true statesman who selects his course and holds to it without letting himself be stopped, not deviating because of incidents, and without waiting for any formula or combination to alleviate the responsibility that is his duty and his honor.” Looking much like the parents of the bride, the De Gaulles stood beside the Kennedys on a reception line as 1,000 pillars of Parisian society elbowed each other for a chance to shake hands.

Next day, Kennedy felt chipper enough to indulge in a campaign practice that few American politicians abroad seem able to resist: shaking hands with the natives. Twice during his tours Kennedy darted away from his police escort to mingle with startled Parisians, giving them his smiling, low-keyed greeting: “How are you? Good to see you.” But there was not much time for that sort of thing: his tightly scheduled day was jammed with both cerebration and ceremony.

If an exchange of views, rather than reconciliation of differences, was what Kennedy came to Paris for, his second day there was a considerable success. At a morning session with De Gaulle, President Kennedy heard the French leader explain that it was up to Britain whether or not it joins the Common Market (although European observers suspect that De Gaulle is deep-down opposed to British membership). In his turn, Kennedy explained the principle—financial help for countries that will instigate social reforms—of his ambitious Alianza para el Progreso in Latin America (TIME, Feb. 24). De Gaulle suggested that a Common Market observer would attend the Alianza’s first conference in Punta del Este, Uruguay, next month. When Kennedy stressed the need for France and other NATO allies to join in multilateral assistance pacts, De Gaulle cited the aid, amounting to nearly a billion a year, that France is giving its former colonies.

Polite—But Complete. For nearly two hours that afternoon, De Gaulle and Kennedy edged closer toward the major issues that divide them. When the Congo was discussed, Kennedy got a grudging admission from his host that the situation had improved since the U.N. intervention, but no commitment that France would help pay for the cost of maintaining the U.N. army. De Gaulle frankly voiced his view that U.S. aid to Africa should be supplemental to European efforts; without committing the U.S., Kennedy accepted the principle. Both men deplored the brutal Portuguese efforts to crush the Angolan rebellion, agreed to urge Portugal, quietly and discreetly, to adopt more liberal policies.

As time ran out, De Gaulle was explaining his reluctance to integrate French forces into NATO, his ambition to see France, Britain and the U.S. joined in a three-power directorate that would share equally in the strategic planning for the defense of the West. Kennedy proposed greater “consultation” on specific problems, but made no concessions on sharing U.S. nuclear secrets or U.S. deterrent strategy. The disagreement on France’s role in NATO was polite—but complete.

Generally, the conferences were going well; as if in response, Kennedy unleashed a few flashes of wit during the day’s ceremonial functions. He paid the traditional courtesy call on the U.S. embassy, told the 500 employees gathered to greet him: “I tried to be assigned to the embassy in Paris myself, and, unable to do so, I decided I would run for President.” At the Hotel de Ville (Paris’ cavernous city hall) before some 1,000 reception guests, Kennedy made reference to his own background in municipal politics: “I am the descendant, on both sides, of two grandparents, who served in the city council of Boston, and I am sure they regarded that as a more significant service than any of their descendants have yet rendered.” Turning serious, Kennedy rocked back and forth in his best platform manner, stabbing the air with clenched fists. “I do not believe the West is in decline,” he said. “I believe the West is in ascendancy. Even in the last 15 years, the strongest tide in the direction of the affairs of the world has been the rise of independent states, the desire of people to be independent.”

Kennedy returned to his talks with De Gaulle, then dashed away to address the permanent council of NATO. Said he: “I want to restate again the strong commitment of my country to the defense of Western Europe.”

Regal Pomp. As the grey Paris dusk turned to drizzling night, the Kennedys and their hosts drove the eleven miles from Paris to the Palace of Versailles, where staunchly republican France had prepared a display of regal pomp. In the glittering, candlelit Hall of Mirrors. 150 guests dined on coeur de filet de Charolais Renaissance from gold-trimmed china given to Napoleon by the City of Paris as a coronation present. After dinner the party moved to the restored Louis XV Theater for a command ballet performance.

Versailles, a fairy-tale palace even in the worst of weather, never looked more romantic. At evening’s end, Kennedy and Jackie drove past the lighted buildings and fountains, twice stopped to gaze at the haunting, misty landscape. With more than usual tenderness. John Kennedy escorted his wife from their car, took her arm as they walked out toward the shadowed columns of heroic statues. De Gaulle joined them, and there, with the reminder of the grandeur that was France in the background, the two men solemnly shook hands and said goodnight.

The following day Kennedy was up early for his fifth session with De Gaulle; this time both men took along a platoon of advisers. Somewhat reluctantly, Kennedy attended a luncheon press conference to answer questions (which had been submitted in writing three days before). The President glided newslessly through most of the queries, aiming his answers as much at Soviet listeners in Vienna as at the 400 newsmen gathered in the Palais de Chaillot. His major points:

¶ Although the prospects of securing true neutrality in Laos are “not easy,” the Geneva talks must succeed. “I cannot be lieve.” he said, “that anyone would imperil the peace by failing to recognize the importance of reaching an agreement in Laos, by breaking up a conference and refusing to agree to a cease-fire.” Cf No decision has been made to supply atomic information to France; Kennedy pointedly noted that any reinterpretation of the Atomic Energy Act of 1954 is “of great concern” to Congress—which has little interest in letting France in on U.S. nuclear secrets.

¶ He was deeply concerned about Soviet intransigence at the stalled Geneva test-ban talks. “If we cannot reach an agreement on this subject, how is it going to be possible for us to set up the kind of inspection system for the control of other weapons which could lead to disarmament and, therefore, to world peace?”

There was one final, unscheduled meeting with De Gaulle at Kennedy’s suggestion before the final farewells. A fanfare by the trumpets of the Garde Republicaine greeted the two men as they left the Elysee Palace; they walked toward the colors, stood side by side at attention for the playing of the two national anthems. Looking into Kennedy’s eyes. De Gaulle said: “Now I have more confidence in your country.” Then they smiled, shook hands, and the President drove off for a dinner skull session with aides to prepare for the confrontation with an enemy in Vienna.

Despite the high caloric content of his Parisian dining, the President had room for two breakfasts—one, of orange juice, rolls and coffee, gulped down at a strategy conference aboard his plane—on the morning of his flight to Vienna. Despite the wet weather, more than 70,000 Austrians turned out along Kennedy’s 15-mile journey from Schwechat to Alte Hofburg, the palatial residence of Austrian President Dr. Adolf Scharf. Khrushchev, grinning his cordial peasant best, had not done nearly so well; the Soviet leader drew fewer than 50.000 during his ceremonial motorcade to visit Scharf. Along the way, low whistles (the Viennese version of the Bronx cheer) punctuated thin, tired applause. But Khrushchev seemed not to notice, expressed his hope that “the good atmosphere of peace-loving and neutral Austria will favorably influence the results of our forthcoming meeting.”

After his courtesy call on Dr. Scharf, Kennedy drove to the embassy residence of Ambassador H. Freeman Matthews.

Nervously, he paced the halls, conferring with Secretary of State Dean Rusk, Ambassador to Moscow Llewellyn Thompson. Then Khrushchev came. While photographers wrestled desperately for shots, Kennedy stood back from his guest, bluntly and openly surveying him from head to toe. But Kennedy also offered a dab of graceful deference. When cameramen shouted for another handshake, Kennedy turned to his interpreter: “Say to the Chairman that it is all right to shake hands if it is all right with him.” Khrushchev beamed wider than ever, stuck out a fleshy hand for the pose. The formalities out of the way, the two men headed for the embassy’s red and grey music room for their first talk. It, too, went well—luncheon was delayed for 30 minutes so the discussion could continue.

A host of Soviet and U.S. diplomats—headed by Secretary of State Dean Rusk and Foreign Minister Andrei Gromyko—joined Kennedy and Khrushchev at the table. After a cocktail (Khrushchev downed a bourgeois martini, Kennedy a Dubonnet), the two leaders exchanged champagne toasts, regaled each other with political anecdotes and lighthearted comparisons of the Communist and capitalist ways of life. After the luncheon, in a now familiar Kennedy routine, the President took his guest by the arm, suggested a short walk in the garden, alone but for their interpreters. As they strolled around the garden’s tree-shaded pond, Kennedy stuffed his hands in his coat pockets; Khrushchev occasionally launched an animated gesture.

No Concession. All afternoon, the two leaders talked, with their interpreters, in (privacy. Toward 7 o’clock, Kennedy and Khrushchev walked out of the embassy residence to meet the press; both men were smiling. Although Khrushchev had not yielded an inch on the major question—the future of Laos—raised during the long afternoon, Kennedy’s spirits were up. He enjoyed sparring with the Soviet Premier, felt that he was holding his own, and even scoring a few sharp counterpunches. Trying hard not to build up any false hopes, U.S. observers said only that the talks were “frank, courteous and wide-ranging”; but to the Russian group, the initial encounter seemed “fruitful.”

On the last day of his Vienna visit, Jack Kennedy rose early to bone up for the morning’s session with Khrushchev, then escorted Jackie to 9 o’clock Mass at St. Stephen’s Cathedral. About the same time, Khrushchev solemnly laid a wreath of red carnations at the base of the Russian war memorial in Schwarzenbergplatz, stood with bared head bowed for nearly five minutes before the marble column. Then, just after 10, Kennedy and his advisers drove up to the grey, stuccoed Soviet embassy for a lunch and final matching of wits on nuclear testing, disarmament and Berlin. “I greet you on a small piece of our Soviet territory,” said Khrushchev to his guest. “Sometimes we drink out of a small glass, but we speak with great feeling.” Answered Kennedy: “I’m glad to hear this.”

Lunch was delayed an hour so that the final arguments could continue; afterward, Kennedy delayed his departure to talk a bit longer with Khrushchev. Then, much as they began, the meetings ended with surface cordiality. The Soviets had not thawed—but they also had not displayed any disturbing belligerence. As in Paris, John Kennedy left Vienna without having made a binding pact or decision—at least none that was announced or hinted at. But in the private chats with Khrushchev, he had at least heard, untrammeled, the voice of the enemy. And having heard that voice, Jack Kennedy this week flew off, with an important London stopover, for home.