Petrov

How is it possible that two men, presumably unknown to each other, separated by 16 years and 12,000 miles, can say precisely the same thing after a hard night’s drinking? Because they’re Russians, that’s how.

To this day I am fascinated by world history, the whys and wherefores of great kings, knaves, statesmen, nations and peoples. Well done histories are far more fun than fiction, and I’m a “whodunit” devotee. It was not surprising then, that I majored in political science at NYU during the fifties, and took a minor in history with an emphasis on the Russian people and their incredible past. I studied under the toughest professor on the subject in New York, or probably anywhere else for that matter, Doctor Alexander Baltzy, former ambassador to the Soviet Union, a Russian scholar and linguist. His four- point course heaped doses of history and literature on you as a matter of course, for he believed there was nothing as important. If you had other subjects, or even a job and family, it didn’t enter the equation. If you received a “B” in his course, you ran down the halls shouting about it.

We studied Turgenev, Tolstoy, Gorky, Dostoyevsky and more than a thousand years of Russian rulers and madmen, princes and revolutionaries. The Kievan prince era, around 800 AD. was just a start. We learned about the Khans who ruled the restive Russians for hundreds of years, of “Going to Sarai,” when Russian nobles had to pay tribute to the Khan in residence. Indeed “Going to Sarai” is still a Russian term of subjugation and humiliation. The ‘”Great Rus,” were formidable, above all enduring, and they pressed their boundaries to the Sea of Oshkosh. I kept thinking they were like us, but in later years changed that opinion profoundly.

During my studies, the first Soviet Union exhibition took place in the new exhibition hall on Columbus Circle. As president of the Government Club at NYU, I had little to do, it was a rather moribund club. But when my girl friend and I arrived at the exhibition, that title gave me a certain cachet with the Soviet guides. Of course they were all graciousness as we looked at terrible Soviet art stressing wheat production quotas, the Great Patriotic War, and the inevitable triumph of socialism, although what socialism, as I understood it, had to do with the bloody, repressive iron fist of rulers who spoke ex cathedra from the Kremlin, I will never know.

We were strolling and stopped at a long, Soviet-produced car, which had a striking resemblance to our big Packard and whose automatic transmission seemed to be a rip-off of a Chrysler. Despite the obvious propaganda efforts, I was fascinated. Soon a young Russian Intourist Officer introduced himself in flawless English and became our unofficial host. Perhaps he wanted to meet young Americans or was practicing this difficult foreign tongue. When I mentioned that I was president of the Government Club, he became more interested and I saw him approach a middle-aged Russian who looked my way, nodded as he listened, and then our guide came back to us seemingly pleased at something. New Yorkers, real born-in-the-streets New Yorkers, are proud of their “street savvy,” their ability to pick up very quickly on any possible scam or shenanigans by anyone, anytime or anyplace, and so a small bell started ringing.

During my navy years, while aboard the carrier Coral Sea, my commanding officer called me into his office, reminded me of my oath upon entering the navy and asked where I had been born. I told him Chelsea, next to Greenwich Village and he seemed very interested, but I had the feeling he knew all this already. As a navy Journalist I edited the ship’s paper and did “Fleet Home Town,” press releases so I went wherever I chose and reported to him every couple of weeks. But he had something else on his mind and I rapidly became aware he had other duties, probably with Naval Intelligence. He told me that I was under oath, that I would follow his orders and assigned me to an investigative status which I found onerous, yet exciting. I performed the job well so I had some investigative experience for most of our six-month cruise and was nominally

part of the Navy’s investigative arm, whatever the hell it was. I doubt it ever appeared in my service jacket.

Anyway, combing that experience with street savvy, I began to understand that my guide, let’s just call him Ivan, was probably KGB which didn’t bother me in the least. I asked him if he would like to go on a Greenwich Village pub tour, we would call up my companion’s close friend and make a night of it. To my amazement, after checking with his boss, he agreed and away we went, ending up after many laughs and many, many, beers later at the Corner Bistro on Jane Street at about 2:00 a.m.

Ivan liked us and was a good companion who spoke wonderfully about his country, his people and their travails and triumphs. He was impressed at my knowledge of Russia and its history and the “Great Patriotic War,” in which the Soviets lost twenty million people. Most people don’t know that eight out of ten Germans killed during that war were killed by Russians, and he was genuinely surprised that I was aware of these facts. What he didn’t know was that I was a World War II buff, as are so many who just missed being in it.

He got very serious toward the end of the evening and his accent became more pronounced. He look at his young American companions rather wistfully and suggested a rather strange toast, one full of foreboding. He said, “Comrades, new comrades, some day we will face East together,” and raised his glass. The girls were mystified but I knew of the Russian near paranoia about the great Asian hordes to the East and replied, “My friend, I’m afraid you are going to have to face that one without us.” His brow furrowed, he looked concerned, nodded slowly and said, “History may change your mind.” This was in 1957, and remains forever in my mind because of something that happened in rather drab, downtown Hanoi during the American war.

It’s a part of my life I don’t often talk about, but the fact is, I went back to Vietnam, North Vietnam, this time while American troops were still dying in the South and American aircraft were sporadically bombing Hanoi. A group of American labor leaders, Cliff Caldwell of the American Meat Workers Union, Hal Gibbons, head of the Teamsters Midwestern Conference, and a very powerful figure in labor, and David Livingston, President of the then independent District 65 in New York City, decided I had the credentials to go with them as sort of “dogsbody,” bodyguard perhaps, luggage handler and general factotum, especially about Vietnamese customs and procedures.

I had studied these remarkable, resilient people and their war-filled history. They had fought the Chinese on and off for eight hundred years, and I felt better that I, rather than someone else, act as adviser. Fact is, I was rather flattered. I was dying to see the “enemy’s” capitol and to better understand how they could stand up to the might of American arms.

So after a round-the-world flight we transferred to Aeroflot in Vientiane, Laos, and then landed at Hanoi airport where we were greeted by a delegation with flowers in their arms. It was the beginning of an adventure and a part of my life which I wonder at today. We met Le Duc To, the President of the country, were introduced to captive American fliers, a heart rending experience, and took their messages back to their families. We walked through rubble-filled streets and saw battalions of fresh young troops who were going headed south. They did not have the appearance of a war-ravaged people, but rather of a nation dedicated to the memory of Ho Chi Minh and the success of communism. It was a shocker. I felt more than ever that we had to get the hell out of there, this despite the fact that I had been a reporter who had been convinced that we were doing the right thing in trying to save this country from Communist aggression.

The peace negotiations were underway, and the labor leaders wondered about the veracity of statements made by Kissinger or Nixon. The North Vietnamese spoke of their posture, their attempts at ending the war, and the difference between the positions was as wide as the Bay of Tonkin. A side bar to this story, a young ABC News correspondent named Ted Koppel followed us half way round the world and finally got his story when we returned to Vientiane. He flew back to the states on the same plane and we had an interesting talk. His cameraman, Yasuda San, was the man that I had introduced into combat three years before.

One steaming, endless night, after a round of discussions, I was sitting at the bar in Hanoi’s Ho Chi Minh Hotel, wondering what the hell I was doing there, when someone wearing a suit with French cuffs leaned over the bar and ask for Stolichnaya vodka in perfect Vietnamese. I turned as he said, “Comrade Glennon?” and I said, “ Tass?” He laughed and responded, “NBC News?” I said, “KGB?,” he laughed again and said, “Naval Intelligence?” We both chuckled, and had a drink together because we both wanted something.

His name was Boris Petrov, and years later I heard he was alive and well. He wanted an interview with the labor leaders, and I wanted to know where the “bugs,” were that had been planted in our rooms. He offered to buy me some Czech booze and I said, “Boris, I have a bottle of Scotch in my room, how about a taste?.” He said, “Scotch Scotch?” I replied “Black Label,” he smiled and ordered four small bottles of Perrier soda, for it was in plentiful supply in downtown Hanoi even during a frightful war. Trust the French to keep their hand in.

I had every intention of getting Boris drunk to have the upper-hand in our dealings, and poured five fingers of Scotch into his glass with one finger of club soda, while pouring five fingers of Perrier into my glass and one finger of Scotch. He knew I was trying to get him at least half smashed, I knew he knew that fact, and he further knew that I knew he knew, if you can follow all that.

But the Russian reputation for alcohol consumption is based on fact. I watched the bottle diminish. Boris was doing very well indeed. Finally he agreed to tell me about the “bugs,” and I agreed to an individual interview with my team. He eventually took off his jacket and proceeded to tell me about life in Hanoi. He felt he was followed by the North Vietnamese, that they were tapping his phones and then we got to talking about our personal lives. He said he had been engaged for several years but had only been back to Moscow a few times during those years. I told him of my children, my life back in New York City, and we got to know and like each other, two strangers a long way from home.

Finally with the quart of Scotch a memory, his accent by now very Russian indeed, he started to put on his coat then hesitated.

He took off his cuff links and said, “These were my grandfather’s, they are semiprecious stone from the Urals, and I want you to have them.” I was touched and removed a gold ring from my finger with the Chinese character “Fu,” on it, meaning long life, many sons, prosperity, that sort of thing. He didn’t want to accept it at first but I prevailed. He touched my shoulder and grasped my hand and said, “I wish things were different.” I responded, “Yeah, me too, my friend.” He hesitated at the door, looked at me closely and said, “Some day, my friend, we may face East together,” and left. I remembered then a college evening in Greenwich Village with another stranger from a far away land.