An Unfinished Life Part 16

THROUGHOUT 1962, civil rights remained a distinctly secondary concern alongside domestic worries about the economy and the gold drain. In the first two months after he began taping important conversations, for example, Kennedy recorded numerous discussions about international affairs and domestic economic problems but absolutely nothing about civil rights, except for one brief discussion with Johnson about the CEEO. At the end of March, an unsigned White House memo pointed out that "the proper groundwork has not been laid for [civil rights] legislation in Congress. Negroes are not convinced that the Administration is civil rights remained a distinctly secondary concern alongside domestic worries about the economy and the gold drain. In the first two months after he began taping important conversations, for example, Kennedy recorded numerous discussions about international affairs and domestic economic problems but absolutely nothing about civil rights, except for one brief discussion with Johnson about the CEEO. At the end of March, an unsigned White House memo pointed out that "the proper groundwork has not been laid for [civil rights] legislation in Congress. Negroes are not convinced that the Administration is really really on their side. Southern whites still believe that the turmoil is a combination of 'ward politics' and 'outside agitators.' ... If legislation is submitted to Congress before the moral issue is clearly drawn, the result will be disaster. The country will be exposed to several weeks of divisive and inflammatory debate. The debate is likely to come to no conclusion-thus disillusioning the Negroes and strengthening the bigots in their conclusion that the country is 'really with' them. The Republicans will have a field day. And in addition to the civil rights cause, the President's whole program will go down the drain." on their side. Southern whites still believe that the turmoil is a combination of 'ward politics' and 'outside agitators.' ... If legislation is submitted to Congress before the moral issue is clearly drawn, the result will be disaster. The country will be exposed to several weeks of divisive and inflammatory debate. The debate is likely to come to no conclusion-thus disillusioning the Negroes and strengthening the bigots in their conclusion that the country is 'really with' them. The Republicans will have a field day. And in addition to the civil rights cause, the President's whole program will go down the drain."

The burden was on Kennedy, who needed to "make the kind of moral commitment" that would "rescue the situation and restore unity," the memo advised. He should ask the three former presidents, Hoover, Eisenhower, and Truman, and Republican congressional leaders for help and to make clear to blacks that "he is on their side because they are right." He also needed to make the moral case for civil rights in a nationwide TV speech and to hold face-to-face conversations with people across the South-"not as their antagonist, but as their President"-to educate them about "the simple rights and wrongs of the situation."

It is not clear that Kennedy ever saw this memo, but he felt the heat anyway from civil rights advocates pressing for bolder action. The Civil Rights Commission urged him to support a voting rights law, but the president and Bobby were committed to a less comprehensive strategy-lawsuits against the worst offending southern counties. Seeing this as a form of incrementalism producing uncertain results, the commission planned to hold hearings in Louisiana and Mississippi, where the most p.r.o.nounced abuses existed, to underscore the need for legislation. Afraid that the commission's presence in the Deep South would touch off "large scale" violence, Kennedy's Justice Department resisted.

By 1962, Father Hesburgh and Bobby were locked in a bureaucratic conflict that stunned Harris Wofford and provoked the president's intervention. Bobby called the commissioners a bunch of "second-guessers" and complained that they were making it more difficult for him to accomplish what needed to be done. "I didn't have any great feeling that they were accomplishing anything of a positive nature," Bobby recalled. "It was almost like the House Un-American Activities Committee investigating Communism. They were investigating violations of civil rights in areas in which we were making investigations. I thought that they could do more in the North." "It's easy to play Jesus and it's fun to get into bed with the civil rights movement," a Justice Department attorney said, "but all of the noise they make doesn't do as much good as one case." But Hesburgh, who saw the commission as a "burr under the saddle of the administration," refused to back off.

Although Bobby was able to delay commission hearings in Louisiana and Mississippi for a while, he lacked authority to stop them. The hearings, which refused to shade the truth and mute tensions between the administration and the white South, described Mississippi as using terror tactics against aspiring black voters. Kennedy himself lobbied against publication of the commission's report, which recommended withholding federal funds from the state until it demonstrated its "compliance with the Const.i.tution and laws of the United States." "You're making my life difficult," he told two commissioners. When he heard that the commission, including Harvard Law School dean Erwin Griswold, was unanimous in its determination to go ahead, Kennedy asked, "Who the h.e.l.l appointed Griswold?" "You did," the commission's chairman replied. "Probably on the recommendation of Harris Wofford," Kennedy said, acknowledging his inattentiveness to the commission's operations.

In July 1962, Martin Luther King Jr. added to Kennedy's difficulties with a public statement that the president "could do more in the area of moral persuasion by occasionally speaking out against segregation and counseling the Nation on the moral aspects of this problem." Kennedy answered cryptically that his commitment to full const.i.tutional rights for all Americans had been made very clear and that his administration had "taken a whole variety of very effective steps to improve the equal opportunities for all Americans and would continue to do so." But the president's words did little to advance the cause of civil rights or ease the tensions that were erupting in sporadic violence.

Kennedy's frustration at the impa.s.se between the growing movement of black activists practicing nonviolent opposition and defenders of segregation registered clearly in his response to clashes in the southwest Georgia city of Albany, where blacks had launched the "Albany Movement" to challenge the city's segregation laws. On August 1, when Kennedy was asked his reaction to a Justice Department report on conditions in Albany, he explained that he had "been in constant touch with the Attorney General," who had "been in daily touch with the authorities in Albany in an attempt to provide a solution." He all but acknowledged a sense of powerlessness. "I find it wholly inexplicable," he told reporters, "why the City Council of Albany will not sit down with the citizens of Albany, who may be Negroes, and attempt to secure them, in a peaceful way, their rights. The United States Government is involved in sitting down at Geneva with the Soviet Union. I can't understand why the government of Albany ... cannot do the same for American citizens."

Bureaucratic infighting and limited advances added to Kennedy's sense of frustration. By August, conflicts between Johnson and Robert Troutman, Kennedy's Georgia friend who had originated Plans for Progress, and complaints of too few gains forced Troutman's resignation from the CEEO. Although the president lauded the "immediate and dramatic results" of Troutman's efforts, it was an open secret that he was leaving because he and the vice president were at odds over the CEEO's poor performance. With Troutman going, Kennedy agreed to make Hobart Taylor Jr., a black attorney from Michigan with roots in Texas, where Johnson had known him, CEEO executive vice chairman. To draw attention away from the fact that he was replacing a white southerner with an African American, Kennedy delayed announcing Taylor's appointment for several days.

But an appointment was far from enough. As Arthur Schlesinger Jr. later said, "The Kennedy civil rights strategy, however appropriate to the congressional mood of 1961, miscalculated the dynamism of a revolutionary movement." It was clear to King and other civil rights activists that the president remained reluctant to take significant political risks for the sake of black equality. King released a telegram to Kennedy "asking for Federal action against anti-Negro terrorism in the South," and one civil rights group threatened to picket the White House unless the president did more to protect blacks. In September, when reporters pressed him to say what he was doing about King's demand for protective action, Kennedy's frustration with the situation and southern resistance to black complaints of inequality and abuse was palpable. "I don't know any more outrageous action which I have seen occur in this country for a good many months or years than the burning of a church-two churches-because of the effort made by Negroes to vote," he told a news conference. "To shoot, as we saw in the case of Mississippi, two young people who were involved in an effort to register people, to burn churches as a reprisal" for asking for voting rights was "both cowardly as well as outrageous." He promised that FBI agents would bring the perpetrators to justice and said that "all of our talk about freedom [was] hollow" unless we could a.s.sure citizens the right to vote. The rhetoric was all civil rights advocates and anyone devoted to the rule of law could ask. But conditions in the South cried out not for prose but for action, and action now.

IN SEPTEMBER, James Meredith, a black Mississippian, tried to break the color line at the state's lily-white university in Oxford. Meredith, a twenty-eight-year-old air force veteran with a sense of divine mission to overturn segregation, had been fighting since January 1961 to gain admission to Ole Miss. Supported by the NAACP in a series of court contests, Meredith won an appeal to the U.S. Supreme Court on September 10, 1962, ordering the university to end its "calculated campaign of delay, hara.s.sment, and masterly inactivity," and admit him. James Meredith, a black Mississippian, tried to break the color line at the state's lily-white university in Oxford. Meredith, a twenty-eight-year-old air force veteran with a sense of divine mission to overturn segregation, had been fighting since January 1961 to gain admission to Ole Miss. Supported by the NAACP in a series of court contests, Meredith won an appeal to the U.S. Supreme Court on September 10, 1962, ordering the university to end its "calculated campaign of delay, hara.s.sment, and masterly inactivity," and admit him.

Three days later, Mississippi governor Ross Barnett, a devoted segregationist, whom Bobby later described as "an agreeable rogue and weak," spoke on statewide television. Denouncing the federal government's a.s.sault on Mississippi's freedom to choose its way of life, the governor invoked the repudiated pre-Civil War doctrine of interposition, the right of a state to interpose itself between the U.S. government and the citizens of a state. Emotionally promising not to "surrender to the evil and illegal forces of tyranny," he theatrically declared, "we must either submit to the unlawful dictates of the federal government or stand up like men and tell them 'NEVER.'"

The governor's defiance, supported by the state legislature with resolutions blocking Meredith's registration, forced the White House to enter the conflict. In twenty conversations with Barnett between September 15 and 28, Bobby expressed sympathy for Barnett's political problem and raised no moral questions about the transparent unfairness of unequal treatment of blacks. Instead, he emphasized the need to obey the law and made clear that the president intended to enforce the court's directives. Barnett shared an interest with the Kennedys in getting Meredith enrolled without violence. But his strategy-which he did not share with the Kennedys-was to submit to federal authority with a show of cynical resistance that would enhance his popularity in Mississippi. Barnett and the White House thus struggled for political advantage. Neither side doubted that federal authority would ultimately prevail, but how it occurred had large consequences.

Former Mississippi governor James Coleman, a moderate, urged Bobby not to use troops, which would be "fatal," or to make Barnett a martyr by jailing him, but to cut off all federal aid to the state, including old age a.s.sistance. Because Mississippi received $668 million in federal monies-some $300 million more than it sent to Washington in taxes-a reduction in federal largesse was one means to force Barnett's hand. Ted Sorensen counseled the president to threaten the businessmen backing the governor by holding up NASA, defense, and other federal contracts. The possible suspension of accreditation, disruption of the university's football schedule, and loss of postseason eligibility for bowl games seemed like promising means to dampen student enthusiasm for mob opposition to federal authority.

But the threat of reduced federal outlays in the state was insufficient to bring Barnett into line. "I won't agree to let that boy get to Ole Miss," Barnett told Bobby on September 25. "I will never agree to that. I would rather spend the rest of my life in a penitentiary than do that." The same day, Barnett, who was more interested in scoring political points than ensuring law and order, personally blocked Meredith's registration in a confrontation at the trustee's room in a state office building in Jackson, the capital. On the twenty-sixth, Lieutenant Governor Paul Johnson, supported by state police and county sheriffs, stopped Meredith and federal marshals accompanying him from reaching the Oxford campus. On the twenty-seventh, a crowd of two thousand protesters blocked marshals, forcing Barnett to abandon a cynical plan to allow Meredith to register if it was done before cameras showing federal marshals with drawn pistols. By this means, Barnett had hoped to avoid violence, which would further blight Mississippi's good name, and also obtain political cover with segregationists, who would see him and his state as the victims of superior federal power.

Believing that Barnett's "defiance should be against the majesty of the United States" rather than against John Kennedy, the president had left private and public discussions of the issues to the attorney general. By September 29, however, he felt compelled to pressure Barnett directly. Despite coming across in telephone conversations as "a soft pillow" who would ultimately agree to Meredith's registration, Barnett gave no guarantee that it would be done peacefully. Kennedy wired Barnett, citing the "breakdown of law and order in Mississippi" and asking if he intended to keep the peace when court directives were executed. Unsatisfied with Barnett's responses, late that night Kennedy signed an order federalizing units of the Mississippi National Guard. After discussing the doc.u.ment with Norbert Schlei, a White House legal counsel, who a.s.sured him that it was like one Eisenhower had signed in the Little Rock crisis of 1957, Kennedy tapped the table they had been sitting at and said, "That's General Grant's table." Eager as much as possible to soften the use of his authority against a southern state, he told Schlei not to tell waiting reporters anything about the furniture.

The next morning Bobby told Barnett that the president would speak to the nation that evening and say that he had called up the guard because the governor had reneged on an agreement to let Meredith register. Barnett promised to cooperate if Kennedy did not mention their agreement. Kennedy thus believed he had a.s.surances that Meredith would be able to register without incident. Consequently, on the evening of September 30, he told the nation that court orders "are beginning to be carried out" and that "Meredith is now in residence on the campus of the University." This had been accomplished without the use of the National Guard, and he hoped that the combination of state law enforcement officials and U.S. marshals would be able to keep the future peace. His address celebrated American reliance on the rule of law and praised Mississippi for its contributions to the national good ahead of the sectional good. He saw "no reason why the books on this case cannot now be quickly and quietly closed."

Kennedy's speech demonstrated his limited feel for the pa.s.sion and volatility surrounding race relations across the South. It was a mistake to trust Barnett's promises, for one thing. In fact, the night of the speech, as soon as a mob showed up, Barnett withdrew the state's highway patrol officers who were supposed to a.s.sist in the protection of Meredith. Left behind were the five hundred marshals, no match for a mob of between two thousand and four thousand people. Kennedy sent in the National Guard, but it took several hours to get to Oxford from Memphis, where most of them were quartered. Before they arrived, a local resident of Oxford and a foreign journalist had been killed and 160 marshals had been injured, including 27 with gunshot wounds.

Kennedy was furious at the army's inept.i.tude in getting the troops to Oxford promptly. Bobby later recalled that "President Kennedy had one of the worst and harshest conversations with [Secretary of the Army] Cy Vance and with the general [in command] that I think I've ever heard." The incident immediately intensified Kennedy's distrust of the military, which kept saying the troops were on the way when they had not even left their bases, and reminded Bobby of the poor advice the chiefs had given the president about Laos. Kennedy himself said, "They always give you their bulls.h.i.t about their instant reaction and their split-second timing, but it never works out. No wonder it's so hard to win a war." When he heard that retired general Edwin Walker, a right-wing extremist, was in Oxford encouraging people to oppose desegregation, the president said, "Imagine that son of a b.i.t.c.h having been a commander of a division up till last year. And the Army promoting him."

"I haven't had such an interesting time since the Bay of Pigs," Kennedy added with evident irony during a vigil lasting until 5:30 in the morning. Said Bobby, "We are going to have a h.e.l.l of a problem about why we didn't handle the situation better... . We are going to have to figure out what we are going to say... . We are going to take a lot of knocks because of people getting killed, the fact that I didn't get the people up there in time." Bobby later remembered how concerned they were about explaining "this whole thing, because it looked like it was one of the big botches."

In fact, Kennedy escaped from the clash with relatively little political damage. True, some newspapers criticized his handling of Oxford. The press also described the vice president as unhappy with Kennedy's failure to consult him. But the good news was that the administration got Meredith enrolled. "Forget the Monday morning quarterbacks and the myopic few among the journalists," Phil Graham told Bobby. "Accept instead the feeling of a wide majority of thoughtful men: That the President and you deserve well of the Republic." Johnson, who was out of the country, sent word to the president that "the situation in Mississippi had been handled better than he could ever have thought of handling it." Polls of northern industrial states showed the president enjoying between 4-1 and 3-1 backing on Mississippi. Pollster Lou Harris advised him that every Democrat outside the South who was "running for major office should put front and center that this country needs firm and resolute leadership such as the President demonstrated in the Mississippi case." Foreign press opinion showed a "startling similarity." Whether in Africa, Latin America, the Far East, Middle East, South Asia, or Western Europe, the media cited the administration's "firmness and determination ... in enforcing law and order," while also finding it difficult to understand how "racial tension could persist in an advanced country like the U.S."

However the press and public saw the crisis, the loss of life and rioting over Meredith's enrollment were partly the consequence of Kennedy's misreading of southern racism. He knew that most southern whites had an irrational contempt for blacks. But he could not quite understand how educated southern leaders could be so impractical as to believe that they could permanently maintain their outmoded system of apartheid. He had contempt for the unreasonable att.i.tude southern whites had toward African Americans. They seemed incapable of practical good sense in their dealings with blacks. He puzzled over their intransigence in denying the franchise to blacks. Could they not see that if they conceded the vote and accepted desegregated schools, they would probably be able to extend the life of segregation in other walks of life? Kennedy saw this as a viable compromise. But it was certainly not an accommodation African Americans would any longer accept.

Kennedy had a highly imperfect understanding of African American impatience with racial divides. He understood the black fight against segregation as a well-justified struggle for self-interest. He also admired the courage shown by black demonstrators against superior state-controlled force. But he believed that national security and domestic reforms advancing prosperity, education, and health care for all trumped the needs and wishes of blacks. To some extent, his response to civil rights upheavals was a shortsighted curse on both houses. With so much else at stake, especially overseas, he felt compelled to make civil rights a secondary concern. But even if international dangers had not preoccupied Kennedy, it is doubtful that he would have acted more aggressively in support of black rights in 1962. Fears of civil strife across the South, with negative political repercussions for North and South, were enough to make Kennedy a temporizer on an issue he wished to keep as quiet as possible.

AS THE SOUTH HEATED UP, Kennedy saw no easing of the international problems that had confronted him in the first fifteen months of his term. If anything, they were even more troubling than before. In March the journalist William Haddad, who had joined the United States Information Agency, told Kennedy that he doubted if the United States "[could] ever have a 'policy'" for Latin America. "At best," he said, "we will have a country-by-country, crisis-by-crisis standard." An Inter-American Development Bank official advised Kennedy that without "a ma.s.sive information program" to mobilize Latin American public opinion, the president would never reach his goals. Despite spending a billion dollars in a year, "not a single Latin American nation is embarked on a development program under the Alliance for Progress." As to why not, the explanation was "the political instability of Latin American countries, their inability to concentrate on development, [and] their ingrained cynicism about the U.S... . But even within these very real and important political limitations things have not gone as well as they should." Kennedy saw no easing of the international problems that had confronted him in the first fifteen months of his term. If anything, they were even more troubling than before. In March the journalist William Haddad, who had joined the United States Information Agency, told Kennedy that he doubted if the United States "[could] ever have a 'policy'" for Latin America. "At best," he said, "we will have a country-by-country, crisis-by-crisis standard." An Inter-American Development Bank official advised Kennedy that without "a ma.s.sive information program" to mobilize Latin American public opinion, the president would never reach his goals. Despite spending a billion dollars in a year, "not a single Latin American nation is embarked on a development program under the Alliance for Progress." As to why not, the explanation was "the political instability of Latin American countries, their inability to concentrate on development, [and] their ingrained cynicism about the U.S... . But even within these very real and important political limitations things have not gone as well as they should."

That instability was far from hidden. At the end of March, a military coup against Argentina's President Arturo Frondizi was a serious setback to democratic hopes in the hemisphere, and it caused discouraging speculation that a Washington-sponsored austerity program to stabilize the economy had helped provoke the military's action. "The International Monetary Fund has had a complete lack of success in stabilizing economies in Latin America without the Government falling from power," Schlesinger told the NSC on April 2. In May, Teodoro Moscoso, an Agency for International Development official and Alliance coordinator, advised the president that the Alliance was "facing stormy weather." Latin leaders simply saw the program as "a money-lending operation... . And no money-lender in history has ever evoked great enthusiasm." Moreover, the Alliance had in no way been wedded to Latin American nationalism; it looked "'foreign' and 'imported' ... a 'Made in the U.S.A.' product."

In public, Kennedy continued to speak hopefully about the Alliance, but privately he doubted that it could generate enough progress in the near term to sustain congressional commitments to "necessary funds." In July, the Peruvian military added to Kennedy's skepticism by overturning an election it described as fraudulent and arresting President Manuel Prado. Although Kennedy withheld recognition of the junta for a month, he eventually accepted its promises of future free elections and a return to const.i.tutional government as reason for the resumption of diplomatic relations. But publicly describing the coup as "a grave setback to the principles agreed to under the Alliance for Progress," the administration delayed the reinstatement of full military a.s.sistance to Lima until a crisis with Cuba in October compelled a need for hemisphere "solidarity."

British Guiana remained another troubling problem. By February 1962, the state department was expressing doubts that "a working relationship [could] be established with Jagan which would prevent the emergence of a communist or Castro-type state in South America." In March, Schlesinger told Kennedy that both the State Department and the CIA were "under the impression that a firm decision has been taken to get rid of the Jagan government... . British Guiana has 600,000 inhabitants. Jagan would no doubt be gratified to know that the American and British governments are spending more man-hours per capita on British Guiana than on any other current problem!" Although London did not see any "communist threat to British Guiana," the administration persisted in believing that after independence it "would go the way of Castro" and that the United States needed to support "a policy of getting rid of Jagan." In the summer of 1962, the CIA was hard at work on covert plans to oust him from power. Because chances of carrying out "a really covert operation" seemed so small, however, the administration discouraged the British government from giving Guiana independence until Kennedy and Prime Minister Macmillan could further discuss the issue in 1963. Despite any certainty as to Jagan's course, exaggerated fears of what another radical regime in Latin America-however limited its reach-might mean led Kennedy to favor a policy of ousting Jagan, ignoring all the administration's professions of regard for national self-determination throughout the hemisphere.

But it was Brazil, potentially the most important Latin member of the Alliance, that concerned Kennedy more than any other hemisphere country aside from Cuba. In 1961, Brazilian president Juscelino Kubitschek described his country as "the playboy of economic development." Impressive increases in national output were accompanied by destabilizing graft and inflation. Janio Quadros, who replaced Kubitschek as president in 1961, promised more measured expansion, but he disappointed such hopes by resigning in August in a ploy to extract greater executive authority from the Brazilian Congress. Instead, the Congress accepted Vice President Joo Goulart, a member of Brazil's Labor party, as the new president. The Brazilian military saw Goulart as a dangerous leftist and refused to sanction his succession. Despite his own doubts about Goulart, Kennedy announced that this was "a matter which should be left to the people of Brazil. It is their country, their const.i.tution, their decisions, and their government." Brazil's Congress resolved the crisis with a const.i.tutional amendment creating a parliamentary system that included both a president and a strong prime minister. The compromise allowed Goulart to a.s.sume the presidency, and Tancredo Neves, a fiscal conservative, to become prime minister.

By November 1961, American defense officials warned of a distinct leftward shift in Rio. A shake-up in the Brazilian military, which had replaced anticommunist officers with men "suspected of being Communist sympathizers or even secret agents," paralleled the "infiltration of the civilian branches of the government" with possible pro-communist officials. These developments foretold a possible "foreign policy oriented increasingly toward the Soviet bloc in world affairs and toward the Castro regime in inter-American affairs." The expropriation in February 1962 of American-owned International Telephone & Telegraph (IT&T) property by the state of Rio Grande do Sul strengthened the conviction that Brazil was drifting to the left and would be unreceptive to better relations with the United States and a princ.i.p.al role in the Alliance. In April, however, despite misgivings, Kennedy agreed to release $129 million in funding for a Brazilian stabilization program that he hoped could increase U.S. influence over Brazil's domestic politics.

During the summer and fall of 1962, White House concerns that Goulart was trying to subvert Brazil's parliamentary system and use October elections to expand his power provoked covert intervention. At a July 30 meeting with Kennedy, U.S. amba.s.sador to Brazil Lincoln Gordon described Goulart's reach for greater control through an anti-American and anti-Alliance strategy. Because "the elections really could be a turning point," Kennedy agreed to have the CIA spend "$5 million funding the campaigns of anti-Goulart candidates for 15 federal seats, 8 state governorships, 250 federal deputy seats, and some 600 seats for state legislatures." He was also receptive to letting the Brazilian military know that the administration would support a coup against Goulart if it were clear that he was "giving the d.a.m.n country away to the-Communists." Although he believed that Goulart was more of a populist dictator and an opportunist than a communist, Kennedy saw him as a menace to stability in the hemisphere and an imperfect partner in trying to advance the Alliance.

Cuban efforts to export communism to other hemisphere countries gave further urgency to problems with Brazil. Cuban intelligence officers under the direct supervision of Castro were providing three- to five-day courses on subversion to radicals from Venezuela, Guatemala, the Dominican Republic, Ecuador, Peru, Bolivia, Paraguay, Panama, Honduras, and Nicaragua. The objective was "to train a large number of guerrillas in a hurry." Concerned that Soviet military representatives in Cuba would try to restrain Havana from a program that could further unsettle relations with the United States, Castro hid as much of this operation as possible from Moscow.

In December 1962, Kennedy told President Jorge Alessandri of Chile that some people think "the Alliance for Progress has not been successful ... that the problems in Latin America have become more serious, that the standard of living of the people has not risen." Kennedy publicly acknowledged hemisphere problems as "staggering." But he waxed optimistic about the future, urging against "impatience with failure" and seeing no reason to "desist because we've not solved all the problems overnight."

Privately he knew better. An August 1962 State Department survey of American business communities in Latin America had revealed that "virtually nothing is being done in the name of the Alliance for Progress." Moreover, how could he have much hope for hemisphere democracy when military chiefs in Argentina and Peru had taken the rule of law into their hands and leaders like Quadros and Goulart refused to respect Brazil's const.i.tution? And how could he square professions of self-determination-a central principle of the Alliance-with the reality of secret American interventions in Cuba, Brazil, British Guiana, Peru, Haiti, the Dominican Republic, and every country that seemed vulnerable to left-wing subversion? (And that was just the beginning: A June National Security directive approved by the president had listed four additional Latin American countries "sufficiently threatened by Communist-inspired insurgency"-Ecuador, Colombia, Guatemala, and Venezuela-as requiring the attention of the "Special Group" responsible for counterinsurgency.) In its brief eighteen-month life, the Alliance had become an imperfect cover for traditional actions serving perceived U.S. national security.

THE NOVEMBER 1961 NEUTRALITY AGREEMENT on Laos, which required a coalition government to become effective, fell apart in the winter of 1961-62. General Nosavan Phoumi, America's client in the struggle between the pro-communist Pathet Lao and centrist Prince Souvanna Phouma, resisted sharing power with his two rivals. Despite threats of reduced U.S. aid, Phoumi, who believed that Washington would not abandon him, provoked a battle with Pathet Lao forces at Nam Tha, near the border with Thailand. There he was completely routed. The U.S. adviser on the ground, putting the best possible face on the defeat, advised Washington, "The morale of my battalion is substantially better than in our last engagement. The last time, they dropped their weapons and ran. This time, they took their weapons with them." on Laos, which required a coalition government to become effective, fell apart in the winter of 1961-62. General Nosavan Phoumi, America's client in the struggle between the pro-communist Pathet Lao and centrist Prince Souvanna Phouma, resisted sharing power with his two rivals. Despite threats of reduced U.S. aid, Phoumi, who believed that Washington would not abandon him, provoked a battle with Pathet Lao forces at Nam Tha, near the border with Thailand. There he was completely routed. The U.S. adviser on the ground, putting the best possible face on the defeat, advised Washington, "The morale of my battalion is substantially better than in our last engagement. The last time, they dropped their weapons and ran. This time, they took their weapons with them."

Although U.S. officials believed that Phoumi might have contrived his retreat as a way to increase American involvement, the White House did not believe it could abandon Phoumi or simply leave Laos to the communists. Kennedy agreed that a failure to do anything would encourage the Pathet Lao, but he insisted that U.S. action not "provoke the Viet Minh or the Chinese into large-scale counter-action, but rather ... suggest to them that we [are] prepared to resist encroachments beyond the cease-fire line."

Possible public pressure from Eisenhower to intervene especially worried Kennedy. Eisenhower had said in April that "he might make a public statement under some conditions. If it is so, we will be in a tough position," Kennedy told George Ball. Kennedy told other advisers that an Eisenhower statement would put domestic pressure on him for military action leading to a possible war, or, if he resisted sending troops and Laos fell, it would politically embarra.s.s him. A conversation between Eisenhower and CIA director John McCone added to Kennedy's concern. Eisenhower said that if the United States sent troops to Laos, it needed to follow up "with whatever support was necessary to achieve the objectives of their mission, including-if necessary-the use of tactical nuclear weapons."

In response, the president sent McCone, McNamara, and Lemnitzer to see Eisenhower. They informed him that Kennedy was ordering units of the Seventh Fleet into the South China Sea toward the Gulf of Siam and would deploy some eighteen hundred men plus two air squadrons in Thailand on the border with Laos. Eisenhower, who believed the loss of Laos jeopardized South Vietnam and Thailand, "indicated both his support of a dynamic effort and a willingness to try to influence [the] political leadership of his party from entering into public debate on the question." He also promised that "he would not at this time privately or publicly urge moving U.S. combat troops into Laos."

Eisenhower thus under wraps, Kennedy now encouraged press and public uncertainty about U.S. intentions toward Laos. He wanted "to maintain vis-a-vis the Communist bloc an att.i.tude of 'veiled ambiguity,'" he told his advisers. He also wanted Phoumi to understand that the administration had no confidence in him and would not intervene in Laos on his behalf. "All United States moves," Kennedy said, "should be designed (a) to bring Phoumi to the conference table, and (b) to have the desired effect on the Soviets and on the Chinese." But he wanted no irreversible commitments that might drag the country into an unwanted war. He "wished to retain the element of reversibility in all military actions. He wanted no public announcement of landings until after he had ordered such landings. Furthermore, he wanted it again made clear to the Lao that we were undertaking no new commitments toward them." Compared to Latin America, where fears of Cuban subversion throughout the hemisphere had agitated Kennedy into anticommunist excesses, policy toward Laos was a model of sensible restraint.

U.S. military threats produced a quick response. Since Moscow and Peking had no intention of risking a wider war for control of Laos, the Pathet Lao responded to American troop movements by immediately resuming negotiations. On June 12, after the Laotian factions agreed to form a coalition government under Souvanna Phouma, Khrushchev wired Kennedy: "Good news has come from Laos." The political accommodation seemed likely to serve both the Laotian people and peace in Southeast Asia. The result also strengthened the conviction that other unresolved international problems might yield to reasonable exchange. Kennedy answered Khrushchev: The Laotian solution "will surely have a significant and positive effect far beyond the borders of Laos."

Khrushchev reiterated his enthusiasm for the settlement in a message through Georgi Bolshakov, the ostensible Soviet emba.s.sy press officer in Washington. To take advantage of JFK's wish to bypa.s.s his own national security bureaucracy, Khrushchev used Bolshakov, really a high-ranking military intelligence agent, to speak to the president through Bobby Kennedy, with whom Bolshakov met every couple of weeks. A report in the Times Times of London that the CIA was "actively opposing US policy in Laos and working against a neutral government" may have moved Khrushchev to tell Kennedy that "the settlement in Laos was an extremely important step forward in the relationship of the Soviet Union and the United States." JFK valued Khrushchev's message, which he hoped signaled an interest in other agreements. The of London that the CIA was "actively opposing US policy in Laos and working against a neutral government" may have moved Khrushchev to tell Kennedy that "the settlement in Laos was an extremely important step forward in the relationship of the Soviet Union and the United States." JFK valued Khrushchev's message, which he hoped signaled an interest in other agreements. The Times Times account of CIA opposition worried him. When Pierre Salinger told him of his intention to deny the account of CIA opposition worried him. When Pierre Salinger told him of his intention to deny the Times Times story as "preposterous and untrue," Kennedy replied, "The story I a.s.sume is untrue-Do they offer evidence?" Kennedy had learned the hard way that the CIA could not always be trusted, and he now wondered if the story as "preposterous and untrue," Kennedy replied, "The story I a.s.sume is untrue-Do they offer evidence?" Kennedy had learned the hard way that the CIA could not always be trusted, and he now wondered if the Times Times might be onto something. might be onto something.

AFTER THE LAOTIANS SIGNED a neutrality declaration in July, Kennedy instructed Harriman to explore the possibility of negotiations with the North Vietnamese. He hoped that Hanoi and Moscow, especially after Khrushchev's comments, might be willing to neutralize all of Indochina as a way to limit Chinese control in the region. But at a secret meeting with North Vietnam's foreign minister in a Geneva hotel suite, Harriman and William Sullivan, his deputy, hit a stone wall. "We got absolutely nowhere," Sullivan said. a neutrality declaration in July, Kennedy instructed Harriman to explore the possibility of negotiations with the North Vietnamese. He hoped that Hanoi and Moscow, especially after Khrushchev's comments, might be willing to neutralize all of Indochina as a way to limit Chinese control in the region. But at a secret meeting with North Vietnam's foreign minister in a Geneva hotel suite, Harriman and William Sullivan, his deputy, hit a stone wall. "We got absolutely nowhere," Sullivan said.

The alternative was to continue helping Saigon. Reports from American military and civilian officials there in the spring of 1962 that U.S. aid was turning the tide in South Vietnam made this acceptable, and even appealing. McNamara told a House committee that the administration was hoping to clean up the conflict in Vietnam by "terminating subversion, covert aggression, and combat operations." He saw no need for U.S. combat troops. In May, at the end of a two-day trip to Vietnam, his first, McNamara, unshaven and dressed in rumpled khaki shirt and trousers and hiking boots dusty from his travels in the countryside, carried data-filled notebooks into a press conference at the amba.s.sador's residence. "I've seen nothing but progress and hopeful indications of further progress," he declared. Pressed by reporters to move beyond declarations of good news boosting Saigon's morale, McNamara, UPI's Neil Sheehan recorded, was "a Gibraltar of optimism." Following him out to his car, Sheehan asked the secretary to speak the truth off the record. Fixing Sheehan with a cold stare, McNamara replied, "Every quant.i.tative measurement we have shows we're winning this war." By July, reinforced by a military briefing in Honolulu that predicted a U.S. military exit one year after South Vietnamese forces had become "fully operational" in 1964, McNamara could see "tremendous progress to date."

In September 1962, after his first visit to Vietnam since the fall of 1961, Max Taylor also reported that "much progress has been accomplished... . The most notable perhaps is the s...o...b..lling of the strategic hamlet program which has resulted in some 5,000 hamlets being fortified or in process of fortification." Dating from February 1962, the hamlets were supposedly winning the support of Vietnamese farmers by creating allegedly safe havens against the Viet Cong with South Vietnamese forces. Conversations with junior U.S. officers attached to South Vietnamese units led Taylor to tell Kennedy, "You have to be on the ground to sense a lift in the national morale... . I'm sure you would get a great deal of encouragement out of hearing these young officers." U.S. emba.s.sy officials in Saigon confirmed Taylor's impressions, reporting in September that they were "tremendously encouraged... . The military progress had been little short of sensational... . The strategic hamlet program had transformed the countryside and ... the Viet Cong could not now destroy the program." After receiving these reports, Kennedy told Nguyen Dinh Thuan, Diem's cabinet secretary, who was visiting Washington, that recent reports from Saigon were encouraging. The president expressed "admiration for the progress being made in Viet-Nam against the Communists."

Optimism-or wishful thinking-was so strong now that Kennedy ordered McNamara to begin planning a U.S. military exit from Vietnam. According to Deputy Defense Secretary Gilpatric, the president "made clear to McNamara and me that he wanted to not only hold the level of U.S. military presence in Vietnam down, but he wanted to reverse the flow." To that end, McNamara drew up a three-year plan for the reduction of U.S. forces in Vietnam. U.S. military planners told him that "advisers" could leave by 1965, but McNamara extended the date to 1968. By then, he hoped to withdraw the last fifteen hundred U.S. troops and reduce military a.s.sistance payments to $40.8 million, less than a quarter of 1962 layouts. McNamara rationalized the plan by saying that "it might be difficult to retain public support for U.S. operations in Vietnam indefinitely. Political pressures would build up as losses continued. Therefore ... planning must be undertaken now and a program devised to phase out U.S. military involvement."

There is no direct record of Kennedy's agreement with McNamara's plan, but it is difficult to believe that McNamara did not have the president's approval. They were close, very close, or as close as anyone in the administration was to the president, aside from Bobby. McNamara was Kennedy's idea of a first-rate deputy. The president "thought very highly of Bob McNamara," Bobby recalled, "very highly of him... . He was head and shoulders above everybody else... . In the area of foreign policy or defense," Bobby added, "obviously, it was Bob McNamara, not Dean Rusk." With his affinity for numbers, for unsentimental calculation, McNamara "symbolized the idea that [the administration] could manage and control events, in an intelligent, rational way... . He was so impressive and loyal," David Halberstam wrote later, "that it was hard to believe, in the halcyon days of 1963 when his reputation was at its height, that anything he took command of could go wrong." Kennedy himself said, McNamara would "come in with his twenty options and then say, 'Mr. President, I think we should do this.' I like that. Makes the job easier."

McNamara was one of only two members of the cabinet-the other being Douglas Dillon-who enjoyed a consistent social relationship with the Kennedys. Charming, gay, gregarious, a sort of modern Renaissance man with a capacity to discuss the arts and literature, he became a favorite of Jacqueline Kennedy's. "Men can't understand his s.e.x appeal," Jackie said. "Why is it," Bobby wondered, "that they call him 'the computer' and yet he's the one all my sisters want to sit next to at dinner?"

In proposing to get out of Vietnam before it turned into a political liability in the United States, McNamara reflected the president's thinking. Kennedy wanted the lowest possible profile for U.S. involvement in the conflict. In May, he instructed that there be no "unnecessary trips to Vietnam, especially by high ranking officers," who might draw more attention to America's role in the fighting. In a meeting with congressional leaders, Kennedy made it clear that he did not want to announce increases in U.S. troops. The objective for JFK, Fulbright said, was to keep the United States from becoming "formally involved." The increase in advisers was less important than keeping things "on an informal basis, because ... we couldn't withdraw if it gets too formal." In October, Kennedy reluctantly agreed to let the military destroy crops in Viet Cong-controlled areas. It was a small concession to the Joint Chiefs, who were pressing him to use more muscle in Vietnam. "His main train of thinking," an NSC member told Bundy, "was that you cannot say no to your military advisers all the time." But he wanted to be sure that crop destruction did not become an embarra.s.sment to the administration. "What can we do about keeping it from becoming an American enterprise which would be surfaced with [or described as] poisoning food?" Kennedy asked his advisers.

Knowing nothing of the Kennedy-McNamara plan to reduce military commitments to Vietnam, American correspondents in Saigon remained highly critical of administration policy. Seeing U.S. officials as misled by the Vietnamese and their own illusions, reporters disputed Diem-emba.s.sy a.s.sertions of steady progress in the conflict. In October 1962, Halberstam, speaking for many of his colleagues, said, "The closer one gets to the actual contact level of the war, the further one gets from official optimism." By protecting Diem from criticism, Halberstam added, the U.S. emba.s.sy was turning into "the adjunct of a dictatorship," and if reporters accepted the official line on Diem and the war, they would "become the adjuncts of a tyranny."

The press, an emba.s.sy official reported in September, "believes that the situation in Viet Nam is going to pieces and that we have been unable to convince them otherwise." Taylor said that American journalists in Saigon "remained uninformed and often belligerently adverse to the programs of the U.S. and SVN Governments." His observations and discussions in Vietnam told him that press reports of difficulties between U.S. military advisers and South Vietnamese officers were false. The administration needed to push publishers into "responsible reporting," he said. In his conversation with Thuan, Kennedy urged "the GVN not to be too concerned by press reports. He a.s.sured Mr. Thuan that the U.S. government did not accept everything the correspondents wrote even if it appeared in the New York Times New York Times. He emphasized that if the Vietnamese government was successful, the public image would take care of itself." The president added that "inaccurate press reporting ... occurred every day in Washington."

This last statement was said with real conviction. Kennedy was not as tolerant of the press as he seemed. He believed that its affinity for the sensational and its instinctive impulse to be critical of the White House had repeatedly produced unfair attacks on his administration. Time Time magazine's coverage of his presidency particularly irritated him. He viewed it as inconsistent and much more friendly to his predecessor. Complaints to magazine's coverage of his presidency particularly irritated him. He viewed it as inconsistent and much more friendly to his predecessor. Complaints to Time Time publisher Henry Luce evoked a strong defense of the magazine's performance but left Kennedy unconvinced. publisher Henry Luce evoked a strong defense of the magazine's performance but left Kennedy unconvinced.

Kennedy sympathized with the belief in Saigon that American reporters were opportunists trying to build reputations with controversial stories belittling Diem and progress in the war. This allowed him to rationalize new October directives to the State and Defense departments about press interviews. In response to national security leaks, including those involving Vietnam, Kennedy ordered officials not to hold one-on-one meetings with reporters, and if they did, "to report promptly and in writing on any conversation with 'news media' representatives." A leak to New York Times New York Times military correspondent Hanson Baldwin, which seemed to compromise U.S. satellite intelligence on Soviet ICBM installations, especially upset the president. He saw the press and the military correspondent Hanson Baldwin, which seemed to compromise U.S. satellite intelligence on Soviet ICBM installations, especially upset the president. He saw the press and the New York Times New York Times in particular as "the most privileged group," who regarded any attempt to rein them in "as a limitation on their civil rights. And they are not very used to it." Joe Alsop called the restrictions on interviews "news-control devices" that threatened healthy democratic debate about vital issues. But Kennedy refused to back down. The restrictions were "aimed at the protection of genuinely sensitive information," he told Alsop through Bundy. Nor would the directives prevent "responsible reporters from doing their job." The president's order "was so rarely and humorously observed," Sorensen remembered, "that it soon fell into disuse." Nevertheless, the directives undermined Kennedy's generally good relations with the press and made reporters more distrustful of White House p.r.o.nouncements on everything. in particular as "the most privileged group," who regarded any attempt to rein them in "as a limitation on their civil rights. And they are not very used to it." Joe Alsop called the restrictions on interviews "news-control devices" that threatened healthy democratic debate about vital issues. But Kennedy refused to back down. The restrictions were "aimed at the protection of genuinely sensitive information," he told Alsop through Bundy. Nor would the directives prevent "responsible reporters from doing their job." The president's order "was so rarely and humorously observed," Sorensen remembered, "that it soon fell into disuse." Nevertheless, the directives undermined Kennedy's generally good relations with the press and made reporters more distrustful of White House p.r.o.nouncements on everything.

Kennedy believed that newspaper stories from Saigon, whatever their accuracy, made it difficult for him to follow a cautious policy of limited involvement. If people believed that we were losing the conflict, it would create additional pressure to expand U.S. commitments. His political strategy was to keep the war off the front pages of America's newspapers. Press accounts arousing controversy drew more attention to Vietnam than he wanted, and an inflamed public debate would make it difficult to hold down commitments and maintain his freedom to withdraw when he saw fit. As with Laos, and, again, unlike with Latin America, Kennedy maintained a good sense of proportion about the limits of Vietnam's importance in the overall scheme of U.S. national security. But his good sense of proportion could not withstand other pressures.

AS KENNEDY BEGAN to pay more attention to Vietnam, he could not neglect larger threats. After announcing plans to resume atmospheric tests at the end of April, he made last-ditch efforts to halt the slide into an escalating arms race. On March 5, he thanked Khrushchev for agreeing to have their foreign ministers open a new round of disarmament talks in Geneva on March 14. He also urged against additional "sterile exchanges of propaganda." He proposed, "Let us, instead, join in giving our close personal support and direction to the work of our representatives, and let us join in working for their success." to pay more attention to Vietnam, he could not neglect larger threats. After announcing plans to resume atmospheric tests at the end of April, he made last-ditch efforts to halt the slide into an escalating arms race. On March 5, he thanked Khrushchev for agreeing to have their foreign ministers open a new round of disarmament talks in Geneva on March 14. He also urged against additional "sterile exchanges of propaganda." He proposed, "Let us, instead, join in giving our close personal support and direction to the work of our representatives, and let us join in working for their success."

But Kennedy could not persuade the Soviets that international verification was essential to a comprehensive test ban treaty. The sticking point in Soviet-American discussions was on-site investigation of seismic shocks. The Americans insisted that only direct observation could establish the difference between an earthquake and a nuclear explosion, "a natural and an artificial seismic event." The Soviets rejected the distinction as an American espionage ploy. Gromyko privately told Rusk that "even one foreigner loose in the Soviet Union could find things out that could be most damaging to the USSR." Although it was possible to ascribe Soviet suspicion to paranoid fears of foreigners, Macmillan saw more rational calculation at work. Convinced that on-site investigations would reveal nuclear inferiority to the West and eager to use American tests as an excuse for additional tests of their own, the Soviets were resigned to pushing the United States into atmospheric explosions. (Much later, Khrushchev admitted as much.) The administration suffered a public relations setback after the Defense Department released preliminary results of a seismic research study concluding that international detection stations in the Soviet Union might not be essential to monitor underground nuclear explosions. When Arthur Dean, U.S. amba.s.sador to the disarmament talks, publicly acknowledged this as a possibility, it gave the Soviets a propaganda bonanza. In fact, although the seismic study weakened the case for on-site inspection stations, the Pentagon maintained that they were still essential to prevent Soviet cheating. But that now seemed like a secondary detail, and because Moscow continued to reject inspections, prospects for a comprehensive test ban largely disappeared. At a July 27 White House meeting on arms control, Kennedy vented his irritation at the premature release of the report. "We had messed up the handling of the new data," he said. "Information about it was all over town before we had decided what effect it would have on our policy."

Kennedy's frustration with professional diplomats and military officers who, in addition to Dean, had undermined America's position in the test ban talks was part of a larger concern. On July 30, three days after complaining about the Pentagon's misstep, he expressed his low opinion of America's professional diplomats and military chiefs. In a taped conversation with Rusk, Bundy, and Ball, Kennedy described U.S. career envoys as weak or spineless: "I just see an awful lot of fellows who ... don't seem to have cojones cojones." By contrast, "the Defense Department looks as if that's all they've got. They haven't any brains... . You get all this sort of virility ... at the Pentagon and you get a lot of Arleigh Burkes: admirable nice figure without any brains."

In fact, the Pentagon's premature release of a report undermining a White House policy was partly the consequence of bureaucratic chaos. The New York Times, New York Times, in particular, had frequently complained about the hit-or-miss procedures of a government poorly coordinated by the White House. Kennedy was not unsympathetic to the in particular, had frequently complained about the hit-or-miss procedures of a government poorly coordinated by the White House. Kennedy was not unsympathetic to the Times' Times' argument. He had already expended more energy than he cared to on trying to bring greater order to his foreign policy agencies-defense, state, and the CIA. Predictably, domestic red tape bothered him less than poorly functioning foreign policy machinery; he was fond of saying, "Domestic policy can only defeat us; foreign policy can kill us." But there seemed only so much that could be done. Certainly, Kennedy was temperamentally uncomfortable with managing everything from the White House. Why had he surrounded himself with so many talented people if he were going to oversee every agency? And perhaps some disorder was even a good thing. "Creative governments will always be 'out of channels,'" Schlesinger told argument. He had already expended more energy than he cared to on trying to bring greater order to his foreign policy agencies-defense, state, and the CIA. Predictably, domestic red tape bothered him less than poorly functioning foreign policy machinery; he was fond of saying, "Domestic policy can only defeat us; foreign policy can kill us." But there seemed only so much that could be done. Certainly, Kennedy was temperamentally uncomfortable with managing everything from the White House. Why had he surrounded himself with so many talented people if he were going to oversee every agency? And perhaps some disorder was even a good thing. "Creative governments will always be 'out of channels,'" Schlesinger told Times Times publisher Orvil Dryfoos. "[They] will always present aspects of 'confusion' and 'meddling'; [they] will always discomfit officials whose routine is being disturbed or whose security is being threatened. But all this is inseparable from the process by which new ideas and new inst.i.tutions enable government to meet new challenges. Orderly governments are very rarely creative; and creative governments are almost never orderly." The balance between constructive chaos and bureaucratic mess seemed hard to maintain, however. publisher Orvil Dryfoos. "[They] will always present aspects of 'confusion' and 'meddling'; [they] will always discomfit officials whose routine is being disturbed or whose security is being threatened. But all this is inseparable from the process by which new ideas and new inst.i.tutions enable government to meet new challenges. Orderly governments are very rarely creative; and creative governments are almost never orderly." The balance between constructive chaos and bureaucratic mess seemed hard to maintain, however.

In September, the Soviets rejected U.S. proposals for both comprehensive and limited test bans, proposing instead a nonbinding ban on atmospheric explosions and a moratorium on underground detonations, both to begin on January 1, 1963. Kennedy accepted the cutoff date, but insisted at an August 29 press conference that it should rest on "workable international agreements; gentlemen's agreements and moratoria do not provide the types of guarantees that are necessary... . This is the lesson of the Soviet government's tragic decision to renew testing just a year ago." On September 7, when the Geneva talks recessed to make way for the U.N. General a.s.sembly session in New York, a reliable test ban agreement of any kind remained an uncertain hope.

INTO 1962 KENNEDY STRUGGLED to find some formula for accommodation with Moscow over Germany and Berlin. In November 1961, the president suggested the creation of an International Access Authority made up of NATO, Warsaw Pact, and neutral representatives to eliminate the possibility of confrontations over Allied movements in and out of Berlin. Although the East Germans promptly rejected this plan as colonialist, Kennedy expanded the idea to include flights, over which East Germany had no control. Seeing the suggestion as a way to block productive talks, the Soviets began hara.s.sing civil aircraft flying in the Berlin air corridors. to find some formula for accommodation with Moscow over Germany and Berlin. In November 1961, the president suggested the creation of an International Access Authority made up of NATO, Warsaw Pact, and neutral representatives to eliminate the possibility of confrontations over Allied movements in and out of Berlin. Although the East Germans promptly rejected this plan as colonialist, Kennedy expanded the idea to include flights, over which East Germany had no control. Seeing the suggestion as a way to block productive talks, the Soviets began hara.s.sing civil aircraft flying in the Berlin air corridors.

Despite mutual recognition of the importance of Berlin to improved Soviet-American relations, both sides doggedly stuck to their positions: The United States would not give up access to Berlin or concede to a permanent division of Germany, both changes Moscow believed essential to its future national security. Although Kennedy persuaded Khrushchev to end the buzzing of air traffic, they could not break the impa.s.se. By June, Kennedy saw no point in continuing the exchange of private messages on Germany. "Matters relating to Berlin are currently being discussed in careful detail by Secretary Rusk and Amba.s.sador Dobrynin," he wrote Khrushchev, "and I think it may be best to leave the discussion in their capable hands at this time." In July, when Khrushchev answered with a stale proposal for the replacement of western occupation forces with U.N. troops, Kennedy dismissed the suggestion as an extension of Moscow's "consistent failure ... to take any real account of what we have made clear are the vital interests of the United States and its Allies."

An incident at the Berlin Wall, in which East German security guards kille