Six Days in Geneva

In the beginning were the Russians. They came to Geneva smiling, waving at the crowds, breathing good will, issuing invitations to one and all to come visit the Soviet Union. "Things are different now," cried burly Nikita Khrushchev.

A year ago, for the grim Geneva Conference in the week of Dienbienphu, Foreign Minister Vyacheslav Molotov had demanded and got a closed, bulletproof limousine. Last week, the Russians climbed into open cars and toured Geneva like politicians running for the town council. Premier Nikolai Bulganin beamed and waved his grey fedora; Party Boss Khrushchev mugged, grinned and snapped pictures like a zealous tourist.

Bulganin playfully pinched the cheek of an American security guard; at a reception, Khrushchev patted LIFE's Photographer Carl Mydans on the shoulder.

The Russian delegation posed willingly and often for photographers, while press officers hovered around, asking solicitously: "Anything more you want them to do?" In one of the new-style chats with a U.S. delegate, Old Stony-Face Molotov got to talking of the picture of him on his recent U.S. visit wearing a ten-gallon hat. "You see," he explained, "I am getting old now, and I'd like the people--including the Americans--to think of me as something more than a man who says no." The hat didn't fit, Molotov added, "but it's more important to have good publicity than to have a hat that fits."

The Russians came to Geneva equipped with their standard stock of hats: the hat of the champion of German unity, of the eager apostle of disarmament and world peace, of the humanitarian opponent of atomic warfare. The publicity was wonderful, and they might have left Geneva as certified international good fellows--until a quiet man made a quiet point.

Dwight Eisenhower showed himself entirely willing to treat them as decent fellows as long as they acted like decent fellows. But in two dramatic statements, he proved to the world that the Russians' hats did not quite fit.

"Like Gangsters." At first, the U.S. Secret Service seemed determined to help the Russians' case. Unlike the waving Russians, Ike traveled in a closed car--to save trouble, he had ordered over from Paris the 1942 Cadillac sedan he used during the war, now inherited by SHAPE Commander Al Gruenther. Swiss civilians who happened to have their hands in their pockets when the President passed were startled to have husky U.S. Secret Service men grab them and pull their hands clear. At the Palais des Nations, Britain's Prime Minister Sir Anthony Eden drew up quietly in a Rolls-Royce, France's Edgar Faure in a little Citroen. But Ike's car swept up preceded and followed by carloads of hard-eyed Secret Service men, scanning the crowd watchfully. While the cars were still moving, the men leaped out to form a well-muscled phalanx around the President as he alighted. "It's just like gangsters!" gasped one Swiss girl.

But when the conference was over, Geneva's most lasting impact was the impact of the personality and character of Ike Eisenhower. Once out of his car, he set the conference's tone, checked its rancors, put its most challenging proposals. Above all, the watching world saw in Ike the face of the U.S. as it had never seen it before. It was the face of a man of peace, in whom there were no thoughts of aggressive war. Beside Ike's shining sincerity, the Russians' newly assumed amiability showed awkward and stiff.

First Day. Inside the huge marble building, Eisenhower greeted the waiting Russians, shook hands warmly with his wartime friend of Berlin days, Marshal Georgy Zhukov, now Russia's Minister of Defense. As the two old soldiers exchanged queries about each other's families, Nikita Khrushchev bustled up to Ike's elbow: "I want to let you in on a Zhukov family secret," burbled Nikita. Zhukov, he said, had missed his daughter's wedding to come to Geneva and see Eisenhower again.

The Big Four sat down around the huge hollow square of tables, each chief of government at an assigned side, flanked by his foreign minister and advisers. Eisenhower sat with his back to the big window overlooking Lake Geneva. To his left was France's Premier Faure. Opposite was Britain's Prime Minister Eden, famed diplomatist, epitome of the British faith in adjustments, not solutions. To his right sat the Russians, with Premier Bulganin flanked by Foreign Minister Molotov on one side. Party Boss Khrushchev on the other, all clothed with the respectability of gang leaders who never shoot anybody themselves.

Changed Air. From the moment of Ike's opening speech, the atmosphere was notably different from recent East-West meetings. The West forbore to trade insults. Said Ike, to begin the conference:

"No doubt there are among our nations philosophical convictions which are in many respects irreconcilable. Nothing that we can say or do here will change that fact. However, it is not always necessary that people should think alike and believe alike before they can work together. The essential thing is that none should attempt by force or trickery to make his beliefs prevail." They were there, said the President, to "inject a new spirit into our diplomacy," "to generate and put in motion the new forces needed to set us truly on the path to peace." Then Ike listed the West's choice of chief topics for discussion : German unification, European security, Communist subversion, disarmament.

"This conference is unique in history because the conditions in which we meet are unmatched in human experience," said Eden. "No war can bring the victor spoils; it can only bring him and his victim utter annihilation. Neutrals will suffer equally with the combatants. These are stern facts out of which we can, perhaps, win enduring peace at last." Division & Reassurance. Faure and Eden quickly added their weight to Ike's thesis that German unification was the conference's most urgent problem. "Germany must be unified; Germany cannot be neutralized. So long as the German problem is not settled . . . there can be no real harmonization of international life," insisted Faure, whose nation is the most fearful of the power of united Germany. Said Eden: "As long as Germany is divided, Europe will be divided."

Eden had a plan to offer. Recognizing that Russia fears a united Germany allied to the West ("I am not now going to argue whether those fears are justified"), Eden proposed that the four Geneva powers and Germany join a security pact on the Locarno model, each pledged to "go to the assistance of the victim of aggression, whoever it might be." Eden further proposed limits on the total forces on each side in Germany and the neighboring countries, to be checked by a system of "reciprocal control." Furthermore, playing to the Russian talk of a neutralized belt in Europe, he suggested "the possibility of a demilitarized area between East and West."

Bulganin spoke last. His tone was relaxed, his attitude realistic, and he avoided phrases such as "It is well known that . . ," "No one can question . . .," "Certain aggressive circles are fomenting . . ." Said Bulganin: "There are urgent issues dividing us ... These difficulties do exist and they are not insignificant. [But] the purpose of this conference is not to indulge in recriminations, but to find ways and means to ease international tension." He began with a show of concessions.

The Soviet government, he announced, had decided to contribute an "appropriate amount of fissionable materials" to Eisenhower's international atoms-for-peace pool. He announced that the Russians were demobilizing the 45,000 troops which they are withdrawing from Austria, and he "invited" the Western powers to follow suit.

No Hurry. But when it came to unification of Germany, Bulganin was surprisingly blunt. Russia was frankly in no hurry. Bulganin protested that "the Soviet government now, as in the past, favors the unification of Germany." but instantly added that "the remilitarization of Western Germany and her integration into military groupings of the Western powers is the main obstacle at the present time to the unification of Germany." They could "exchange views" about the problem, he said relaxedly, "even though in present circumstances we may fail to reach immediate agreement ... In that case, the problem should be solved step by step." His idea of "step by step" would be for the NATO powers to negotiate a European security pact with the Communist states.

In the first stage, the two blocs would agree not to use armed force against each other, and promise not to increase their armed forces stationed on "foreign territories." In the second stage, NATO, the Paris agreements and the Warsaw treaty would be abolished, and replaced by an all-European system of collective security.

In short, the West would be asked to give up the fact of NATO's 15-nation army in exchange for the scrapping of the paper satellite command set up at Warsaw two months ago. Said Bulganin in a burst of candor: ''Our eventual objective should be to have no foreign troops remaining on the territories of European states."

Portents & Protocol. The West listened with an uneasiness that was not yet dismay. The Russians, though they said it in friendly fashion, were clearly indicating that they have no intention of discussing Germany until Adenauer goes to Moscow --or, perhaps, until Adenauer is dead.

Hopefully, Eisenhower kept alive the note of optimism by a little concluding talk. "If we can preserve and sustain this spirit of friendship ... I am sure that there will be much progress made."

But as the delegates trooped off to the buffet, the milling newsmen (there were 1,400 assembled there) were already predicting that no real decisions would be reached at Geneva. Ignoring the portents, delegates doggedly cultivated the air of good fellowship. All up and down Geneva's shoreline, villas resounded with the clinking of glasses and the clatter of plates as Russians dined the British, British dined the Russians, Russians dined the French.

Eisenhower, leaning on the protocol fact that he is a head of state while the other Big Three are only chiefs of government, issued invitations, but accepted none from the other three. The first night, he had the Russians to dinner, greeting them with Mamie on the stone terrace overlooking the lake. He chatted with Zhukov, after dinner surprised the Russian by producing two wedding presents for his daughter--a desk pen inscribed "From the President of the United States, July 1955," and a portable U.S. radio --which he had hastily ordered after he learned of the marriage that morning from Khrushchev.

Second Day. Next morning the West felt a stir of fresh hope when the Big Four's second team--the foreign ministers --quickly worked out an agenda with very little argument from Molotov. But at that afternoon's big session, Bulganin buried the last hope of achieving anything at all on Germany. A free Germany must be a Germany free of any military obligations to the West, he said flatly. He rejected Eden's proffered reassurance of a five-power security guarantee against a united Germany; such guarantees might be all very well for small, weak powers, he said almost contemptuously, but not for strong nations like Russia. The Soviet Union could not depend on the guarantees of others.

He "understood" that for the present, the NATO alliance would "remain intact," with West Germany a part of that alliance under the Paris agreements, but so long as this was the fact about Germany, some time must elapse before it is united.

In the meantime, Bulganin suggested, both West and East Germany could participate in a European security pact. Later, a general security system, abolishing blocs, could reunite Germany "after the creation of confidence." This will take a long time, he repeated.

Faure objected heatedly that delaying reunification without a deadline was the equivalent of rejecting it. Eden protested that he could not understand why the Soviet delegates were "wounded" by his suggestion of a five-power guarantee.

Soldier to Soldier. In the midst of this developing exercise in sharp words, Eisenhower turned in his chair, faced directly toward Zhukov at the far end of the Russians' table. "Marshal Zhukov is an old friend of mine," said Ike. "He knows that when we have spoken as soldier to soldier, I have never said a word that is not true." Earnestly, Eisenhower went on. "I have had enough of war," he said, and he would never have left retirement to take command of NATO if he had not believed it was an organization for peace.

Eisenhower could assure everyone in the room that the U.S. would never be a party to an aggressive war, and that under no circumstances would we approve of an aggressive war, nor would the NATO organization. If anybody believed that German unification should be delayed because of fear of a united Germany in NATO, he would say, right here and now, that there was nothing to fear. Bulganin hastily interrupted: "That's all very well . . . We believe you. But . . ."

The West had forced Russia to admit that it had no intention of unifying Germany in the foreseeable future. But what fascinated Europe more was that the President of the U.S. had declared simply that he was a man of peace and the Premier of Russia as simply had said, "We believe you." Almost as fascinating was the spectacle of Eisenhower breaking through the cold mechanics of diplomacy to speak directly to an old friend of the opposite camp. Cried Geneva's La Suisse: "Eisenhower's remarks to the Soviet marshals do not furnish the slightest basis for a treaty. But they have greater value than any parchment. They do not constitute a political commitment by the U.S. toward anyone, but a moral engagement to the universe."

The Diversionists. The first two days had developed some divergences, though no dissensions, in the West's own ranks. The U.S. had been surprised when Eden produced his plan for a demilitarized zone at the opening conference; the strategy had been to save such an offer as a bargaining inducement later. Both British and U.S. delegations were a little annoyed at Edgar Faure, whose opening speech contained unhappy surprises. His suggestion of an all-European security organization into which both NATO and the Warsaw countries could be "fused" seemed dangerously close to Russia's plan to dismantle NATO. The other surprise was a visionary plan to achieve disarmament by agreed cuts in each nation's arms budgets, the savings to be paid over to an international organization for use in underdeveloped areas.

At one of the earliest conference dinners, Faure had warned Khrushchev that France could not be split off from the Atlantic alliance. But he made no secret of his ambition to take home some achievement to match Mendes-France's, with whom he anticipates a political battle next year. He was impatient with Quai d'Orsay experts. "I use modern formulas that do not correspond to diplomatic traditions," he said expansively. He added privately: "What do my people in the Jura [his home district] know about NATO? But if I tell them that we can build irrigation canals for their vineyards with the money we don't spend on arms, then they understand." As for Quai d'Orsay criticism of his security pact, he retorted: "You pretend to give Germany her liberty and at the same time oblige her to choose between a pact with the East or the West. That amounts to saying, 'I offer you a chance to spend the night with Martine Carol.* Otherwise you have to spend it with an old hag.' That may be liberty, but it's not a choice."

Third Day. As the third day began, the Swiss took down the flags that had decorated the city, and there seemed something symbolic about their action. But Ike Eisenhower, undaunted, went on injecting human relations into international relations. Never had the U.S. had a finer ambassador. He broke through the security cordon around him, and, to the delight of passersby, plunged unheralded into a toy store "to buy something for my kids"--meaning his three grandchildren. Rejecting some boy dolls ("My little girls don't want boy dolls"), he picked three girl dolls, plus a model glider for young David, plunged out of the store gesturing at his military aide and saying: "He pays."

To emphasize the U.S.'s use of atomic energy for peaceful purposes, he drove out to the exhibition building which the U.S. has erected to house its atomic display for the forthcoming international atomic conference, peered down at the eerily glowing tank containing an experimental atomic pile, stared in admiration at the control panel's dials, buttons and graphs.

"It reminds me of the fellow who was chiseling on the nose of a bomb," he said.

"Another fellow said, 'Don't worry; they always fizz before they explode.' " At Ike's special invitation, Zhukov came to lunch alone except for his interpreter.

"We can't talk about future wars, but we can reminisce about the last one," said Ike.

Balks & Crags. Zhukov's colleagues were less amiable. As the summit conference opened on the third afternoon, Bulganin was stubborn. He wanted a security plan (his own), but refused to accept the West's price--unification of Germany first.

He even balked at discussing the two together. Ike suggested that the whole question be referred to the foreign ministers, who should draw up a directive for a future foreign ministers' meeting in the fall. He refused to despair. The problem, he said, is how to "build a bridge" between East and West on this problem of security and unification. He was "profoundly convinced" that the Soviet leaders were as earnestly desirous of finding peace as the West's; let such problems be discussed without conditions.

The words rebounded to a high mountain crag 85 miles away, where West Germany's vacationing Chancellor Konrad Adenauer had installed himself in the little village of Muerren, to be near the conference. From the start, West Germany had felt like a patient straining his ears while four doctors discussed his operation in the next room. As the conference opened, bells tolled all over Germany, students marched silently through cities, people gathered to pray. A Teletype connected Der Alte's mountaintop with his lieutenants in Geneva. Bulganin's statement that the unification of Germany could wait had plunged them in gloom, but that gloom had been expected. Eisenhower's statement--as it reached the public through a British briefing officer--sounded as if the West were getting ready to offer Russia a security pact while leaving Germany divided. That night Adenauer drafted a stern note to the West's Big Three, pointing out that West Germany would refuse to be a party to any European security arrangement that was based on the continued division of Germany. The U.S. delegation sent off a note assuring Adenauer that the U.S. position was unchanged.

Fourth Day. No one expected much of the next day's session on disarmament, still less that it would provide the conference's greatest moment.

In the morning, the talk was chiefly of what the final communique would say. The foreign ministers met and deadlocked. As the time for the afternoon summit meeting approached, dark storm clouds crept in from the north over the Jura Mountains. Bulganin rattled off a version of the old Russian proposal for a world disarmament conference, which the Russians first made two months ago. It was so familiar that some delegates thought they could even understand the Russian words by now.

Search of Heart. Then came the U.S.'s turn. Eisenhower began reading his formal paper prepared by the State Department. Midway, he took off his glasses, laid them on the table, and looked directly at the Russians. He spoke extemporaneously.

"Gentlemen," he said, "I have been searching my heart and mind for something that I could say here that could convince everyone of the great sincerity of the U.S. in approaching this problem of disarmament. I should address myself for a moment principally to the delegates from the Soviet Union, because our two great countries admittedly possess new and terrible weapons in quantities which do give rise in other parts of the world, or reciprocally, to the fears and dangers of surprise attack." In this moment, the Big Four became the Big Two. The Russians, though the translation had not yet come through, were aware that Eisenhower was saying something important. The bustle of the conference slowly fell into silence.

"I propose, therefore, that we take a practical step, that we begin an arrangement very quickly, as between ourselves --immediately. These steps would include : to give each other a complete blueprint of our military establishment . . . Next, to provide within our countries facilities for aerial photography to the other country" (see box). This could lead to a wider system of inspection and disarmament. Said Ike solemnly: "What I propose, I assure you, would be but a beginning."

The Russians sat stock still. Foreign Minister Pinay muttered audibly: "Il les a eus" (He got them). As Ike paused"for the translation of his remarks, there was a clap of thunder and the lights went out. "I didn't mean to turn the lights out," said Ike with a laugh. The translators droned on in the gloom.

No Answer. The Russians looked stunned. With fewer than 300 words, the President had dramatized the sincerity of the U.S. and of himself, and had challenged the Russians to match it. The Russians had no answer. Though Faure and Eden were as startled as the Russians, Faure responded instantly and generously: "I wish the peoples of the world could have been in this conference room to hear the voice of a man speaking from great military experience. Had this been possible, they would believe that something had changed in the world in the handling of this question of disarmament. I am sure that this conference has scored its first victory over skepticism." Outside the conference room, Ike's proposal, devastating in its simplicity, unquestionable in its sincerity, stirred a world's hopes.

Modest Proposal. But Eden, though he praised Eisenhower's "eloquent" proposal, and was "deeply moved by the sincerity and warm feeling for peace," was a little miffed. Such sweeping proposals do not accord with the traditional British diplomatic search for limited objectives. Eden submitted his own "more modest" proposal--a "simple" system for joint inspection of Communist and Western forces now confronting each other in Europe. Once more, while the news of the Eisenhower plan flashed around the world, the conference returned to its pre-ordained ways. Eden's modest proposal was for a "practical experiment" in "operative inspection of armaments." Thus a zone of security could be established in the center of Europe, and, once established, it could be extended "from the center to the periphery." Ultimately, Eden hopes that a demilitarized zone might be established between the two blocs. "At least my proposal was on the ground," he remarked.

But if the French were more impressed with Ike's plan as propaganda than as practicality, they had far less patience with Eden's notion of practicality. They pointed out sharply that the last experiment in demilitarized zones was the Rhineland; when Hitler marched back in, neither Britain nor France mustered the courage to oppose him. The French wanted no such tempting vacuums in the center of Europe.

Fifth Day. The conference was all but over. The Russians now seemed subdued. In the foreign ministers' meeting, Molotov reverted to his old stonewalling tactics, answering efforts to clarify Russian positions by simply rereading Bulganin's speeches. The Russians would not agree to link German unification with European security, in the directive for the planned foreign ministers' meeting in October.

The Big Four met once more, and each delivered speeches declaring they favored increased communication between the two blocs. At the buffet, Bulganin said plaintively to Ike that his arms-inspection plan would not work because it is so easy, for example, to hide a four-engine bomber from air detection. Ike grinned and said: "If you think it is, please show us how."

Friday night, Sir Anthony Eden, who wanted some accomplishment to bring back to Britain, felt that the West was perhaps losing a chance to begin dismantling the cold war by locking German reunification so tightly to European security. He sped off to Bulganin's villa for dinner, finally talked Bulganin into accepting a statement admitting "the close link" between reunification of Germany and the problem of European security. And in this fashion the final communique was agreed upon.

Sixth Day. In a final series of meetings, it took the Big Four nearly all day Saturday to agree on the final wording. At last, while Ike's plane waited on the airfield, they approved the communique, which instructed the foreign ministers to consider all the proposals mentioned at a new meeting in October and referred the disarmament proposals to the U.N. subcommittee meeting in late August. Minutes later, Ike was at the airport.

Everyone's parting words were guardedly hopeful. Said Eisenhower: "It has been on the whole a good week ... It is my judgment that the prospects of a lasting peace, with justice, well-being and broader freedom, are brighter. The dangers of the overwhelming tragedy of modern war are less." At 8:05 Ike boarded the Columbine with Mamie and son John, flew off westward into the bright evening sky. The Parley at the Summit was over.

* France's Marilyn Monroe.

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