Troubles with Intellectuals

In 1949, after the Soviet Union exploded its first atomic bomb, there was speculation in the Western press that famed Nuclear Scientist Pyotr Kapitsa had played a crucial role in the bomb's development. But Kapitsa, according to Khrushchev, refused to get involved in military research. Here is Khrushchev's version of their relationship.

I asked him, "Comrade Kapitsa, why won't you work on something of military significance? We badly need you to work on our defense program." To the best of my recollection, he answered, "I'm a scientist, and scientists are like artists. They want other people to talk about their work, to make movies about it, to write articles about it in the newspapers. The trouble with military topics is that they're all secret. If a scientist does research in defense problems, he has to bury himself behind the walls of an institute and never be heard of again. His name disappears from print. I don't want that to happen to me. I want to be famous. I want other people to write and talk about my work."

I must admit that this line of reasoning made a strange impression on me--one not at all favorable to Academician Kapitsa.

"Comrade Kapitsa," I said, "what choice do we have? We're forced to concentrate on military matters. As long as there are antagonistic classes and antagonistic states with armies, we simply must push ahead with defense research. Otherwise we'll be choked to death, smashed to pieces, trampled in the dirt."

"Not I, I refuse to have anything to do with military matters."

How could a Soviet citizen say such a thing? A man who'd lived through World War II and seen what our people had suffered at the hands of Hitler. If he had made the same speech to Stalin, you can be sure Stalin would have drawn a very different conclusion, although I admit I was upset.

Then Kapitsa expressed a desire to go abroad. I could tell he wanted the press to raise a lot of hoopla about his traveling to other countries. We deliberated the matter in the leadership. Even though we had let [Atomic Physicist Igor] Kurchatov go to England [in 1956], we decided to wait a while before sending Kapitsa abroad. We still hadn't accumulated enough atomic weapons. Therefore it was essential that we keep secret from our enemies any and all information which might tip them off about how little we had.

We knew Kapitsa had many friends and colleagues in the West, and we were afraid that if we let him make his trip, he might drop a few words here, a few words there. I have to admit that [one] reason I refused Kapitsa permission was possibly that Stalin was still belching inside me. Keep in mind, I'd worked under Stalin for years and years, and you don't free yourself from [Stalinist] habits so easily. It takes time to become conscious of your shortcomings and free yourself.

Now that I've told the story, I feel I've done penance. Kapitsa, too, is only human, and he made a mistake by refusing to work on military problems. My mistake was in refusing to let him go abroad. So, as people used to say when I was a child, we can call it quits. I now ask Academician Kapitsa, whom I've always respected as a great scientist, to forgive me.

I would like to compare Kapitsa with another of our most brilliant nuclear physicists, Academician [Andrei] Sakharov.* He, too, had misgivings about military research. I used to meet frequently with Sakharov, and I considered him an extremely talented man.

Literally a day or two before the resumption of our [hydrogen] bomb testing program, I got a telephone call from Sakharov. He addressed me in my capacity as the Chairman of the Council of Ministers and said he had a petition to present. The petition called on our government to cancel the scheduled explosion and not to engage in any further testing, at least not of the hydrogen bomb. "As a scientist and as the designer of the hydrogen bomb, I know what harm these explosions can bring down on the head of mankind."

"Comrade Sakharov," I said, "you must understand my position. My responsibilities do not allow me to cancel the tests. Our party and government have already made abundantly clear that we would like nothing better than to suspend nuclear testing forever. Our leadership has already unilaterally discontinued nuclear testing and called on the United States and other countries to follow our example for the good of all mankind. The Americans wouldn't listen to our proposals. As a scientist, surely you know that they've gone right on conducting their tests. If we don't test our own bombs, how will we know whether they work or not?"

He wasn't satisfied. He still insisted that we not resume our own testing.

I wanted to be absolutely frank with him: "Comrade Sakharov, believe me, I deeply sympathize with your point of view. But as the man responsible for the security of our country, I have no right to do what you're asking. For me to cancel the tests would be a crime against our state. Can't you understand that?"

My arguments didn't change his mind, and his didn't change mine; but that was to be expected. The scientist in him saw his patriotic duty and performed it well, while the pacifist in him made him hesitate. I have nothing against pacifists--or at least I won't have anything against them if and when we create conditions which make war impossible. But as long as we live in a world in which we have to keep both eyes open lest the imperialists gobble us up, then pacifism is a dangerous sentiment.

This conflict between Sakharov and me left a lasting imprint on us both. I took it as evidence that he didn't fully understand what was in the best interests of the state, and therefore from that moment on I was somewhat on my guard with him. I hope that the time will come when Comrade Sakharov will see the correctness of my position--if not now, then some time in the future.

Despite such disagreements with some scientists, I believe that by the very nature of their activity the technological intelligentsia do not interfere in the more complicated spheres of social life, namely in ideology. A more difficult and slippery problem is posed by the creative intelligentsia. Our creative intelligentsia suffer more than any other category of people in our society. Materially, they're better off than other categories, but spiritually, members of the creative intelligentsia are troubled.

Creative work, especially by writers, has a tendency to interfere in the political sphere. Writers are forever delving into questions of philosophy and ideology--questions on which any ruling party, including the Communist Party, would like to have a monopoly.

After Stalin's death [Boris] Pasternak wrote Doctor Zhivago and tried to get it published. There was a terrific commotion about this novel and how to handle it. I was informed and had an opportunity to influence the decision of whether or not to publish it--which boiled down to a question of whether or not to accept the advice of someone who was reporting to us--but I failed to act. I have firm grounds for saying that if I had influenced the decision [by coming out in favor of publication], I would have been supported. But I did nothing, and now I regret it.

Pasternak worked hard on Doctor Zhivago. The manuscript found its way abroad, where it was published and caused a stir. It obtained recognition and was awarded the Nobel Prize, though I can't say to what extent his work deserved it. Anyway, Pasternak was chosen to be a Nobel Prize laureate, while here [in the Soviet Union] there were administrative and police measures. When dealing with creative minds, administrative measures are always most destructive and nonprogressive. His book was put into cold storage; it was banned. The decision to use police methods put a whole different coloration on the affair and left a bad aftertaste for a long time to come. People raised a storm of protest against the Soviet Union for not allowing Pasternak to go abroad to receive the prize. I said, "Let's go ahead and publish the book so that Pasternak will be able to go abroad and pick up his award. We'll give him a passport and some hard currency to make the trip."

Then quite unexpectedly Pasternak let it be known through a statement in the newspapers that he had no intention of going abroad, and that he wasn't even going to raise the question.

To this day I haven't read his book and therefore can't judge it. People who've spoken to me about it say they don't have any special admiration for the artistic aspect of the work, but that's beside the point. To judge an author and to judge his work are two different matters. If the book was really of low artistic quality, then that judgment should be left up to the reader.

In connection with Doctor Zhivago, some might say it's too late for me to say that I regret the book wasn't published. Yes, maybe it is too late. But better late than never.

In general, I think we should be more tolerant and extend wider opportunities to our creative intelligentsia. While personally I'm against the new schools of painting, sculpture and music, that doesn't mean I see any need for resorting to administrative and police measures.

* Sakharov's account of this conversation appears in his book Sakharov Speaks, which is being published May 31 by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc.

This file is automatically generated by a robot program, so viewer discretion is required.