On the Mississippi: Cruising Peaceful Waters

By Jay Carney

Georgi Grechko, the Soviet cosmonaut whose three trips into space have made him a national hero, was at it again. Grechko is a natural when it comes to pleasing a crowd, more than willing to press the flesh and fortified with a broad, kind smile that adds a human touch to his celebrity status. Here he was in fine form again, but on this humid summer evening, in spite of the cheers and waves, the crowd didn't know Grechko from any of the other people he was with. After all, this wasn't Red Square but Red Wing, Minn., and most of the well-wishers who surged forward to catch a glimpse of this space traveler had never before seen a "Russian" in the flesh.

Together with 45 other Soviets and 125 Americans, Grechko was spending a summer week "steamboatin' " down the Mississippi River, from St. Paul to St. Louis, on the legendary Delta Queen. Stopping daily at towns along the way, the first ever "Mississippi Peace Cruise" brought the "evil empire" to America's heartland, and the heartland, curious and honored but not intimidated, opened its arms in welcome.

The Delta Queen came to Red Wing the first night out from St. Paul; no stop was scheduled, but a hopeful crowd, some of them sporting handmade posters, had gathered at a nearby lock. When Grechko saw them, he couldn't resist their enthusiasm. As the paddle-wheel steamboat rested in the lock, he climbed across from a starboard deck onto the concrete bank and began shaking hands, accepting pats on the back and handing out small mementos from the Soviet Union, mostly pins and buttons that called for universal peace and an end to the arms race, mostly in Russian. Grechko waited as long as he could before getting back on board, and as the Delta Queen slowly churned away from the lock, a song broke out from those on deck: Let There Be Peace on Earth.

Inside the steamboat's Aft Cabin Lounge, an American peace cruiser spoke to Grechko in a loud voice, enunciating with that exaggerated care that is used to breach the language gap. "I couldn't go on the Volga Peace Cruises because I'm afraid to fly," she said slowly, referring to the seven such voyages down the U.S.S.R.'s Volga River, which first began in 1982. "So I took a train to get to this one." Smiling, Grechko paused for a moment to look away from the woman, as though he did not understand her. "I know," he said finally. "I am also afraid to fly. I am afraid of height." Again that smile, and the woman -- "Oh, c'mon, a cosmonaut?" -- couldn't have been more pleased.

On board and off, the good-natured interchange persisted. Take a Soviet by the arm, bring him or her to a quiet corner and ask whatever burning question comes to mind. No problem. Have a drink together, or dinner; go on deck in the evening and talk about literature or politics, as the light fades and the densely wooded banks of the river grow dark and eerie. One night, somewhere between Prairie du Chien, Wis., and Dubuque, Iowa, Dmitri Agrachev, the cruise's official Soviet interpreter, was playing Scrabble, in English, with three Americans. "It's not a very nice word," he began, "but I'll use it," and laid out five letters: P-U-R-G-E. No one so much as raised a smile or a brow. Three hours later, Agrachev had finished off his opponents.

Organized by a Connecticut group called Promoting Enduring Peace and by the Soviet Peace Committee, the Mississippi Peace Cruise set out to debunk the image sustained by Soviets and Americans that the other is a cold, opportunistic, war-bent people. Then again, the Americans aboard for the trip were already disposed to challenge the myth. Some had been on one of the Volga cruises; almost all belonged to one of the 13 peace groups that helped sponsor the trip. And at an average age of 61, including a three-year-old tagalong and three teenagers, most American participants were old hands at the peace game. "These are veteran peacemongers," said Lou Friedman, activist turned press coordinator for the trip. "I feel so humble around these people, like a 51-year-old peace punk."

And so they went, chugging down the broad, twisting river and bringing their message of superpower friendship to mid-America. One riverside town a day offered its own homespun hospitality and entertainment to the cruisegoers. Mayors practiced their rhetoric, high school bands played, and tour guides went to great lengths to explain what made their town, however small, uniquely suited to such unlikely guests. When the Delta Queen docked at Prairie du Chien, welcomers were clapping their hands to the tinny notes of a banjo and the nasal vocals of a local duo. One woman, with pure white hair and orange shorts, dragged on a pipestem.

"I have been to New York and Washington," Aleksei Pankin, a U.S. studies researcher in Moscow, would say later, "but I have never been before to America." Onshore the music gave way to speeches and gifts of goodwill. The youngest children, glancing over from slides and swings, saw nothing particularly different or interesting about the visitors, but almost everyone else milled about trying to find a "Russian." Name tags gave them away. "Do you speak American?" asked a woman, as she cautiously approached two Soviet men. All but nine did speak at least some English, so most of the curious were rewarded by a friendly conversation. Later that day, organizers bused the Soviets to Prairie du Chien's sporting-goods store, home also to the town's largest liquor selection. There the cameras never stopped rolling, intent on catching the Soviet's reaction to America's unnatural abundance of consumer goods.

In Dubuque, Merlyn Bradley, 64, whose large, hard-worked hands wear a size 20 ring, gave a tour of the dairy, cattle and hog farm he runs with his son. After the inevitable walk-through of the barn, Bradley served up a carton of the local milk to Anna Sivolap, a milkmaid from Poltava. Everyone grew quiet as she took the taste test. "I like it very much," she said in Russian. Bradley smiled and relief filled the air.

The host farmer and some Soviets fielded questions. Can peace be achieved? "There's no reason anybody can't have peace, no reason an agreement can't be reached on anything," Bradley offered. Sivolap agreed. Can the U.S. and the U.S.S.R. work together to feed the world's hungry? "We could have so much more peace with a full stomach than a hungry one. We have hungry people in this nation, and we could feed them," Bradley said, furrowing his brow in a look of disgust. "But there is politics, and corruption." Afterward, three game Soviets took turns roaring down a gravel road on a Honda three-wheeler. When the last one disappeared over a hill for a moment, no one seemed to notice, not the American who owned the machine and not the Soviets who might / wonder if the rider would ever come back. Trust and goodwill come so easy in the heartland.

In Davenport, Iowa, Mayor Thom Hart held a cookout at his house: pork sandwiches, fruit and five different kinds of potato salad. During a press conference on the front lawn, Grechko started taking pictures of all the cameras that were focusing on him. Neighbors came by, and everyone had a good time. A young guy, in old jeans, a T shirt and long dark hair, was impressed. "It's like a rock concert," he said, which it wasn't. "You can feel the good vibes," which you could.