Clandestine

Chapter 11 - The Summit Series

I am often asked what I believe was the seminal and most influential moment in the 1960s in the United States. There were many moments that would leave the public searching for answers for decades to follow. The Kennedy assassination was the most terrifying and tragic while other incidents, such as the bombing of Cambodia or Neil Armstrong’s moon walk, certainly rated consideration. However, I believe the final day of the decade that was the 1960s was May 4th, 1970 -- the occasion of the shooting of four students by the National Guard at Kent State University in Ohio.

In 1963, when John F Kennedy was shot in Dallas, the country suspended its belief and concluded that a lone gunman with questionable political motives was the culprit. Case closed.

As for the Cold War, the hippies of the generation correctly reacted with purpose. They saw the conflict as a political issue and set forth to raise the consciousness of the nation. At least a few of them did; others probably used the movement as an excuse not to do the hard work life demands and simply drop from the system.

Later on, as the ’60s progressed, more hatred and terror could be found, but through it all I believe there was a feeling that the U.S. government, even if one did not believe in their causes, could be trusted to act in a manner best for the nation. Throughout the decade that confidence was shaken but on May 4th, as the country watched the army invade and shoot down their own children, the tide was turned. I believe that the shooting at Kent State led directly to the Watergate scandal, as people simply would no longer turn away from the crimes committed by their government. I also firmly believe that had Kent State occurred before the Kennedy assassination, Lyndon Johnson would not have gotten away with being sworn in as President that same afternoon and been allowed to appoint the Warren Commission to confuse the issues. After Kent State, America and its institutions would never be the same. The government had lost the trust of the people, and the country dutifully decided to throw out a tyrannical government, unfortunately replacing it with a series of others. In 1976 the American people elected as president one of the most decent men in the country, Jimmy Carter. He lasted only one term and was clearly thought of as the wrong man to lead the country through the Cold War, but I believe it was a strategic vote by the U.S. citizenry to at least attempt to elect someone who could not be bought and sold and who would truly represent their interests.

During the decade of the 1970s I spent most of my time in Moscow. The iron curtain hid many secrets and it was a privilege for me to gain an understanding of the conflict from both sides. I arrived in Moscow on September 17, 1972, five days before the Canadian hockey team was to take the ice in the fifth game of a test series with the Soviet Red Army hockey club.

I remember watching a few of the games with fleeting interest while the Soviets toured Canada through August. If I remember correctly, of the four games in Canada, the Soviets won 2 and tied one. The country was angry, for the Canadian boys could not cope with the organisation and precision of their Russian counterparts. Now they were heading to the Luzhniki Ice Palace in Moscow for game 5 of the Series. When I arrived the entire Canadian delegation was on edge. The team and its handlers were in a tremendous panic, not only because they felt they were letting down their country but also because many of these young men had never left North America before. The Soviet Union may just as well have been the moon. They were suspicious of everything. They looked for hidden recording devices in phones and lampshades and were obsessed with the cuisine and the potential for food poisoning. One of my first jobs once I joined the contingent was to look for a chef who could cook Canadian- style dinners and have them delivered (under RCMP supervision) to the hotel.

The leader of the Canadian pilgrimage was a skittish young lawyer from Ontario named Alan Eagleson. He was involved in promoting the event and seemed to feel that the result was tumbling from his grasp and that, with it, his reputation would lay in ruins. We needed to keep an eye on Alan at all times otherwise his paranoia would have gotten the best of him; consequently we were always one step away from an international incident.

I quickly became good friends with the boys who worked in the Canadian embassy in Moscow. One such gentleman, Stan Robinson, was the best source for where to find anything remotely Western in the capital city. One of the young men on the team had come over without a pair of shoes to wear at dinner. He had flown with a pair of Adidas sneakers and that was all. He asked me if there was a place in Moscow where he could buy a pair of black dress shoes. I found out from Stan that there was a store with shoes for sale. It was a seedy little hole-in-the-wall that sold shoes to foreign diplomats. Russian citizens had no need for such a store because they were simply given shoes and clothing every now and again by the government. The idea that one had to trade for goods was meaningless to the members of the working class. When we finally tracked down the store, we needed to shell out over one hundred Canadian dollars for one of the worst pairs of shoes I had ever seen.

Later when we got back to the hotel there was a group of Canadian players gathered in a suite, shielding the center of the room from onlookers while a few men with screwdrivers attempted to locate what they believed to be a surveillance device beneath the carpeted floor in their room. Apparently a few of the bright lights on the squad discovered a set of screw nails on the floor that they assumed led to a tunnel – maybe one that went straight to the Kremlin. It was getting late and yet the players set out to solve the mystery. I had had enough and turned in for the night. At about 2 am, a gigantic chandelier crashed in the ballroom beneath the rooms of our hotel. The players scrambled to their feet and re-laid the carpet over the gaping hole which at one time secured this beautiful feature to the ceiling. I never once mistook our gang of Canadian lads as delegates to a brain surgery conference…not once.

The games couldn’t start soon enough and I was in the crowd, just behind the bench, as the fifth game of the series took place. I realized then that the reactions of the Canadian players, coaches, and handlers had everything to do with the military presence which was always at hand in Moscow. I was used to stern people walking around in fatigues from my time in Berlin in the early 1960s, but for Western visitors the scene was unnerving. Thankfully one of the characters on the Canadian side did a gigantic pratfall when introduced to the crowd and the gaffe seemed to lighten the mood. There were times in the next seven days when it seemed like just a hockey series, but for the most part the contests were played with an incredible tension that the players could cut with a skate blade. The Canadian players acted like boorish goons for the better part of the trip; it was simply their reaction to fear and ignorance. By the last game of the series the teams had gained a quantum of respect for each other. I was hoping that the series would end in a draw but, when the Canadians banged home a goal with only a few seconds to spare, it was clear that there would be a winner and a loser and that the series would spawn many a rematch. It would also make a number of people wealthy in the coming years, including our Mr. Eagleson who leveraged the tournament for the purposes of gratifying his ego and boosting his image.

The more important piece of the puzzle for me was that I was asked by Stan to come and work at the embassy in Moscow. Many of the diplomats who worked in Moscow suffered from an uneasiness similar to that of the Canadian hockey players, and the government was looking for a Russian-speaking RCMP officer to take up residence in the city, work at the embassy, and keep a log of the strange goings-on in the capital of the Soviet Union. I was prepared to say “No” to the offer up until the last night before I was to return home to Canada. It was on that evening, a Friday night, that I met Natalia, and something in her 5-foot 10-inch frame, with gorgeous black eyes and hair, made me extend my journey -- initially for a 4-week period and then for almost seven years. Natalia was not the love of my life -- that person still resided in Edinburgh and alas would always form the tragic figure of my unrequited love -- but Natalia was to be my most passionate lover.

I settled into the embassy on a short-term assignment, essentially inventorying the Canadians who lived in the city and working on security details for the ambassador. It was not glamorous work but I was intrigued by the Soviet Union and its culture. I settled in quickly, was given a spartan room in a hotel not far from Red Square, and proceeded to keep myself busy. To say that my work activities kept me engrossed would be a lie, as my day job was simply a distraction, keeping me busy from nine to five so I could meet Natalia every evening.