- Steve Rosenberg
- Publisher, Moscow
3 hours
Mikhail and Raisa Gorbachev were married for 46 years before his death in 1999.
BBC journalist Steve Rosenberg interviewed former Soviet leader Mikhail Gorbachev five times over 20 years. In this account, he recounts their most intimate conversation, in which Gorbachev -who died this Tuesday at the age of 91s- revealed how the death of his wife Raisa affected him, and they even sang together while the reporter played the piano.
It is March 2013 and I am interviewing Mikhail Gorbachev at his think tank in Moscow. After half an hour, the former Soviet leader announces “Vsyo!” (“That is your destiny!”). He gets up, but seems in no hurry to say goodbye.
So, we continue chatting. Gorbachev has just published the last volume of his memoirs, which is dedicated to his late wife Raisa. She died of leukemia in 1999. They had been married for almost 46 years, and from the tender way he spoke of her, it was clear that Gorbachev missed her dearly.
He shows me the book. Page one features an entry from Gorbachev’s diary, a year following Raisa’s death:
“My life has lost its main meaning,” he writes. “I have never had such an acute feeling of loneliness.”
But Gorbachev’s eyes light up when he points to photos of Raisa in the book: the vacation snapshots, the family photos, photos of her accompanying him on official trips abroad. And his two favorite images: matching portraits of Mikhail and Raisa before their wedding day in 1953. They look like Hollywood movie stars.
As Gorbachev and I flipped through the book, our camera operator, Rachel, examined the grand piano in the corner of the room.
“Can you touch that?” he asks Gorbachev.
“There’s no need to, it just plays itself!” he replies.
We all laugh. But he is not kidding. Gorbachev walks over, presses a button, and the piano keys spring to life of their own accord.
The BBC’s Steve Rosenberg interviewed Mikhail Gorbachev five times over 20 years.
“That’s Chopin,” he says, and with a cheeky smile, he mimics like a master and pretends to be playing the music himself. He then flips a switch and the instrument turns off.
“Of course, you can also play it like a normal piano,” he notes. “Can either of you play?” she asks. I tell him I can.
“Please sit down, play something,” says Gorbachev.
I did not expect that. I have to think fast. What should I play? What tune would the former supreme leader of a superpower appreciate? doBack in the ussr, perhaps? EITHER Thanks for the Memory? I play it safe and choose the Russian classic Moscow Nights.
Steve Rosenberg sitting at the piano next to the former Soviet leader.
While I’m playing, something even more unexpected happens. Mikhail Gorbachev begins to sing. And it’s good… We get to the end and I ask him what other songs he likes. Gorbachev requests the Soviet war tune “Dark Night”. He tells of a soldier at the front who is thinking of his dear wife back home.
I know that you, my love, are awake
Sitting by the crib, you’re secretly wiping away a tear
How I love your deep and sweet eyes
How I would like to press my lips once morest yours.”
The man who helped end the Cold War smiles: a wide, beautiful smile.
“Raisa loved my singing,” he says.
In that short sentence, Mikhail Gorbachev has revealed more regarding himself than in a full interview.
There are many people in Russia who criticized him for the way he ruled the country, blaming him for the collapse of the Soviet Union. But following those words, and that smile, he became a good-hearted and decent man, still deeply in love with his wife and desperately sad that she was gone. Raisa was everywhere: in his books, in the framed portraits on the wall of his office, and in the music.
I met Mikhail Gorbachev in May 1996, more than four years following the demise of the USSR. He was attempting a political comeback and challenging Boris Yeltsin in the Russian presidential election. At the time I was a production assistant for CBS News. Our camera crew followed him on the campaign trail in southern Russia.
I was excited to meet the man who, a decade earlier, had inspired me to take Russian classes in college. In the mid-1980s, Mikhail Gorbachev burst onto the political scene with his calls for Perestroika (reconstruction) and Glasnost (openness). He was the kind of Soviet leader the world had never seen. He was young, laid back. He seemed determined to build better relations with the West and revitalize the stagnant Soviet economy.
When he left office, the Soviet Union no longer existed.
On that campaign trip in 1996, Gorbachev invited our television crew to join him at his table in the hotel restaurant one night. Suddenly the band began to play a familiar tune:
“Yesterday, all my problems seemed so far away.
Now it seems that they are here to stay…”.
It felt so appropriate. In the elections, Gorbachev would receive only 0.51% of the vote.
After Raisa’s death, Mikhail Gorbachev said he felt an acute loneliness.
He had lost his power and had not been able to get it back. But there was one thing that Mikhail Gorbachev still had: his sense of humor.
“The most important thing is the chicken!”
The following month, the cameraman he had worked with on Gorbachev’s trip completed his internship in Moscow. Victor Cooper was a hulking Texan who made everyone around him smile. He hadn’t learned much Russian, but one of the few phrases he had learned was a classic:
“Samoe glavnoe eto kooritsa!” Which means: “The most important thing is the chicken!”
I found it useful. Every time Victor was pulled over by the Moscow traffic police, he would roll down the window of his Suburban and declare in Russian with a thick Texan accent, “The most important thing is chicken!”
The dumbfounded agent usually motioned for him to continue.
image source, Alamy
At work I was given the task of producing a “farewell video” for Victor containing messages of goodwill from friends and colleagues in Moscow. Just in case, I called Gorbachev’s assistant. Would President Gorbachev consider contributing a video message?
The answer was immediate: “He will.”
With another cameraman, I drove to Gorbachev’s office.
“What would you like me to say?” he asked.
I explained how much the cameraman had enjoyed meeting him. I also mentioned his poultry knowledge of Russian. Gorbachev turned to the camera and recorded a heartfelt monologue, which he concluded with these words:
“Victor, as you well know, the most important thing is the chicken!”
I had to pinch myself. Mikhail Sergeyevich Gorbachev, once one of the most powerful men on the planet, had just sung the praises of poultry. What a good sport. When Victor Cooper saw the video, he was shocked and deeply moved.
Mikhail Gorbachev with Steve Rosenberg (front left), Victor Cooper and the CBS crew
A sad Gorbachev
It was a very different Gorbachev that I met in 2019. This would be the fifth and last interview he gave me. There was a sadness in him that she hadn’t seen before. As if he felt that his achievements were being reversed; that Russia was once once more embracing authoritarianism and the East-West confrontation was returning.
In the interview, Gorbachev recalled his first days in power.
“When I became the general secretary of the Soviet Communist Party, I traveled to towns and cities all over the country to meet people. There was one thing that everyone talked regarding. They told me: ‘Mikhail Sergeyevich, whatever problems we have, regardless of the food shortage, don’t worry. We’ll have enough food. We’ll grow it. We’ll manage. Just make sure there’s no war.'”
By now, there were tears in Gorbachev’s eyes.
“I was stunned. That’s how people were. That’s how they had suffered in the last war.”
Mikhail Gorbachev was not perfect. No leader is. But this was a man who cared deeply regarding preventing a Third World War. And he cared deeply for his family.
For both things I will remember him warmly.
Now you can receive notifications from BBC World. Download the new version of our app and activate it so you don’t miss out on our best content.