Moscow, Russia     June 9, 1972

The ancient black cobblestone parade yard of Red Square, worn smooth by decades of marching troops and resplendent military vehicle processions, radiated shimmering heat waves under the blazing sun. City parks and boulevards were parched. Tree branches and leaves drooped sadly. It was one of Moscow’s hottest and driest years on record. The area was enduring the effects of a month-long high-pressure system over much of the Soviet Union. New temperature records were being set daily as the dome of heat locked itself into place. Thermometers soared into the mid-30 degrees Celsius range during the long days of June, while the nights offered little respite. Hot, dry winds from the south parched the countryside and cities alike. There was no escape, and no relief in sight. Precipitation was one third of normal for the year, most of that coming as snowfall during the earlier winter months. It was one of the most pervasive and persistent weather patterns over Eastern Europe and Asia in recorded history.

Even in the early morning hours, the oppressive heat was unavoidable. As citizens headed to work, they were crushed by its intensity and the unbearable humidity. There would be no reprieve inside the sweltering office buildings either, as only elite Soviet workers or leaders were bestowed air conditioning. Some office workers were fortunate enough to have fans blowing in their workspaces, which for the most part just moved the hot air around. Inside or out, it really was quite insufferable, with nowhere to go to avoid the furnacelike conditions.

Russians owned closets full of heavy warm clothing for the winter, but lighter-weight clothes designed for hot summer days were scarce. Men’s jackets had been abandoned, sleeves rolled up while prudish women’s traditions were tossed in favor of open necklines and shorter skirts. Russian winter would come soon enough, though, and complaining never helped.

Apparently oblivious to the heat, one man wearing a full suit and tie entered the Soviet Department of Agriculture building and rode the elevator to the top floor. He was thickset and blockish and moved with the directional certainty of an army tank. His shape and likeness could be easily re-created using LEGO blocks. It was 7:00 a.m. and, while he chose to ignore it, sweat was already trickling down his forehead from his shaggy, unkempt hair. His bushy eyebrows redirected the flow of sweat to the sides of his face. His shirt clung to his body.

Mikhail Fisenko was the vice president of Exportkhleb, the Soviet Union’s grain export agency. Formality and reverence for the office were paramount to Fisenko. He took his job very seriously, religiously demonstrating loyalty and respect for the position and his country. He wore a suit and tie every day. He was also one of the fortunate few with air conditioning.

Today, he would escape the intensity of the heat wave, but he knew there were greater concerns awaiting him at his desk. Fisenko oversaw the grain export program for all the countries of the Soviet Union. As he made his way to his office, he wondered how he would complete his assignment this year. There would be no exportable grain surpluses due to the drought. Worse, he was beginning to suspect many of the various politically unified countries of the Union would need to import grain to be able to feed their people and their livestock. This most certainly meant the Russian agency would be assigned the task of importing critical foodstuffs for as many as one quarter of a billion people.

The Soviet Union had operated under the mandate of a perpetuating Five-Year Plan. It contained many facets, including agricultural targets designed to harness human and land resources and export surplus production of an important and renewable resource: food. The desired shift from being dependent on grain imports to being a prolific exporter was intended to boost the national treasury. The 1971 to 1975 Plan called for increased grain production and expanded livestock feeding to improve the standard of living for all Soviet citizens. The Union’s leaders believed that providing more meat to citizens, in place of plant protein, would motivate the people. Fisenko’s role as head of agriculture also included oversight of all the collective farms in Russia. Any failure on their part would reflect directly on him. The poor weather would not be a defensible excuse. He knew he would be singled out as the person responsible for any production shortfall and the inevitable catastrophe to follow.       

Fisenko’s office, double the size of the standard worker’s space, was strategically located along the perimeter of the floor, giving him windows and a glorious view of the city. His desk and chair were standard issue, old but durable, nothing fancy. The floors were the ubiquitous yellow-gray linoleum common to all government buildings. His walls were spartan, featuring four pictures hung in an organized manner. One was a print of a painting of a proletariat grain harvest from the 1920s, and the other three were government-issue portraits of distinguished Soviet leaders Lenin, Stalin and Brezhnev. The photo of Brezhnev had mysteriously appeared one night in October 1964, replacing the previous image of Nikita Khrushchev. This was how change happened in the Soviet Union. One day Fisenko’s mentor was here, the next he was gone. He wondered if his own future held a similar destiny.

Fisenko had earned his position as vice president on the basis of twenty-seven years of dedicated service and hard work. He was assigned to the agriculture department after doing his duty as a soldier during the Second World War. Throughout his working career, he had served under four leaders of the Soviet Union, including the current one, Leonid Brezhnev, but Nikita Khrushchev was his favorite. Khrushchev had secured grain during 1963 when the Soviet crops experienced widespread failure. Fisenko was aware of the déjà vu aspect in his own situation. He had learned a great deal during those days and had great respect for Khrushchev. He missed his counsel. He missed having his picture on his wall.

Later in the morning, Fisenko was scheduled to meet with his boss, Exportkhleb’s president and Committee Chairman, Viktor Pershin. He would be updating Pershin on the status of production and provide his preliminary estimates for exports for the 1972–73 crop year, which ran from August of one year to July of the following year, in line with the harvest cycle. Soviet agriculture was now expected to provide important revenues for the national treasury and, like Fisenko’s, Pershin’s career depended on performance.

Summoning his courage and managing his emotions, Mikhail Fisenko entered Pershin’s office precisely at 10:00 a.m. to break the news to him. Pershin’s office was the same size as his, but the furniture was a decade newer. The same three leaders’ portraits adorned one of the walls. In spite of the air conditioning, Fisenko was still sweating.

“Good morning, Comrade Pershin,” he said.

There was no reason to slow play his news. It was bad, and he wanted to get it over with. “I have the information on this year’s grain crop as you requested. I collected the reports from eight farm managers stationed across Russia as well as our agents in the Ukraine, Belarus, Kazakhstan and Turkey. The story is the same everywhere. Our crops are devastated by drought. If my estimates are correct, and the production is as poor as it has been reported to me, I fear we will need to import grain this year… a lot of grain.”

“Have you seen this with your own eyes?” Pershin asked. “This is extremely concerning to me.”

“No, sir, not recently. But I trust their reports. I last toured our country operations just after crops were seeded in April. I usually conduct a second trip prior to harvest to better understand the amount of grain we are likely to produce and what the quality will be like. I have been relying on regular reports from the farm bosses. Based on those reports, I decided not to sell anything for export this year.”

“Well, that’s a good thing, I guess, but it would appear we still have a very big problem this year, Fisenko. What are you going to do about it?” Pershin snapped. “I think you need to get out to the farms and see what’s going on for yourself. We have struggled with these damn collective farming programs in the past. Our yields don’t come close to those of North American farmers. I want to know why.”

“I agree, President. Based on the situation, I have scheduled a trip for next Monday. I will fly to the Ufa airport in the Volga Plain and meet with our farm manager there. I will tour the fields myself.”

“That sounds like a good idea. I’ll come with you! Make the arrangements. I want to see and hear this for myself. If I am going to be responsible for telling our minister of agriculture the situation is dire and we may have to import grain, I want to be one hundred percent certain I am right, and I will need to tell him convincingly. This could go very badly for both of us, my friend.”