Then–as he has with uncanny frequency throughout a remarkable political career–Boris Yeltsin did something completely un- expected: he decided to tell the truth. In an exclusive interview with the Russian newsweekly Itogi (page 56) and then in a nationally televised session with a state-owned network, Yeltsin confirmed that he does need surgery to repair a damaged heart. “Surgery is necessary, and I will not put it off,” he said, acknowledging that it could happen before the end of the month. Ever the pol, in so doing he managed to strike a blow for Russian pride. There would be no trips abroad; the surgery would be done in Moscow, by Russian surgeons (page 61).
Neither Yeltsin nor his aides specified exactly what sort of operation he will undergo later this month. But according to Itogi (which is published in cooperation with NEWSWEEK), the president needs what surgeons in the West consider fairly routine heart-bypass surgery. Citing interviews with several doctors familiar with Yeltsin’s condition, Itogi reports in its Sept. 10 issue that in mid-August, physicians at a Moscow cardiology clinic concluded he had “relatively strong sclerotic narrowing of the openings in the three main coronary arteries … radically disrupting the flow of blood to and from the heart.” Previously published reports that Yeltsin needed only a simpler operation called an angioplasty are not correct, the doctors quoted in Itogi say, because his arterial sclerosis was left untreated for too long. Yeltsin, according to Itogi, initially refused when his doctors told him that surgery was the best option if he hoped to continue in his job. But at a subsequent meeting at his country house north of Moscow with his prime minister, Viktor Chernomyrdin, Yeltsin was persuaded. In 1992 Chernomyrdin himself had successful bypass surgery in the Moscow clinic. There was nothing to worry about, he told the president.
Yeltsin’s admission merely confirmed what had long been suspected: that he was sicker than his Kremlin handlers were letting on and required a relatively serious operation. But that hardly diminished its political impact. Politics has always been a blood sport in Moscow, and democracy has not changed that. A succession struggle that had already begun behind the scenes in the Kremlin will now intensify. “The acute awareness of the president’s generally poor condition meant that the post-Yeltsin era in Russian politics had already started quite some time ago,” said Leonid Radzikhovsky, a former member of the Russian Parliament. “Now everyone knows it has.”
Three of Yeltsin’s most powerful deputies are widely believed to be after his job–whenever it might become available. They are: newly appointed national-security chief Aleksandr Lebed, the former general who recently negotiated the controversial peace settlement with separatist rebels in Chechnya (ending, for the moment, a disastrous 20-month war); Chernomyrdin, the prime minister and, constitutionally, Yeltsin’s designated successor for three months should the president die or become incapacitated, and Anatoly Chubais, the free-market economist Yeltsin appointed chief of staff after his July election victory. Sitting outside the Kremlin–but no less ambitious–is the formidable mayor of Moscow, Yuri Luzhkov, who, many believe, could well trump the three insiders when the time does come to elect Yeltsin’s successor.
Under any scenario in which Yeltsin’s health deteriorates rapidly after his oper- ation, the peace deal Lebed struck in Chechnya becomes the central political fact affecting a succession struggle. After a long delay, Yeltsin finally endorsed it last week–but clung to the right to keep Russian troops there. Chernomyrdin criticized it cryptically, saying “it was a political agreement that lacked juridical force.” Mayor Luzhkov denounced the deal as “total capitulation.” And with Chechen rebels in control of the capital city of Grozny and Russian forces in retreat, it was not necessarily an unreasonable assessment. Lebed, for his part, did himself no favors in Russia by posing after the peace talks ended in full Chechen regalia, cigarette jammed between his teeth and a big smile on his face. Even liberals who support the deal were appalled. It was, said one, as if Henry Kissinger after the Vietnam peace talks had put on the Viet Cong’s black pajamas and paraded before the press. Lebed is neither seasoned nor subtle and has already made formidable enemies in the Kremlin. If the deal in Chechnya falls apart and war resumes, his political fall could be as fast as his rise was.
The president’s men last week insisted that any speculation about the succession was out of place and “in poor taste,” as one of them put it. Those around Yeltsin blithely call the bypass surgery he needs routine, implying that after some period of convalescence he will be almost as good as new. And in fact, as the Kremlin pointed out last week, thousands of bypasses are performed on men roughly of Yeltsin’s age (65) every year; even in Russia, more than 90 percent are successful, and many patients are able to resume their work quite capably.
But the demographic, professional and medical facts in the case of Boris Nikolayevich Yeltsin hardly make that a sure thing. He has already outlived the average Russian male by eight years. Nor has the president been kind to his body over the years. His love of alcohol is legendary–and apparently as passionate as ever. Last week his former press secretary, Pavel Voshchanov, told NEWSWEEK that the president also suffers from serious liver and kidney ailments–“directly related to his alcohol abuse.” (The Kremlin has long denied those assertions.) Finally, he is the president of Russia. “The job is a whirlwind,” his former aide Voshchanov said, “and the president is very, very tired.”
Tired–but still apparently aware of his unique place in Russia’s history, and still not without his political instincts. In the flurry of speculation about his illness, his operation and who might succeed him should it go badly, it was easy to miss the significance of what Boris Yeltsin did last week. Just days before his Thursday admission, elites in Moscow were deeply cynical–even depressed–by the Kremlin’s unwillingness to deal with the issue honestly. And the Russian people, insisted Izvestia’s chief political correspondent, Valery Vyzhutovich, “just didn’t care.” It all spoke, he said despairingly, “to the lack of any kind of civic society in Russia.”
Twenty-four hours later, for the first time in Russia’s history, its primary leader finally leveled with his people about the parlous state of his health–and did so for the right reasons, and in the right tones. “The president’s duty,” Yeltsin said, “is to make sure that every voter is secure in the knowledge that the management of the country is in reliable and strong hands. That is why [it’s necessary] to speak openly with the Russians. I have noth- ing to hide.”
The pressure on Yeltsin to come clean was enormous. Both the Russian and the foreign press were constantly banging on the Kremlin for real information. An aggressive Russian newsweekly was about to unload a detailed article about exactly what ailed the president. Meanwhile, his stalwart friend Helmut Kohl, the chancellor of Germany, was due to arrive–and the Germans had made it clear that he would appreciate the truth about the president’s health. Those are the kinds of forces that leaders of “normal” countries must respond to. That Boris Yeltsin finally did, too, at a moment of extreme international uncertainty about his country and its future, is no trivial thing. In sickness and in health, it’s called progress.
