First Visit

If there was any event that defined February 1992, it was the Soviet Union's sudden and high-profile announcement: a grand military parade on Red Square to commemorate the victory of the Anti-Japanese War in May. Invitations were sent out across the former Eastern Bloc, though only a few countries responded—most were still adjusting to their new realities or reluctant to associate too closely with Moscow's rising iron resolve.

The second major development was more subtle but equally significant: the Soviet Union launched a pilot economic and trade zone program, signaling a shift in its traditionally rigid economic doctrine. More striking still, Minister of Economy Nikolai Ryzhkov was dispatched to China—Moscow's long-watched southern neighbor—with a briefcase full of cooperation documents. This sign of outreach sent ripples across the international community.

For decades, the Soviet economy had been dominated by state planning and central supply, particularly in essential sectors like agriculture and light industry. That it would now openly pursue bilateral trade cooperation—even reformist cooperation—marked a deep departure from past practice.

Ryzhkov's mission was clear: repair Soviet weaknesses in agriculture and light industry, and do so quickly. As the Minister of Economy, he carried with him detailed reports outlining these shortcomings—painful admissions about the inefficiencies plaguing everything from food distribution to consumer goods.

Still, Ryzhkov was quietly annoyed. "Why did Comrade Yanayev hand me the official invitation letter for the military parade and then ask me to deliver it personally?" he grumbled, sliding the wax-sealed envelope back into his briefcase. "Couldn't we have just dropped it at their embassy?"

He shook his head and leaned back in his seat, gazing out the small aircraft window as the Aeroflot government plane descended toward Beijing Capital International Airport.

Despite his annoyance, the diplomatic red carpet had been rolled out. The moment Ryzhkov touched down, security protocol treated him like a visiting head of state. But it was more than symbolism: Ryzhkov held the keys to the entire Soviet industrial system, and China's interest in this trove of machinery, designs, and expertise could not be overstated.

For Beijing, access to Soviet heavy industry—especially military-grade manufacturing—was a long-sought dream. In return, the Soviets sought precisely what China now had: a more agile, market-tested agriculture and light industry ecosystem.

When China's Finance Minister Wang Bingqian met Ryzhkov at the terminal, his smile was practically involuntary. He greeted the Soviet minister as if he were an eager investor with cash to burn. And Ryzhkov, despite his usual reticence, returned the warmth—after all, it was China's cooperation he needed most.

The image of the once-mighty Soviet Union now humbly seeking help struck observers with quiet awe. Times had certainly changed.

"You mean to say," Minister Wang asked carefully, reviewing one of Ryzhkov's proposals, "that in addition to importing food, the Soviet Union wants China to provide high-yield, cold-resistant crop varieties? And perhaps even allow Chinese farmers to lease land and jointly develop food production in your Far East?"

Ryzhkov nodded. "Yes. You see, the USSR has always had vast lands but sparse population. We possess advanced water infrastructure, mechanized harvesting, and some of the most fertile black soil in the world. Yet due to structural inefficiencies, our food production lags far behind its potential."

He explained that the plan wasn't just about food security—it was a strategic trial in introducing foreign capital and mobile labor. By leasing out land for joint cultivation and crop sales, the USSR could simultaneously reduce shortages and inject economic dynamism into its stagnant regions.

"This model is... quite new," Minister Wang mused aloud, stroking his chin. He was already calculating the implications: relieving China's rural employment pressure, exporting labor, gaining land access, and earning valuable foreign currency.

"A win-win," he added softly.

But Ryzhkov wasn't finished. "There's another issue: foreign investment. We hope your rising capital sector might consider investing in Soviet light industry. We're prepared to offer preferential policies."

He pulled out a document featuring case studies, one of which spotlighted Alyonka chocolate—a beloved domestic brand with world-class quality but poor global recognition.

"For too long," Ryzhkov admitted, "we Soviets assumed that quality alone was enough. That if we built a perfect product, the world would find it. But we neglected the power of capital, marketing, and brand development. Alyonka could become a global name—with your help."

To the Chinese delegation, the Soviet Union now resembled a virgin frontier: rich in tradition, flush with engineering expertise, yet untouched by modern marketing and consumer capital. Minister Wang read through Ryzhkov's proposals with growing enthusiasm. Every page seemed to offer a path to gain: from subsidized joint ventures to rapid licensing deals.

"If all previous points are acceptable, we would like to enter further consultations on issues like visas, tariffs, and preferential customs," Ryzhkov said carefully, testing the waters.

Wang leaned back and smiled. "No, no, Comrade Ryzhkov. I personally agree with every point. And I'm quite certain the central leadership will, too."

Of course, "personally" was a formality—Wang's approval meant state approval. No government would pass up a deal that offered cheap access to Soviet technology and exclusive investment channels in return for agricultural support.

After a pause, Minister Wang brought up his own interests.

"There are still some matters of heavy industry. We're especially interested in Soviet ten-thousand-ton hydraulic presses and certain metallurgical processes. These are areas where we still lag behind."

Ryzhkov nodded, scribbling notes. "As for prices, everything is negotiable," Wang added. "We'll ensure you're satisfied."

And with that, the meeting between two once-estranged giants began to take shape—not with fanfare or ideological declarations, but in spreadsheets, contracts, and practical cooperation. Each saw in the other what they lacked—and both were now determined to bridge that gap.

"A 10,000-ton hydraulic press?" Ryzhkov looked momentarily uncomfortable. "I'll need to consult with Moscow before I can give an answer on that."

His voice was firm, but there was a trace of apology in his tone. He continued, "Such equipment—large-scale forging presses—are strategic assets. They're one of the fundamental metrics of a nation's industrial strength. Even in difficult times, we can't make decisions on matters like this unilaterally."

Minister Wang didn't push. He knew he'd already received more than expected. Trade in agricultural products, leasing of land, even joint light industry projects—these far exceeded the baseline he'd set for this meeting. If heavy industrial tech had to wait, then so be it.

"No problem," Wang said with a smile. "Some matters are best left to develop naturally. We're already making great strides."

"Oh, there's one more thing," Ryzhkov said, suddenly more formal. He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and retrieved an envelope embossed with the Soviet state seal. Holding it with both hands, he offered it to Minister Wang with quiet ceremony.

"This," he said, "is an official invitation to the Victory Day military parade in Moscow this May. The General Secretary would be honored to see representatives of your country on Red Square, under the walls of the Kremlin."

Minister Wang blinked, caught off guard. This wasn't standard diplomatic protocol—the invitation had bypassed the usual channels, not sent through the Foreign Ministry, but delivered by hand, directly to him. It was as if the Soviet Union still insisted on doing things its own way.

Still, he accepted the envelope solemnly and handed it to an aide with quiet instructions to ensure it was handled with care.

"We appreciate the invitation," Wang said after a moment. "We will await specific guidance from our top leadership before confirming attendance."

Ryzhkov gave a small nod. "Of course. Moscow will await your decision—whatever it may be."

He hesitated, then looked up at Wang with a faraway expression.

"Do you remember," he said quietly, "when we were young? We fought each other then—naïve and proud. Later, when things became difficult, we still stood with one another in principle. And now…"

He gave a dry chuckle.

"Time changes everything. On the surface, we're friendly. But underneath—well, everyone calculates. We're no longer brothers. But perhaps it's too tragic to call ourselves strangers, either."

He smiled, a bittersweet expression touched with fatigue. "Let's just say—we're old friends."

Wang said nothing at first. The moment was too personal for a formal reply, and too layered to respond easily. He understood that Ryzhkov wasn't just reminiscing—he was expressing something deeper: the melancholy of shared ideals frayed by history.

And the way he said it—so earnestly, so unlike the guarded speeches of most Soviet officials—reached somewhere Wang hadn't expected. For a fleeting second, it reminded him of something buried beneath the routines of protocol and policy: a sense of loss.

Ryzhkov didn't seem to notice the cameras flashing nearby, nor the journalists watching from the edge of the conference room. His smile lingered as he spoke again, quieter now, voice trembling with something between nostalgia and hope.

"It's a meaningful day for us. Whether your country comes or not, we'll respect the decision. But I still hope that one day, we might stand together again—and sing the Internationale, like I once taught you."

Minister Wang looked down at the envelope in his hand and did not speak. But for a brief, flickering moment, he allowed the corners of his mouth to curve upward—just slightly.

That was enough.