Tomorrow Is Three Suits

RUSSIA

(See Cover)

The snail has started his trip, hut when will he get to the end of it?

--Russian proverb

In May 1960, Nikita Khrushchev peered across the Great Kremlin Hall and spied the millennium. "In the immediate future," he declared to the Supreme Soviet, "we shall reach the production and consumption level of the United States, the wealthiest country of the capitalist world. Then we shall enter the open sea in which no comparisons with capitalism will anchor us."

Less than four years later, Khrushchev's age of abundance seems as remote as mythology's Isles of the Blest. For all his glowing promises to the consumer, living standards in Russia today are little higher than they were in 1958. Though some food prices have increased sharply since 1962, there has been only a token increase in wages. Housing, consumer goods, and several key sectors of heavy industry have fallen far short of even the reduced levels set for them last year.

Dismal Catalogue. Above all other obstacles on the road to abundance looms agriculture, the perennial problem child of Soviet society. Though Russia regularly exported big farm surpluses in Czarist times, in 46 years of Communism it has never yet managed to grow enough food or raw materials for its needs. In 1963, after four straight years of disappointing harvests, the farm problem came to a head with a disastrous crop failure that forced Russia's leaders to buy $935 million worth of wheat from the capitalists they vowed to bury.

Last week 6,000 experts and officials from all over Russia gathered in the Kremlin for a week-long Communist Party Central Committee meeting on farm problems. As speaker after speaker reviewed the results of Khrushchev's pet panaceas, Nikita listened somberly to a dismal catalogue of failures.

In the forbidding Virgin Lands of Central Asia, where Khrushchev set out in 1954 to create a vast new granary, erosion now threatens to turn millions of acres into a dust bowl; most of the new croplands last year failed even to return their seed grain. His hasty campaign to plow under fallow grasslands has impaired huge areas of once-fertile soil since 1958. Khrushchev's evangelical efforts in 1961 to promote mass sowing of corn did more harm than good, as he himself admitted at the meeting.

Grey Eminence. Agriculture Minister Ivan Volovchenko--the sixth official to hold that thankless post since Khrushchev became boss of the party in 1953--last week outlined the costliest, most ambitious program to boost farm output that has ever been undertaken by a Soviet government. After decades of starveling treatment at the hands of leaders hell-bent on industrialization, Soviet agriculture is finally to get the machinery, fertilizer and technology that have revolutionized U.S. and Western European farming over the past 50 years. But for city dwellers, Volov-chenko's promised bounty came too late. After a winter of scarcities, they learned only two weeks before the meeting that fodder shortages last fall had forced farmers to slaughter 29 million hogs--more than 40% of Russia's entire swine herd--as well as record numbers of cattle and sheep, thus assuring that scarce meat will be scarcer than ever for the next few years.

Together with lagging consumer-goods production, agricultural failures--which have a far greater impact on the economy in Russia than in most Western nations--have clearly collapsed the Communists' hopes of overtaking the U.S. in the foreseeable future. This is a galling personal defeat for both Khrushchev and his heir apparent, Leonid Ilyich Brezhnev, a Ukrainian who has been his protege during the long, hard-fought battle to raise Russian living standards. Since 1960, burly, bushy-browed Brezhnev, 57, has been Chairman of the Presidium of the Supreme Soviet and Russia's titular head of state.

Brezhnev was Nikita's man in Kazakhstan during the first two critical years of the Virgin Lands program, has subsequently acted as the Kremlin's grey eminence in handling major problems in industry, space and defense.

A suave, handsome, cagey administrator, Brezhnev is deeply committed to creation of the economic and social climate in which Russia's rising generation hopes finally to achieve Karl Marx's vision of "abundance in our days." As Nikita Khrushchev proclaimed last month: "If a man has one suit, God help him to have two, and then three!" If most Russians had one suit in Stalin's time, it was under Khrushchev that they got Suit No. 2. The third will come along any decade now.

Sublime Chaos. By contrast with the cock-a-hoop mood of a few years back, most Russians now seem bitterly resigned to the shortages, discomforts and joyless conformity of life as they now know it. In the cities all winter, housewives have had to wait interminably in line for potatoes, macaroni, flour, coal and coarse, gritty brown bread; in some areas, where bread ran out, they have heeded Marie Antoinette's apocryphal advice and queued for cookies and cake instead. Asked recently how he thought 1964 would turn out, one Muscovite replied dryly: "Worse than 1963, but better than 1965."

But Russia's faltering economy is more than a disappointment to the consumer. The letdown strikes at the heart of Communist theology, which borrows freely from the Utopian philosophers in envisioning the age of plenty as the final, inevitable stage of man's progress to perfection.

As a faith, Communism's appeal depends in equal measure on the down-to-earth accomplishments of its past and its rosy, teleological view of the future. From the blend of both elements, in an economy guided largely by the theories of a 19th century visionary who knew next to nothing of economics, might well have come a close approximation of Dostoevsky's view of 19th century Russia, a "sublime, universal, ordered chaos." In fact, the Soviet economy is only moderately chaotic. Its high-priority sectors can be impressively efficient, though not so efficient perhaps as the Russians, with their infinite capacity for self-deception (or salesmanship?), portray them. This, and pride in their real achievements, explains the litany that ranges from housing ("A new five-story building goes up every five minutes") to industrial production

("We have overtaken you in cement") and results in many an official claim that is outrageously exaggerated.

The Metal Eaters. What frustrates so many Soviet ambitions is a simple matter of priorities. Hard-nosed traditionalists have long insisted that Russia follow Stalin's policy of sinking all available capital into defense and heavy industry. Others, notably Khrushchev and President Brezhnev, have argued that Communism's age of affluence will not just drop from the sky, but will necessitate ever greater investment in the consumer economy. Khrushchev refers scornfully to the diehards as the "metal eaters"; they have called him "a rightist peasant deviationist."

The case for the consumer is even stronger today. While military needs helped undergird development of heavy industry in Stalin's era, advanced defense and space technology nowadays siphons off ill-spared capital and technical brains, with little or no return to the economy as a whole. In a discussion of his farm shortages with surplus-burdened U.S. Agriculture Secretary Orville L. Freeman last August, Khrushchev drew his hand across his throat and remarked: "I've got rockets up to here." What the West does not always suspect is that when the Soviet line veers abruptly from cordial coexistence to shoe-pounding enmity, or back, the change may not necessarily reflect Communist diplomatic wiles so much as a new turn in the factional war among the Kremlin bureaucrats.

Matter of Decades. Since late 1958, the metal eaters have succeeded in boosting Soviet defense spending by one-third, to nearly 20% of Russia's G.N.P., v. 9% in the U.S. As always, consumer production was the first to feel the pinch. Though East-West tensions have eased markedly in the past year, the Soviet government has made only token cuts in the military budget. The arms burden is the heaviest of many demands on Soviet resources that have seriously overtaxed the economy at a time when the government's income was shrinking. The annual rate of increase in investment in the economy has dropped 50% since 1959, while Russia's economic rate of growth has dwindled from better than 6% in the '50s to a level recently estimated by the Central Intelligence Agency at less than 2.5% in 1962 and 1963.

While some economists argue that the Red decline is not that serious, other independent studies of Communist statistics confirm the CIA estimates. No one seriously believes that Russia faces economic collapse. But if Soviet society is to provide its 226 million people with living standards comparable to those of the West, that day is still decades away.

Be Patient. While creature comfort currently has a low political priority, the Russian's lot has already improved enormously in the decade since Stalin's death. In 1953, Russians earned less in real wages than they had before the first Five-Year Plan in 1928; since then, the population has increased nearly 50%, but per-capita farm production has remained static. By the time Russia's belated economic recovery reached its peak, in 1958-59, the country had not only rebuilt its war-ravaged industry but under Khrushchev's prodding had also increased per-capita consumption 50% and boosted farm output 55%. It was a glum Nikita Khrushchev who had to caution Russians last year: "You must be patient, wait a while and you will have everything. We can't make everything at once."

Russia is no longer the "riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma" that Winston Churchill described 25 years ago. Despite myriad restrictions, nowadays tourists and journalists can travel fairly widely, and Sovietologists, economists and scholars from many other fields study intensively the immense amount of information available in Russian publications. Nikita Khrushchev, of course, is one of the liveliest and most abundant sources of all.

Nevertheless, the notion persists in the West that the Russians are an austere people who spurn material possessions. Nothing could be farther from the truth. The average Soviet citizen today has an almost obsessive hankering for stylish clothes, appliances and simple conveniences that Westerners take almost for granted. "The Russians don't want to be Spartans, and they aren't," wrote TIME Senior Editor Henry Grunwald after a recent swing through the Soviet Union. "They are Athenians who haven't made it."

For Ivan Ivanovich, Russia's man in the street, the crudest blow of all in the past two years has been the government's sharp curtailment of a construction drive aimed at ending the nation's abysmal housing shortage by 1970. Some experts doubt that this would have been possible even in 25 years. Today, however, outside of a few showcase cities with their bleak barracks rows of new apartment buildings, urban residential construction has clearly lost its momentum. As a result of population increases and the continuing drift of workers from farm to factory jobs, the city dweller actually has less living space today than he had in 1923. By official reckoning, he occupies an average 68 sq. ft.--just two-thirds of the area considered minimal for human requirements by the U.S. Bureau of Prisons.

Twenty Minutes from Town. In most apartment buildings, kitchens and bathrooms have to be shared by all the families on each floor. The perennial proximity of relatives and neighbors has made claustrophobia a national disease. On a typical parents' evening recently at a Moscow school, teachers' complaints about the children could nearly all be traced to their housing problems. Cramped quarters are widely blamed for broken families--but divorce offers little solace to many couples, who have no choice but to go on sharing the same room.

Officially, any citizen with less than 14 sq. ft. of living space can demand different quarters; in practice, he uses pull or just puts his name on a waiting list, where it may remain for ten years or more. Most Muscovites pin their hopes on a grey, 17-c- weekly magazine called Bulletin for the Exchange of Living Space. The most avidly read sheet in Moscow, it is probably the only Soviet publication that carries not a word of Communist propaganda. On the contrary, the hundreds of appeals for new quarters ("single room anywhere," "two separate rooms, may be w/o bath") in its tightly packed columns suggest a degree of desperation that speaks volumes about Marxism in action.

The housing problem is still of little moment to the great majority of all Russians who live outside the cities, mostly in crowded one-room isbas, unplumbed wooden dwellings that have barely changed since the peasants were serfs. "The early 19th century," says one old Moscow hand, "is only 20 minutes from Moscow." Along millions of unpaved village streets, women still haul water from communal wells, shoo geese and chickens, scoop up cow dung for their gardens. The "hungry jackdaws," as Tolstoy once called the peasants, venture fearfully into the cities to sell their produce or shop for their needs; huddled protectively in the railway stations between trains, they exude the musty smell of damp wool, onions, bitter tobacco and accumulated sweat that has blanketed Russia far longer and more pervasively than Marxism.

No Browsing. If the peasants' pristine ways have changed little since the Revolution, Russia's cities have been largely created by Communism. With industrialization, the urban population, now 116 million strong, has quadrupled in 30 years. But even second-generation city dwellers seem restless, disconnected from their environment and one another. Amid jostling, unsmiling crowds on the streets, in bookstores where the buyer cannot browse, in restaurants where the customer is as insignificant as a hat rack, life in the capital has a disordered, rough-edged, strangely impersonal quality.

The command economy of Communism has no ears or eyes. The individual can plead, complain, threaten or walk out. But no one really cares.

Russia seems wholly oblivious to esthetics. There is hardly an object in Russia, from the worn, chipped steps of Moscow's newest department store to the tasseled Victorian lampshades in an Aeroflot jet, that looks as if it had never really been new. Walls and floors often bulge as if there were gophers in the woodwork; many new buildings are girdled with safety nets to protect passers-by from cascading bricks and plaster. From its pockmarked paneling, cracking plaster and flaking paint, Moscow's eight-year-old Ukraine Hotel looks almost as if it had been built for Mosfilm's movie of War and Peace. While party officials sing the praises of Orgalit, a kind of Red Masonite widely used for doors, Muscovites snicker: "Builders stick to it--but door handles won't."

"What Underwear!" Communists even show a certain pride in genteel Chekhovian shabbiness. Restaurant tablecloths are almost always slightly soiled, but clean oilcloth is distinctly nekulturny. Hotel maids may forget to remove dead cockroaches, but they never fail to dust the chandelier and the grand piano. Only at the ballet does the Russian's old love of flashing hues and sumptuous textures seem to come into its own. Even women's underwear at lingerie counters is coarse and drab, prompting a visiting French Communist's classic comment: "What under wear! Yet what a birth rate!"*

Because manufacturers and retailers do not have to compete for the consumer's ruble, there is little incentive to produce attractive, well-made goods or to improve design. If a factory retools for a new product, the lost production time may well cost its manager his bonus for overfulfilling the sacrosanct quota. As it is, at the end of every month he is limp from shturmovshchina, the frenetic, last-minute battle to beat the quota.

The non-enterprise system has bred an underground elite: the hard-to-find specialists who can make brand-new shoes wearable, alter off-the-peg suits and dresses so that they have a semblance of style, or give a broken appliance the "provisional" treatment, as the Russians call their intuitive knack for makeshift repairs.

Room at the Top. Soviet life is further complicated by inexplicable shortages of simple commodities, from razor blades to pencils and light bulbs; and each shortage seems to create yet another vacuum. Though Russia produces 85 million rubber baby nipples each year, what should suddenly disappear from retail shelves but nipples? It turned out that 1) women were stretching them to seal preserves because there were no jamjar tops, 2) office workers used them as glue spreaders, and 3) "private manufacturers" pumped them full of air and sold them for large profits as balloons.

Russia is already beginning to feel unmistakable stirrings of consumer resistance. Shoppers are increasingly leary of high-priced, low-quality goods; evidence of this is the fact that each year since 1959, more than $1 billion in disposable income has flowed into savings banks. In 1963, the accumulation of unwanted goods on retail shelves amounted to some $3 billion above normal inventory levels. The Communist press carries reams of complaints about shoddy products and inefficient service, faithfully reports punishments meted out to the venal or incompetent. When an architect confessed that he had failed to provide elevators for a 13-story apartment building, he was assigned a room on the top floor.

Over-Response. Planners and managers are under stern orders to meet consumers' needs, but only the discipline of a competitive economy could ever make them do anything about it. As Nikita Khrushchev himself said in Kalinin last month, "We would like to lower prices, but we cannot. We would have to build shops of reinforced concrete; otherwise the customers would demolish the walls with their elbows."

Soviet economists over the past year have been engaged in a heated debate over the need to organize the entire labyrinthine price and profit system on a rational, scientific basis. The basic problem, of course, is one of incentives, the issue that has hobbled Soviet agriculture for decades. With 50% more cropland than the U.S. and a labor force that is almost seven times as large, Russia produces only two-thirds as much food as the U.S.

To squeeze more meat and dairy products from the land, Khrushchev has labored long and hard--too hard. For his crusading zeal saddled Soviet agriculture with an additional problem, one that Russian-born Economist Alec Nove calls "over-response." In their rush to plant corn, farm officials plowed under valuable pasture in many areas unsuited to grain crops.

In all his pet projects, Khrushchev, who has probably lavished more time on farm problems in the past decade than any other statesman in the world (a recently published seven-volume collection of Nikita's agricultural sermons represents only a sampling of his Georgics), attempted to wring out more food for the lowest possible cost. The Virgin Lands campaign was a shotgun attempt to grow wheat on the cheap, by tapping the stored-up fertility under 19 million acres of marginal land, rather than resort to the costly safe alternative of intensifying yields in existing croplands by increased use of fertilizer.

The prospects are little better for 1964. A cruel sheet of ice, reaching from the Ukraine to the shores of the Caspian, threatens serious damage to the winter wheat crop that normally provides nearly half of Russia's needs.

O.K. With Lenin. Undaunted, party officials at last week's farm conference were already gloating over the bumper harvests that would roll in as soon as the tide of fertilizer washed over the land. If this was over-response, it came none too soon: Khrushchev had been crying in vain for fertilizer since 1958. Now, armed with a seven-year, $47 billion "chemicalization" program that will pour out more than 80 million tons a year of mineral fertilizer as well as other synthetics, Khrushchev said that, with help, Russia by 1971 would have a chemical industry comparable to any that Western countries have taken decades to build. Said he: "It would be stupid to ignore the achievements of foreign science only because they were made in a capitalist country. Vladimir Ilyich Lenin did not consider it a shame to learn from the capitalists."

Skeptical peasants first have to be taught to use fertilizer. In the past, the Soviet variety has been so poor in nutrient that many countrymen agree with the farmer who confided to a friend last week: "Chemistry is all right, but what really counts is dung." Then it has to get to the fields, mostly in areas served by crude dirt roads that turn to quagmires in winter. More than 25% of Khrushchev's precious fertilizer is usually wasted in transit. Shipped in boxcars, the coarse Russian mixture sometimes cakes so hard that it has to be broken loose with picks. Piled outside the station, it often lies forgotten through the winter, serving small boys as a toboggan slope. When a traveler once congratulated a rural stationmaster on the bumper wheat crop pressing in on the tracks, the embarrassed official explained: "First, there was this shipment of fertilizer that never got picked up. Then there was that shipment of seed grain that didn't get delivered. They just got together."

Everybody Planning. All the fertilizer in the world will not solve the fundamental dilemma of Soviet agriculture: the nature of the peasant. No incentives yet devised have ever persuaded him to devote to impersonal toil a scintilla of the love and labor he lavishes on the minute patch of land he can still call his own. From privately owned plots, amounting to a bare 3% of all cultivated land in Russia, comes half of all the nation's meat, milk, green vegetables. But the bureaucracy adamantly refuses to expand the private plots.

Every enterprise in Russia is watched and judged by the party. Its presence radiates from Moscow to the remotest district in the land, no longer holding its subjects with terror but with the stern and pious stare of orthodoxy.

In today's Russia, with its 200,000 industrial plants producing more than 200 million commodities, a Soviet economist estimates that the planners' task has become 1,600 times more difficult than it was in 1928. Unless it is dramatically reformed, warns another Soviet expert, by 1980 the bureaucracy will increase thirty-six fold--and employ every adult Russian.

The Paper Ocean. As it is, Moscow's congeries of commissars is incapable even of absorbing the facts needed to analyze the economy's current performance, let alone planning intelligently for the future. From a study of the

Urals Machine-Building Factory, Herbert Levine, a visiting economics professor at Harvard, found that this one plant's list of its requirements in labor, materials and equipment for the annual plan fills 17,000 close-packed pages.

Bureaucrats are hopeful that computers will ultimately enable the planning organization to breast "the paper ocean," as they call it. However, the many-layered system of prices and priorities is not based on costs and profits, but on a host of imprecise criteria such as the "social usefulness" of a commodity. Not even the wiliest commissar--let alone a properly reared computer--can always untangle the subtle skeins that veil the simplest economic decision in Russia. "Stalin," observed Brandeis University's Economist Peter Wiles, "has often been described as Genghis Khan with the telegraph; as creator of the planning system, he figures here as Kafka with an abacus."

The Solid Gold Nail Factory. In 1964, logs from the Urals go to Siberia to be milled; Siberian logs go to mills in the Urals. More than $3 billion worth of manufacturing equipment ready for use lies around waiting to be installed. Completion of Siberia's vast (3,600,000 kw.) Bratsk hydroelectric complex, five years abuilding, had to be postponed last month in order to release urgently needed funds and engineers for other housing projects. Production quotas are nearly always set simply by gross weight, value or units, so that if a nail factory's output is measured by millions of nails, it tends to concentrate on the smallest sizes; if it is computed by weight, it will turn out nothing but big nails; if the quota were in terms of rubles, Russia would have its first Solid Gold Nail Factory.

So desperate are some Russian officials for solutions to their system's chronic inefficiency that they have begun dickering with a British management consultant firm for capitalist-style advice. The system at times actually penalizes initiative. At Moscow Cable Factory (slogan: "Know the Value of Nonferrous Metals"), economy-minded employees last year managed to cut the plant's copper consumption by 260 tons. But their triumph was short-lived. The factory, which sends its waste metal to be made into other products, learned to its dismay that the 1963 production plan called for it to supply 590 tons more waste metal than it could possibly deliver without deliberately manufacturing scrap. As it turned out, the factory's reward for a sizable savings in copper was to be fined $102,000 for nonfulfillment of its waste quota.

Birds & Watches. The frustrations and illusions that pervade the Soviet economy are more familiar to President Brezhnev than almost any other Kremlin leader, for he rose through the bureaucracy and typifies the new technocratic breed that runs the country. A self-styled "fifth-generation steel-worker," he is tough as a T beam and as elusive as a Black Sea eel. As Khrushchev's No. 2 man, he needs to be, for as a Western diplomat points out: "The logical heir must always be the most insecure man in Moscow." In fact, Brezhnev seems tense only when he is away from Moscow on frequent "good will" trips (14 since 1956), hovers fretfully by his private phone to Moscow.

Otherwise, he is usually composed to the point of colorlessness. He collects antique watches and rare songbirds, suffers from high blood pressure, possibly a heart ailment. On doctor's orders, the President seldom drinks or smokes. But unbending at a formal banquet during his state visit to Iran last

November, Brezhnev toasted everything under the sun, then lifted his vodka glass to cry "Down with protocol! Long live freedom!" In 1962, during a state visit to Yugoslavia, where his chic daughter Galina stole the show, Brezhnev embarrassed the government by making a violent attack on the U.S. at a time when Washington was pondering renewal of its aid program to Tito.

To U.S. officials who have conferred with him, though, Brezhnev seems articulate, well informed, open-minded. In conversation with Atomic Energy Commission Chairman Glenn Seaborg last May, Brezhnev agreed that most Soviet buildings are hideous, volunteered that the regime plans to send young architects abroad to study.

Twice Lucky. As he moved up in the Ukraine party hierarchy before World War II, Brezhnev attracted Khrushchev's attention. Like his mentor, he joined the close-knit wartime coterie of political officers on the crumbling southern front. Rising swiftly after the war, Brezhnev was elected in 1952 to the party's Central Committee and Secretariat, became a candidate member of its executive arm, the Presidium. In 1954, he got his big job in Kazakhstan. Blessed by adequate rainfall and an eager labor force, he brought in the first two successful Virgin Lands harvests, returned to Moscow in triumph to resume his old Central Committee and Presidium jobs.

In May 1960, Brezhnev was kicked upstairs from the Secretariat to the largely ceremonial chairmanship of the Presidium of the party, which he adroitly used to keep his picture in Pravda. But at the June 1963 party plenum, Brezhnev was restored to the Secretariat, and thus became the only other full member of the Presidium (after Khrushchev) to hold state and party posts.

Brezhnev, or any other Soviet leader who may come to power in the next few years, will be dealing with a situation no Soviet leader has ever faced.

Russia's East European satellites, also adjusting to an economic slowdown, are increasingly asserting their own national identities and seeking warmer relations with the West. Soviet Russia, after all the years of proud self-sufficiency, now faces the humiliation of having to buy its food from the capitalist rival. Moscow's hopeful plan is to spend up to $10 billion for Western chemical plants in the next few years.

Hint of Reason. In any case, the Kremlin for years to come will be faced with mounting economic pressures that will at least discourage metal-eating military budgets. A minor $666 million cutback in Soviet defense spending announced last month was, Khrushchev insisted, the result not of economic difficulties but of "considerations of common sense guided by a sincere desire for peace." Moreover, during Russia's Western-aided chemicalization, itself a far more rational exercise than pouring rubles into an ever-increasing steel capacity that Moscow needs mostly for prestige, the note of reasonableness may just possibly persist.

It has to, if Russia is to complete its long leap into modernity. Though almost certainly faced with lower growth rates than it was able to maintain during the flank-speed recovery period of the '50s, its rulers can still keep the Soviet economy humming if they will vigorously seek a more comfortable and colorful life for its people. If, as seems likely, a consumer economy is to be its destination rather than--or even en route to--a Marxist Elysium, Russia will first have to overhaul and expand its archaic marketing and distribution systems. Almost certainly it will be forced to jettison much of its ramshackle planning structure.

Kafka to Pasternak. A dynamic, contemporary society above all demands a degree of decentralization. Indeed, Russia no longer has the idle hands and lands to afford the manic wastage, inspired inefficiency and brontosauric unresponsiveness of an economy nannied from Moscow. Its real gains in the future will have to come through increased individual efficiency, even if efficiency in turn demands a degree of freedom that Russians have not yet attained.

Clearly, though, Russia is no longer the passive pastoral society that quivered before Stalin. The Kremlin will increasingly feel the pressures of an urban culture that is no longer resigned to an indefinitely receding Utopia. Communism's Kafka-and-abacus stage is already being overtaken by its Pasternak-and-hi-fi era. Affluent Communists might not be any easier to live with. But they would certainly have more to live for.

* 22.5 per 1,000, v. France's 17.7 per 1,000.

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