Conversations with Stalin (15 page)

We had already accepted it as a fact of life that such relations and attitudes as existed toward the Rumanians were “possible even in socialism” because “Russians are like that”—backward, long isolated from the rest of the world, and dead to their revolutionary traditions.

We bored ourselves in Iaşi a few hours, until the Soviet train with the Soviet Government's car arrived for us, accompanied, to be sure, by the inevitable Captain Kozovsky, for whom the Yugoslavs continued to be his specialty in the Soviet State Security. This time he was less unreserved and sunny than before, probably only because he was now faced by ministers and generals. An intangible, undefinable, cold officialism intruded itself in the relations between ourselves and our Soviet “comrades.”

Our sarcastic comments did not spare even the railroad car in which we traveled, and which deserved no better despite its comfortable accommodations, the excellent food, and the good service. We regarded as comical the huge brass handles, the old-fashioned fussiness of the décor, and a toilet so lofty that one's legs dangled in mid-air. Was all this necessary? Does a great state and a sovereign power have to show off? And what was most grotesque of all in that car, with its pomp of tsarist days, was the fact that the conductor kept, in a cage in his compartment, a chicken which laid eggs. Poorly paid and miserably clothed, he apologized: “What is one to do, Comrades? A workingman must make out as best he can. I have a big family—and life is hard.”

Though the Yugoslav railroad system could hardly boast of accuracy either, here no one got excited over a tardiness of several hours. “We'll get there,” one of the conductors would simply reply. Russia seemed to confirm the unchangeability of its human and national soul; all its essential qualities militated against the pace of industrialization and the omnipotence of management.

The Ukraine and Russia, buried in snow up to the eaves, still bore the marks of the devastation and horrors of war—burned-down stations, barracks, and the sight of women, on the subsistence of hot water (
kipiatok
) and a piece of rye bread, wrapped in shawls, clearing tracks.

This time, too, only Kiev left an impression of discreet beauty and cleanliness, culture and a feeling for style and taste, despite its poverty and isolation. Because it was night, there was no view of the Dnieper and the plains merging with the sky. Still it all reminded one of Belgrade—the future Belgrade, with a million people and built with diligence and harmony. We stopped in Kiev only briefly, to be switched to the train for Moscow. Not one Ukrainian official met us. Soon we were on our way into a night white with snow and dark with sorrow. Only our car sparkled with the brilliance of comfort and abundance in this limitless desolation and poverty.

Just a few hours after our arrival in Moscow we were deep in a cordial conversation with the Yugoslav Ambassador, Vladimir Popović, when the telephone on his desk rang. The Soviet Ministry of Foreign Affairs was asking if I was tired, for Stalin wished to see me immediately, that same evening. Such haste is unusual in Moscow, where foreign Communists have always waited long, so that a saying circulated among them: It is easy to get to Moscow but hard to get out again. To be sure, even if I had been tired, I would have accepted Stalin's invitation most willingly. Everyone in the delegation regarded me with enthusiasm, though also not without envy, and Koča Popovič and Todorović kept reminding me not to forget why they, too, had come along, even though I had taken advantage of our traveling together to acquaint myself in detail with their requests.

My joy over the impending meeting with Stalin was sober and not quite pure precisely because of the haste with which it had come. This misgiving never left me the whole night that I spent with him and other Soviet leaders.

As usual, at about nine o'clock in the evening they took me to the Kremlin, to Stalin's office. Gathered there were Stalin, Molotov, and Zhdanov. The last, as was known to me, had charge in the Politburo of maintaining relations with foreign parties.

After the customary greetings, Stalin immediately got down to business: “So, members of the Central Committee in Albania are killing themselves over you! This is very inconvenient, very inconvenient.”

I began to explain: Naku Spiru was against linking Albania with Yugoslavia; he isolated himself in his own Central Committee. I had not even finished when, to my surprise, Stalin said: “We have no special interest in Albania. We agree to Yugoslavia swallowing Albania! . . .” At this he gathered together the fingers of his right hand and, bringing them to his mouth, he made a motion as if to swallow them.

I was astonished, almost struck dumb by Stalin's manner of expressing himself and by the gesture of swallowing, but I do not know whether this was visible on my face, for I tried to make a joke of it and to regard this as Stalin's customary drastic and picturesque manner of expression. Again I explained: “It is not a matter of swallowing, but unification!”

At this Molotov interjected: “But that is swallowing!”

And Stalin added, again with that gesture of his: “Yes, yes. Swallowing! But we agree with you: you ought to swallow Albania—the sooner the better.”

Despite this manner of expression, the whole atmosphere was cordial and more than friendly. Even Molotov expressed that bit about swallowing with an almost humorous amiability which was hardly usual with him.

I approached a
rapprochement
and unification with Albania with sincere and, of course, revolutionary motives. I considered, as did many others, that unification—with the truly voluntary agreement of the Albanian leaders—would not only be of direct value to both Yugoslavia and Albania, but would also finally put an end to the traditional intolerance and conflict between Serbs and Albanians. Its particular importance, in my opinion, lay in the fact that it would make possible the amalgamation of our considerable and compact Albanian minority with Albania as a separate republic in the Yugoslav-Albanian Federation. Any other solution to the problem of the Albanian national minority seemed impracticable to me, since the simple transfer of Yugoslav territories inhabited by Albanians would give rise to uncontrollable resistance in the Yugoslav Communist Party itself.

I had for Albania and the Albanians a special predilection which could only strengthen the idealism of my motivations: The Albanians, especially the northern ones, are by mentality and way of life akin to the Montenegrins from whom I spring, and their vitality and determination to maintain their independence has no equal in human history.

Though it did not even occur to me to differ with the view of my country's leaders and to agree with Stalin, still Stalin's interjections for the first time confronted me with two thoughts. The first was the suspicion that something was not right about Yugoslavia's policy toward Albania, and the other was that the Soviet Union had united with the Baltic countries by swallowing them. It was Molotov's remark that directly reminded me of this.

Both thoughts merged into one—into a feeling of discomfort.

The thought that there might be something obscure and inconsistent about Yugoslav policy toward Albania did not, however, cause me to admit that this policy was one of “swallowing.” Yet it did strike me that this policy did not correspond with the will and the desires of the Albanian Communists, which, for me, as a Communist, were identical with the aspirations of the Albanian people. Why
did
Spiru kill himself? He was not “petty bourgeois” and “burdened by nationalism” as much as he was a Communist and a Marxist. And what if the Albanians wished, as we did vis-à-vis the Soviet Union, to have their own separate state? If the unification were carried out despite Albanian wishes and by taking advantage of their isolation and misery, would this not lead to irreconcilable conflicts and difficulties? Ethnically peculiar and with an ancient identity, the Albanians as a nation were young and hence filled with an irrepressible and still unfulfilled national consciousness. Would they not consider unification as the loss of their independence, as a rejection of their individuality?

As for the other thought—that the USSR had swallowed the Baltic states—I linked it with the first, repeating, convincing myself: We Yugoslavs do not wish, do not dare, to take that road to unification with Albania, nor is there any immediate danger that some imperialistic power, such as Germany, might bring pressure on Albania and use it as a base against Yugoslavia.

But Stalin brought me back to reality. “And what about Hoxha, what is he like in your opinion?”

I avoided a direct and clear answer, but Stalin expressed precisely the same opinion of Hoxha as the Yugoslav leaders had acquired. “He is a petty bourgeois, inclined toward nationalism? Yes, we think so too. Does it seem that the strongest man there is Xoxe?”

I confirmed his leading questions.

Stalin ended the conversation about Albania, which lasted barely ten minutes: “There are no differences between us. You personally write Tito a dispatch about this in the name of the Soviet Government and submit it to me by tomorrow.”

Afraid that I had not understood, I sounded him out, and he repeated that I was to write the dispatch to the Yugoslav Government in the name of the Soviet Government.

At that moment I took this to be a sign of special confidence in me and as the highest expression of agreement with the Yugoslav policy toward Albania. However, while writing the dispatch the next day, the thought occurred to me that it might someday be used against my country's Government, and so I formulated it carefully and very briefly, something like this: Djilas arrived in Moscow yesterday and, at a meeting held with him on the same day, there was expressed complete agreement between the Soviet Government and Yugoslavia concerning the question of Albania. That dispatch was never sent to the Yugoslav Government, nor was it ever used against it in later clashes between Moscow and Belgrade.

The rest of the conversation did not last long either and revolved idly around such uneventful questions as the location of the Cominform in Belgrade and its newspaper, Tito's health, and the like.

However, I seized an opportune moment and raised the question of supplies for the Yugoslav Army and our war industry. I stressed that we frequently encountered difficulties with Soviet representatives because they refused to give us this or that, using “military secrets” as an excuse. Stalin rose shouting, “We have no military secrets from you. You are a friendly socialist country—we have no military secrets from you.”

He then went to his desk, called Bulganin on the phone, and gave a short order: “The Yugoslavs are here, the Yugoslav delegation—they should be heard immediately.”

The whole conversation in the Kremlin lasted about a half hour, and then we set out for Stalin's villa for dinner.

We seated ourselves in Stalin's automobile, which seemed to me to be the same as the one in which I rode with Molotov in 1945. Zhdanov sat in back to my right, while Stalin and Molotov sat in front of us on the folding seats. During the trip Stalin turned on a little light on the panel in front of him under which hung a pocket watch—it was almost ten o'clock—and I observed directly in front of me his already hunched back and the bony gray nape of his neck with its wrinkled skin above the stiff marshal's collar. I reflected: Here is one of the most powerful men of today, and here are his associates; what a sensational catastrophe it would be if a bomb now exploded in our midst and blew us all to pieces! But this thought was only fleeting and ugly and so unexpected even to myself that it horrified me. With a sad affection, I saw in Stalin a little old grandfather who, all his life, and still now, looked after the success and happiness of the whole Communist race.

While waiting for the others to gather together, Stalin, Zhdanov, and I found ourselves in the entrance hall of the villa, by the map of the world. I again glanced at the blue pencil mark that encircled Stalingrad—and again Stalin noticed it; I could not fail to observe that my scrutiny pleased him. Zhdanov also noticed this exchange of glances, joined us, and remarked, “The beginning of the Battle of Stalingrad.”

But Stalin said nothing to that.

If I remember well, Stalin began to look for Königsberg, for it was to be renamed Kaliningrad—and in so doing we came across places around Leningrad that still bore German names from the time of Catherine. This caught Stalin's eye and he turned to Zhdanov, saying curtly: “Change these names—it is senseless that these places still bear German names!” At this Zhdanov pulled out a small notebook and recorded Stalin's order with a little pencil.

After this Molotov and I went to the toilet, which was located in the basement of the villa. It contained several stalls and urinals. Molotov began to unbutton his pants even as we walked, commenting: “We call this unloading before loading!” Thereupon I, a long-time resident of prisons, where a man is forced to forget about modesty, felt ashamed in the presence of Molotov, an older man, entered a stall and shut the door.

After this both of us proceeded to the dining room, where Stalin, Malenkov, Beria, Zhdanov, and Voznesensky were already gathered. The last two are new personae in these memoirs.

Zhdanov, too, was rather short, with a brownish clipped mustache, high forehead, pointed nose, and a sickly red face. He was educated and was regarded in the Politburo as a great intellectual. Despite his well-known narrowness and dogmatism, I would say that his knowledge was not inconsiderable. Although he had some knowledge of everything, even music, I would not say that there was a single field that he knew thoroughly—a typical intellectual who became acquainted with and picked up knowledge of other fields through Marxist literature. He was also a cynic, in an intellectual way, but all the uglier for this because behind the intellectualism one unmistakably sensed the potentate who was “magnanimous” toward men of the spirit and the pen. This was the period of the “Decrees”—decisions by the Soviet Central Committee concerning literature and other branches of the arts which amounted to a violent attack against even those minimal freedoms in the choice of subject and form that had survived (or else had been snatched from) bureaucratic Party control during the war. I remember that that evening Zhdanov recounted as the latest joke how his criticism of the satirist Zoshchenko had been taken in Leningrad: They simply took away Zoshchenko's ration coupons and did not give them back to him until after Moscow's magnanimous intervention.