Conversations with Stalin Read online

  Toward the end of the dinner Stalin unexpectedly asked me why there were not many Jews in the Yugoslav Party and why these few played no important role in it. I tried to explain to him that there were not many Jews in Yugoslavia to begin with, and most belonged to the middle class. I added, “The only prominent Communist Jew is Pijade, and he regards himself as being more of a Serb than a Jew.”

  Stalin began to recall: “Pijade, short, with glasses? Yes, I remember, he visited me. And what is his position?”

  “He is a member of the Central Committee, a veteran Communist, the translator of Das Kapital,” I explained.

  “In our Central Committee there are no Jews!” he broke in, and began to laugh tauntingly. “You are an anti-Semite, you, too, Djilas, you, too, are an anti-Semite!”

  I took his words and laughter to mean the opposite, as I should have—as the expression of his own anti-Semitism and as a provocation to get me to declare my stand concerning the Jews, particularly Jews in the Communist movement. I laughed softly and kept still, which was not difficult for me inasmuch as I have never been an anti-Semite and I divided Communists solely into the good and the bad. Stalin himself quickly abandoned this slippery subject, being content with his cynical provocation.

  At my left sat the taciturn Molotov, and at my right the loquacious Zhdanov. The latter told of his contacts with the Finns and admiringly emphasized their exactitude in delivering reparations: “Everything on time, expertly packed, and of excellent quality.”

  He concluded, “We made a mistake in not occupying Finland. Everything would have been set up if we had.” Molotov: “Akh, Finland—that is a peanut.”

  At that very time Zhdanov was holding meetings with composers and preparing a “decree” on music. He liked operas and asked me in passing, “Do you have opera in Yugoslavia?”

  Surprised at his question, I replied, “In Yugoslavia operas are being presented in nine theaters!” At the same time I thought: How little they know about Yugoslavia. Indeed, it is not noticeable that it even interests them except as a given geographic location.

  Zhdanov was the only one who was drinking orangeade. He explained to me that he did this because of his bad heart. I asked him, “How serious is your illness?”

  With a restrained smile he replied with his customary mockery, “I might die at any moment, and I might live a very long time.” He certainly evinced an exaggerated sensitivity, and he reacted quickly and too easily.

  A new five-year plan had just been promulgated. Without turning to anyone in particular Stalin announced that the teachers’ salaries ought to be increased. And then to me: “Our teachers are very good, but their salaries are low—we must do something.”

  Everyone uttered a few words of agreement while I recalled, not without bitterness, the low salaries and wretched conditions of Yugoslav cultural workers and my impotence to help them.

  Voznesensky kept silent the whole time; he comported himself like a junior among seniors. Stalin addressed him directly only with this one question: “Could means be obtained outside of the Plan for the construction of the Volga-Don Canal? A very important job! We must find the means! A terribly important job from the military point of view as well: in case of war they might drive us out of the Black Sea—our fleet is weak and will go on being weak for a long time. What would we do with our ships in that case? Imagine how valuable the Black Sea Fleet would have been during the Battle of Stalingrad if we had had it on the Volga! That canal is of first-class, first-class importance.”

  Voznesensky agreed that the means could be found, took out a little notebook and made a note of it.

  I had long been interested in two questions—almost privately—and I wished to ask Stalin for his opinion. One was in the field of theory: neither in Marxist literature nor anywhere else could I ever find an explanation of the difference between “people” and “nation.” Since Stalin had long been reputed among Communists to be an expert on the nationalities question, I sought his opinion, pointing out that he had not treated this in his book on the nationalities question, which had been published even before the First World War and since then was considered the authoritative Bolshevik view.

  At my question Molotov first joined in: “‘People’ and ‘nation’ are both the same thing.”

  But Stalin did not agree. “No, nonsense! They are different!” And he began to explain simply: “‘Nation’? You already know what it is: the product of capitalism with given characteristics. And ‘people’—these are the workingmen of a given nation, that is, workingmen of the same language, culture, customs.”

  And concerning his book Marxism and the National Question, he observed: “That was Ilyich’s—Lenin’s view. Ilyich also edited the book.”

  The second question involved Dostoevsky. Since early youth I had considered Dostoevsky in many ways the greatest writer of the modern age, and I could never square within myself the Marxist attacks on him.

  Stalin also answered this simply: “A great writer and a great reactionary. We are not publishing him because he is a bad influence on the youth. But, a great writer!”

  We turned to Gorky. I pointed out that I regarded as his greatest work—both in method and in the depth of his depiction of the Russian Revolution—The Life of Klim Samgin. But Stalin disagreed, avoiding the subject of method. “No, his best things are those he wrote earlier: The Town of Okurov, his stories, and Foma Gordeev. And as far as the depiction of the Russian Revolution in Klim Samgin is concerned, there is very little revolution there and only a single Bolshevik—what was his name: Liutikov, Liutov?”

  I corrected him: “Kutuzov—Liutov is an entirely different character.”

  Stalin concluded: “Yes, Kutuzov! The revolution is portrayed from one side, and inadequately at that; and from the literary point of view, too, his earlier works are better.”

  It was clear to me that Stalin and I did not understand one another and that we could not agree, though I had had an opportunity to hear the opinions of significant littérateurs who, like himself, considered these particular works of Gorky his best.

  Speaking of contemporary Soviet literature, I, as more or less all foreigners do, referred to Sholokhov’s strength. Stalin observed: “Now there are better ones!”—and he cited two names, of which one belonged to a woman. Both were unknown to me.

  I avoided a discussion of Fadeev’s Young Guard, which even then was under attack for the insufficient “Partyness” of its heroes; also, Aleksandrov’s History of Philosophy, which was criticized on quite opposite grounds—dogmatism, shallowness, banality.

  It was Zhdanov who reported Stalin’s observation on the book of love poems by K. Simonov: “They should have published only two copies—one for her, and one for him!” At which Stalin smiled demurely while the others roared.

  The evening could not go by without vulgarity, to be sure, Beria’s. They forced me to drink a small glass of peretsovka—strong vodka with pepper (in Russian, perets means pepper, hence the name for this drink). Sniggering, Beria explained that this liquor had a bad effect on the sex glands, and he used the most vulgar expressions in so doing. Stalin gazed intently at me as Beria spoke, ready to burst into laughter, but he remained serious on noticing how sour I was.

  Even apart from this I could not dispel that conspicuous similarity between Beria and the Belgrade Royal Police official Vujković it even grew to such proportions that I felt as though I was actually in the fleshy and damp clutches of Vujković-Beria.

  However, I regarded as most important of all the atmosphere that permeated above and beyond the words during the course of the entire six hours of that dinner. Behind what was said, something more important was noticeable—something that ought to have been spoken, but that no one could or dared bring up. The forced conversation and the choice of topics made this something seem quite real, almost perceptible to the senses. I was even inwardly sure of its content: it was criticism of Tito and of the Yugoslav Central Committee. In that situation I would have reg
arded such criticism as tantamount to a recruiting of me on the part of the Soviet Government. Zhdanov was particularly energetic, not in any concrete, tangible way, but by injecting a certain cordiality, even intimacy into his conversation with me. Beria fixed me with his clouded green, gaping eyes while a self-conscious irony almost dripped down his square flabby mouth. Over them all stood Stalin—attentive, exceptionally moderate, and cold.

  The mute gaps between topics became ever longer and the tension grew, both in and around me. I quickly worked out a strategy of resistance. Apparently it had been half consciously in the making inside of me even earlier. I would simply point out that I perceived no differences between the Yugoslav and Soviet leaders, that their aims were the same, and the like. A dumb, stubborn resistance welled inside of me, and though I had never before felt any inner vacillation, still I knew, knowing myself, that my defensive posture might easily turn into an offensive one if Stalin and the rest forced me into the moral dilemma of choosing between them and my conscience—or, under the circumstances, between their Party and mine, between Yugoslavia and the USSR. In order to prepare the ground, I referred to Tito and to my Central Committee several times in passing, but in a way that would not lead my interlocutors to launch into what they intended.

  Stalin’s attempt to introduce personal, intimate elements was in vain. Recalling his invitation in 1946, made via Tito, he asked me: “And why did you not come to the Crimea? Why did you refuse my invitation?”

  I expected that question, and yet I was rather unpleasantly surprised that Stalin had not forgotten about it. I explained: “I waited for an invitation through the Soviet Embassy. I felt awkward about forcing myself and annoying you.”

  “Nonsense, no annoyance at all. You just didn’t wish to come!” Stalin tested me.

  But I drew back into myself—into chill reserve and silence.

  And so nothing happened. Stalin and his group of cold, calculating conspirators—for I felt them to be so—certainly detected my resistance. This is just what I wanted. I had eluded them, and they did not dare provoke that resistance. They probably thought they had avoided a premature and thus erroneous step, but I became aware of that underhanded game and felt inside myself an inner, hitherto unknown, strength which was capable of rejecting even that by which I lived.

  Stalin ended the dinner by raising a toast to Lenin’s memory: “Let us drink to the memory of Vladimir Ilyich, our leader, our teacher—our all!”

  We all stood and drank in mute solemnity, which, in our drunkenness we soon forgot, but Stalin continued to bear an earnest, grave, and even somber expression.

  We left the table, but before we began to disperse, Stalin turned on a huge automatic record player. He even tried to dance, in the style of his homeland. One could see that he was not without a sense of rhythm. However, he soon stopped, with the resigned explanation, “Age has crept up on me and I am already an old man!”

  But his associates—or, better said, courtiers—began to assure him, “No, no, nonsense. You look fine. You’re holding up marvelously. Yes, indeed, for your age . . .”

  Then Stalin turned on a record on which the coloratura warbling of a singer was accompanied by the yowling and barking of dogs. He laughed with an exaggerated, immoderate mirth, but on detecting incomprehension and displeasure on my face, he explained, almost as though to excuse himself, “Well, still it’s clever, devilishly clever.”

  All the others remained behind, but were already preparing to leave. There was truly nothing more to say after such a long session, at which everything had been discussed except the reason why the dinner had been held.

  6

  We waited no more than a day or two before they invited us to the General Staff to present our requests. Earlier, while yet on board the train, I mentioned to Koča Popović and Mijalko Todorović that their requests seemed excessive and unrealistic to me. What I particularly could not get into my head was why the Russians would agree to build up the Yugoslav war industry when they did not wish to help seriously in developing our civilian industry, and it seemed even less likely to me that they would give us a war fleet when they lacked one themselves. The argument that it was all the same whether Yugoslavia or the USSR had a fleet on the Adriatic, since both were parts of a united Communist world, seemed all the more unconvincing to me precisely because of the cracks that were appearing in that very unity, not to speak of Soviet distrust of everything beyond their grasp and their unconcealed concern primarily for the interests of their own state. However, since all these requests had been elaborated and approved in Belgrade, there was nothing left for me but to stand by them.

  The building of the General Staff was a pile whose external cheapness and artificiality they had in vain tried to compensate for internally by the lavish use of shrieking drapes and gilt. The meeting was presided over by Bulganin, surrounded by the highest military experts, among whom was also the Chief of the General Staff, Marshal Vasilevsky.

  First I presented our needs generally, leaving the detailed presentation to Todorović and Popović. The Soviet officials did not commit themselves but they carefully went into our problems and took notes on everything. We left satisfied, convinced that matters had proceeded beyond a standstill and that the real concrete work would soon begin.

  It indeed looked like it. Todorović and K. Popović were soon invited to further meetings. But everything came to an abrupt halt, and Soviet officials hinted that ‘‘complications’’ had set in and that we would have to wait.

  It was clear to us that something was going on between Moscow and Belgrade, though we did not know exactly what, nor can I say that we were surprised. In any case, our critical attitude toward the Soviet reality and Moscow’s stand toward Belgrade could only make the postponement of our talks all the more unbearable, especially since we found ourselves without anything to do, forced to kill time in conversation and by attending Moscow’s old-fashioned but, as such, unsurpassed theaters.

  None of the Soviet citizenry dared to visit us, for although we were from a Communist country, we still belonged to the category of foreigners, with whom citizens of the USSR could not associate, according to the letter of the law. All our contacts were limited to official channels in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and in the Central Committee. That annoyed and offended us, all the more so since there were no such limitations in Yugoslavia, especially not for the representatives and citizens of the USSR. But this is what prompted us to draw critical conclusions.

  Our criticism had not yet reached the point of generalization, but it abounded in examples taken from concrete reality. Vukmanović-Tempo had discovered faults in the army buildings which he did not conceal. In order to lessen our boredom, Koča Popović and I gave up our separate apartments in the Moskva Hotel, but we did not get a joint apartment until an “electrician” had put it in order, which we took to mean the installation of listening devices. Despite the fact that the Moskva was a new hotel and the largest, nothing in it worked as it should—it was cold, the faucets leaked, and the bathtubs, brought from Eastern Germany, could not be used because the drainage of water flooded the floor. The bathroom had no key, which gave Popović an occasion for his sparkling wit: The architect took into account that the key might get lost and he built the toilet near the door so that one could keep the door closed with one’s foot.

  I frequently recalled with envy my sojourn in the Metropole Hotel in 1944. Everything was old there, but in working order, and the superannuated help spoke English and French and demeaned themselves with grace and precision. But in the Moskva Hotel . . . One day I heard groaning in the bathroom. I came upon two workers there. One of them was repairing some fixtures on the ceiling, and the other was holding him up on his shoulders. “For heaven’s sake, Comrades,” said I, “why don’t you get a ladder?” The workers complained, “We’ve asked the management for one lots of times, but no use—we always have a hard time like this.”

  Walking about we viewed “beautiful Moscow,” mo
st of which was a big village, neglected and undeveloped. The chauffeur Panov, to whom I had sent a watch as a gift from Yugoslavia and with whom I had established a cordial relationship, found it impossible to believe that there were more cars in New York and Paris, although he did not hide his dissatisfaction with the quality of the new Soviet cars.

  In the Kremlin, when we visited the imperial tombs, the girl guide spoke of “our tsars” with nationalist pathos. The superiority of the Russians was vaunted everywhere and assumed grotesque forms.

  And so on down the line . . . At every step we discovered till then unnoticed aspects of the Soviet reality: backwardness, primitivism, chauvinism, a big-power complex, although accompanied by heroic and superhuman efforts to outgrow the past and to overtake the natural course of events.

  Knowing that in the thick skulls of the Soviet leaders and political officials every least little criticism was transformed into an anti-Soviet attitude, we spontaneously entrenched ourselves in our own circle when in the presence of Russians. Since we were at the same time a political mission, we began to call each other’s attention to anything “awkward” in our behavior or speech. This entrenchment began to assume an organized quality. I remember how, aware of the use of listening devices, we began to watch what we were saying in the hotel and in offices, and to turn on radios during conversations.

  The Soviet representatives must have taken note of this. The tension and suspicion grew apace.

  By that time Lenin’s sarcophagus, which had been hidden somewhere in the interior during the war, had been brought back to Red Square. One morning we went to visit it. The visit itself would have had no importance had it, too, not provoked in me, as well as in the rest, a new and hitherto unknown resistance. As we descended slowly into the mausoleum, I saw how simple women in shawls were crossing themselves as though approaching the reliquary of a saint. I, too, was overcome by a feeling of mysticism, something forgotten from a distant youth. Moreover, everything was so arranged as to evoke just such a feeling in a man—the granite blocks, the stiff guards, the invisible source of light over Lenin, and even his body, dried and white as chalk, with little sparse hairs, as though somebody had planted them. Despite my respect for Lenin’s genius, it seemed unnatural to me, and above all anti-Materialist and anti-Leninist, this mystical gathering about Lenin’s mortal remains.