Conversations with Stalin Page 8

  This dilemma was particularly reinforced and deepened by the efforts of Soviet representatives to use my basically well-intentioned words to support their arrogant critical stand toward the Yugoslav leadership.

  What was it that prevented the Soviet representatives from understanding us? For what reason were my words exaggerated and twisted? Why were the Soviet representatives exploiting them in this perverted form for their political ends—to portray the Yugoslav leaders as ungrateful to a Red Army which at a given moment had allegedly played the principal role in the liberation of the capital city of Yugoslavia and had installed the Yugoslav leaders there?

  But there was no answer to these questions, nor could there be at that time.

  Like many others, I, too, was perturbed by other acts of the Soviet representatives. For example, the Soviet Command announced that it was presenting as aid to Belgrade a gift of a rather large quantity of wheat, but it turned out that this was in fact wheat that the Germans had collected from Yugoslav peasants and had stored on Yugoslav territory. The Soviet Command looked upon that wheat, and much else besides, simply as their spoils of war. In addition, Soviet intelligence agents recruited, en masse, émigré white Russians, and even Yugoslavs; some of these persons were right in the apparatus of the Central Committee. Against whom and why were these people employed? Also, in the field of agitation and propaganda, which I directed, friction with Soviet representatives was acutely felt. The Soviet press systematically distorted and belittled the struggle of the Yugoslav Communists, while Soviet representatives sought, at first cautiously and then more and more openly, to subordinate Yugoslav propaganda to Soviet needs and models.

  And the drinking parties of the Soviet representatives, which were increasingly assuming the character of real bacchanalia and to which they were trying to entice the Yugoslav leaders, could only confirm in my eyes and in the eyes of many others the incongruity between Soviet ideals and actions, their profession of ethics in words and their amorality in deeds.

  The first contact between the two revolutions and the two governments, though they were founded on similar social and ideological bases, could not but lead to friction. And since this occurred within an exclusive and dosed ideology, the friction could have no other initial aspect than that of a moral dilemma, and a feeling on the part of the Yugoslavs of sorrow and regret that the center of orthodoxy did not comprehend the good intentions of a small Party and a poor land.

  Inasmuch as men do not react in their consciousness, I suddenly “discovered” man’s indissoluble bond with nature—I reverted to the hunting trips of my early youth and suddenly noticed that there was beauty outside of the Party and the revolution.

  But the bitterness was just beginning.

  2

  During the winter of 1944–1945 there journeyed to Moscow a rather sizable Government delegation which included Andrija Hebrang, a member of the Central Committee and Minister of Industry, Arso Jovanović, Chief of the Supreme Staff, and Mitra Mitrovid, my wife at the time. Apart from the political reactions, she was also able to relate to me the human reactions of the Soviet leaders, to which I was particularly sensitive.

  The delegation, both individually and as a whole, was subjected throughout to recriminations concerning the general situation in Yugoslavia and certain of the Yugoslav leaders. The Soviet officials usually began with the correct facts, and then exaggerated them and made generalizations. To make matters worse, the chief of the delegation, Hebrang, bound himself closely to the Soviet representatives, submitting written reports to them and shifting Soviet displeasure to other members of the delegation. Hebrang was prompted to such activity, judging by everything, by his dissatisfaction at being removed from the position of Secretary of the Communist Party in Croatia, and even in greater measure because of his craven behavior while in prison—this became known only later—behavior he was trying to cover up in this manner.

  To give information to the Soviet Party was at that time not in itself considered a deadly sin, for no Yugoslav Communist set his own Central Committee against the Soviet. Moreover, information on the situation in the Yugoslav Party was available and accessible to the Soviet Central Committee. However, in Hebrang’s case this assumed even then the character of undermining the Yugoslav Central Committee. It was never discovered what he was reporting. But from his stand, and from what individual members of the delegation recounted, it was possible to conclude without any doubt that even at this time Hebrang was giving information to the Soviet Central Committee with the aim of getting its support and inciting it against the Yugoslav Central Committee in order to bring about changes within it that would suit him. To be sure, all of this was done in the name of principle and justified by the more or less obvious lapses and faults of the Yugoslavs. The real reason, though, lay in this: Hebrang believed that Yugoslavia should not construct its economy and economic plans independently of the USSR, while the Central Committee supported close co-operation with the USSR but not to the detriment of our own independence.

  The moral coup de grâce to that delegation was dealt, of course, by Stalin. He assembled the entire delegation in the Kremlin and treated it to the usual feast as well as to a scene such as might be found only in Shakespeare’s plays.

  He criticized the Yugoslav Army and how it was administered. However, he attacked only me personally. And in what a way! He spoke agitatedly about the sufferings of the Red Army and about the horrors that it was forced to undergo fighting for thousands of kilometers through devastated country. He wept, crying out: “And such an army was insulted by no one else but Djilas! Djilas, of whom I could least have expected such a thing, a man whom I received so well! And an army which did not spare its blood for you! Does Djilas, who is himself a writer, not know what human suffering and the human heart are? Can’t he understand it if a soldier who has crossed thousands of kilometers through blood and fire and death has fun with a woman or takes some trifle?”

  He proposed frequent toasts, flattered one person, joked with another, needled a third, kissed my wife because she was a Serb, and again shed tears over the hardships of the Red Army and Yugoslav ingratitude.

  Stalin and Molotov almost theatrically divided the roles between them according to their inclination: Molotov coldly spurred on the issue and aggravated feelings, while Stalin fell into a mood of tragical pathos. The zenith of his mood certainly came when Stalin exclaimed, kissing my wife, that he made his loving gesture at the risk of being charged with rape.

  He spoke very little or not at all about Parties, Communism, Marxism, but very much about the Slavs, about the ties between the Russians and the South Slavs, and—again—about the heroic sacrifices and suffering of the Red Army.

  Hearing about this, I was truly shaken and dazed. Today, it seems to me that Stalin made me the goat not so much for my “outburst,” but because he intended to win me over in some way. Only my sincere enthusiasm for the Soviet Union and for himself as a personality could have prompted him in this.

  Immediately upon my return to Yugoslavia I had written an article about my “Meeting with Stalin” which pleased him greatly. A Soviet representative had called my attention to the fact that in subsequent editions I ought to throw out the observation that Stalin’s feet were too big and that I should stress more the intimacy between Stalin and Molotov. At the same time Stalin, who sized up people quickly and who particularly distinguished himself by his skill in exploiting people’s weaknesses, must have known that he could not win me over on the basis of political ambitions, for I was indifferent to these, nor on an ideological basis, for I did not love the Soviet Party more than the Yugoslav. He could only influence me by way of my emotions—through my sincerity and my enthusiasm—and so he took that course.

  But though my sensitivity and sincerity were my strong points, they easily turned into something quite opposite when I encountered insincerity and injustice. For this reason Stalin did not dare recruit me openly. I became all the more adamant and determined as expe
rience demonstrated to me the unjust, hegemonistic Soviet intentions, that is, as I freed myself of my sentimentality.

  Today it is truly difficult to ascertain how much of Stalin’s action was play-acting and how much was real rancor. I personally believe that with Stalin it is impossible to separate the one from the other. With him, pretense was so spontaneous that it seemed he himself became convinced of the truth and sincerity of what he was saying. He very easily adapted himself to every turn in the discussion of any new topic, and even to every new personality.

  At any rate, the delegation returned completely dazed and depressed.

  Meanwhile, my isolation deepened, now also because of Stalin’s tears over my “ingratitude” toward the Red Army. Though more and more isolated, I did not give in to lethargy. I turned increasingly to my pen and to books, finding within myself an escape from the difficulties and misunderstanding that beset me.

  3

  Time took its toll. Relations between Yugoslavia and the Soviet Union could not remain where they had been fixed by military missions and armies. Ties multiplied and relations proliferated, acquiring an increasingly defined international form.

  In April a state delegation was to leave to sign a treaty of mutual assistance with the Soviet Union. The delegation was led by Tito, and he was accompanied by the Minister for Foreign Affairs, Dr. Šubašić. In the delegation there were also two economic ministers—B. Andrejev and N. Petrović. That I became part of this delegation may certainly be ascribed to the desire to liquidate the dispute over the “insult” to the Red Army by means of direct contact. Tito simply included me in the delegation, and because there were no objections from the Soviet side, I boarded the Soviet plane with the rest.

  It was the beginning of April, and because of the inclement weather the plane bounced the whole time. Tito and the majority of his suite became ill. Even the pilots suffered. I, too, felt sick—but in a different way.

  I felt uneasy—from the moment that I first learned of my trip up to my encounter with Stalin—as though I were a penitent of some sort. Yet I was not penitent, nor did I have any real reason for being so. Around me in Belgrade there had been created an increasingly charged atmosphere, as though I was someone who had sunk low—“made a mess of it”—and so there was nothing left for such a person but to redeem himself in some way, to throw himself solely on Stalin’s generosity.

  The plane neared Moscow, and the already familiar feeling of isolation welled up inside me. For the first time I felt my comrades, brothers in arms, lightly abandoning me because any contact with me might endanger their position in the Party and make it appear as though they, too, had “deviated.” Even in the plane itself I was not free of this. The relationship between myself and Andrejev, made intimate by war and suffering in prison—for these reveal a man’s character and human relations better than anything else—was always marked by good-natured joking and frankness. But now? He seemed to pity me, powerless to help me, while I did not dare approach him—for fear of humiliating myself, but even more for fear of forcing him into an inconvenient and unwanted fraternization with me. So, too, with Petrović, whom I knew well during my onerous life and work in the underground; our friendship was predominantly intellectual, but now I would not have dared start one of our interminable discussions of Serbian political history. As for Tito, he kept still about the whole affair, as though nothing had happened, and indicated no definite feeling or view about me. Nevertheless, I suspected that, in his own way—for political reasons—he was on my side, and that this was why he was bringing me along and why he was not taking a stand.

  I was experiencing my first conflict between my simple human conscience, that is, the common human propensity for the good and the true, and the environment in which I lived and to which my daily activity bound me, namely, a movement circumscribed by its own abstract aims and fettered by its actual possibilities. This conflict did not at this time, however, take that shape in my consciousness; rather, it appeared as a clash between my good intentions to better the world and the movement to which I belonged and the lack of understanding on the part of those who made the decisions.

  My anxiety grew with every moment, every yard closer to Moscow.

  Beneath me sped a land whose blackness was just emerging from the melting snow, a land riven by torrents and, in many places, by bombs—desolate and uninhabited. The sky, too, was cloudy and somber, impenetrable. There was neither sky nor earth for me as I passed through an unreal, perhaps dream, world which I felt at the same time to be more real than any in which I had hitherto lived. I flew teetering between sky and earth, between conscience and experience, between desire and possibility. In my memory there has remained only that unreal and painful teetering—with not a trace of those initial Slavic feelings or even hardly any of those revolutionary raptures that marked my first encounter with the Russian, the Soviet land and its leader.

  On top of everything there was Tito’s airsickness. Exhausted, green, he exerted the last ounce of will power to recite his speech of greeting and to go through the ceremonies. Molotov, who headed the reception committee, shook hands with me coldly, without smiling or showing any sign of recognition. It was also unpleasant to have them take Tito to a special villa while putting the rest of us up in the Metropole Hotel.

  The trials and tribulations got worse. They even assumed the proportions of a campaign.

  The next day, or the day after that, the telephone in my apartment rang. A seductive female voice sounded. “This is Katia.”

  “Katia who?” I asked.

  “It’s me, Katia. Don’t you remember? I have to see you. I simply must see you.”

  Through my head there quickly filed Katias—but I did not know one of them—and on their heels came suspicion. The Soviet Intelligence Service knew that in the Communist Party of Yugoslavia views on personal morality were strict and they were setting a trap to blackmail me later. I found it neither strange nor new that “socialist” Moscow, like every metropolis, teemed with unregistered prostitutes. I knew even better, however, that they could not make contact with high-ranking foreigners, who were tended and watched here better than anywhere on earth, unless the Intelligence Service wanted it. Apart from these thoughts, I did what I would have anyway; I said calmly and curtly, “Let me alone!”—and I put down the receiver.

  I suspected that I was the only target in this transparent and smutty undertaking. Nevertheless, in view of my high rank in the Party, I felt it necessary to ascertain whether the same thing had happened to Petrović and Andrejev, and, besides, I wanted to complain to them man to man. Yes, their telephones had rung too, but instead of a Katia, it was a Natasha and a Vova! I explained my own experience, and practically ordered them not to make any contact.

  I had mixed feelings—relief that I was not the only target, but also deepening doubts. Why all of this? It never occurred to me to inquire of Dr. Šubašić whether a similar attempt had been directed at him. He was not a Communist, and it would be awkward for me to display the Soviet Union and its methods in a bad light before him, all the more so since they were aimed against Communists. I was quite certain, though, that no Katia had approached Šubašić.

  I was not yet able to draw the conclusion—that it was precisely the Communists who were the butt and the means by which Soviet hegemony was to ensconce itself in the countries of Eastern Europe. Yet I suspected as much. I was horrified by such methods and resented having my character subjected to such manipulation.

  At that time I was still capable of believing that I could be a Communist and remain a free man.

  4

  Nothing significant occurred in connection with the treaty of alliance between Yugoslavia and the USSR. The treaty was the usual thing, and my job was simply to verify the translation.

  The signing took place in the Kremlin on the evening of April 11, in a very narrow official circle. Of the public—if such an expression may be applied to that environment—only Soviet cameramen were in attendanc
e.

  The sole striking episode occurred when Stalin, holding a glass of champagne, turned to a waiter and invited him to clink glasses. The waiter became embarrassed, but when Stalin uttered the words: “What, you won’t drink to Soviet-Yugoslav friendship?” he obediently took the glass and drank it bottoms up. There was something demagogic, even grotesque, about the entire scene, but everyone looked upon it with beatific smiles, as an expression of Stalin’s regard for the common people and his closeness to them.

  This was my first opportunity to meet Stalin again. His mien was ungracious, though it did not have Molotov’s frigid stiffness and artificial amiability. Stalin did not address a single word to me personally. The dispute over the behavior of the Red Army soldiers was obviously neither forgotten nor forgiven. I was left to go on twirling over the fire of purgatory.