LATE the next morning I awoke in my luxurious quarters. It was Thursday, August 13—to me always “Blenheim Day”. I had arranged to visit Molotov in the Kremlin at noon in order to explain to him more clearly and fully the character of the various operations we had in mind. I pointed out how injurious to the common cause it would be if owing to recriminations about dropping “Sledgehammer” we were forced to argue publicly against such enterprises. I also explained in more detail the political setting of “Torch”. He listened affably, but contributed nothing. I proposed to him that I should see Stalin at 10 p.m. that night, and later in the day got word that eleven o’clock would be more convenient, and as the subjects to be dealt with would be the same as those of the night before, would I wish to bring Harriman? I said “Yes”, and also Cadogan, Brooke, Wavell, and Tedder, who had meanwhile arrived safely from Teheran in a Russian plane. They might have had a very dangerous fire in their Liberator.
Before leaving this urbane, rigid diplomatist’s room I turned to him and said, “Stalin will make a great mistake to treat us roughly when we have come so far.” For the first time Molotov unbent. “Stalin,” he said, “is a very wise man. You may be sure that, however he argues, he understands all. I will tell him what you say.”
I returned in time for luncheon to State Villa Number Seven. Out of doors the weather was beautiful. It was just like what we love most in England—when we get it. I thought we would explore the domain. State Villa Number Seven was a fine large, brand-new country house standing in its own extensive lawns and gardens in a fir wood of about twenty acres. There were agreeable walks, and it was pleasant in the beautiful August weather to lie on the grass or pine-needles. There were several fountains, and a large glass tank filled with many kinds of goldfish, who were all so tame that they would eat out of your hand. I made a point of feeding them every day. Around the whole was a stockade, perhaps fifteen feet high, guarded on both sides by police and soldiers in considerable numbers. About a hundred yards from the house was an air-raid shelter. At the first opportunity we were conducted over it. It was of the latest and most luxurious type. Lifts at either end took you down eighty or ninety feet into the ground. Here were eight or ten large rooms inside a concrete box of massive thickness. The rooms were divided from each other by heavy sliding doors. The lights were brilliant. The furniture was stylish, sumptuous and brightly coloured. I was more attracted by the goldfish.
We all repaired to the Kremlin at 11 p.m., and were received only by Stalin and Molotov, with their interpreter. Then began a most unpleasant discussion. I said he must understand we had made up our minds upon the course to be pursued and that reproaches were vain. We argued for about two hours, during which he said a great many disagreeable things, especially about our being too much afraid of fighting the Germans, and if we tried it like the Russians we should find it not so bad; that we had broken our promise about “Sledgehammer”; that we had failed in delivering the supplies promised to Russia and only sent remnants after we had taken all we needed for ourselves. Apparently those complaints were addressed as much to the United States as to Britain.
I repulsed all his contentions squarely, but without taunts of any kind. I suppose he was not used to being contradicted repeatedly, but he did not become at all angry, or even animated. He reiterated his view that it should be possible for the British and Americans to land six or eight divisions on the Cherbourg peninsula, since they had domination of the air. He felt that if the British Army had been fighting the Germans as much as the Russian Army it would not be so frightened of them. The Russians, and indeed the R.A.F., had shown that it was possible to beat the Germans. The British infantry could do the same provided they acted at the same time as the Russians.
I interposed that I pardoned the remarks which Stalin had made on account of the bravery of the Russian Army. The proposal for a landing in Cherbourg overlooked the existence of the Channel. Finally Stalin said we could carry it no further. He must accept our decision. He then abruptly invited us to dinner at eight o’clock the next night.
Accepting the invitation, I said I would leave by plane at dawn the following morning—i.e., the 15th. Joe seemed somewhat concerned at this, and asked could I not stay longer. I said certainly, if there was any good to be done, and that I would wait one more day anyhow. I then exclaimed that there was no ring of comradeship in his attitude. I had travelled far to establish good working relations. We had done our utmost to help Russia, and would continue to do so. We had been left entirely alone for a year against Germany and Italy. Now that the three great nations were allied, victory was certain, provided we did not fall apart, and so forth. I was somewhat animated in this passage. and before it could be translated he made the remark that he liked the tone of my utterance. Thereafter the talk began again in a somewhat less tense atmosphere.
He plunged into a long discussion of two Russian trench mortars firing rockets, which he declared were devastating in their effects, and which he offered to demonstrate to our experts if they could wait. He said he would let us have all information about them, but should there not be something in return? Should there not be an agreement to exchange information about inventions? I said that we would give them everything without any bargaining, except only those devices which, if carried in aeroplanes over the enemy lines and shot down, would make our bombing of Germany more difficult. He accepted this. He also agreed that his military authorities should meet our generals, and this was arranged for three o’clock in the afternoon. I said they would require at least four hours to go fully into the various technical questions involved in “Sledgehammer”, “Round-up”, and “Torch”. He observed at one moment that “Torch” was “militarily correct”, but that the political side required more delicacy—i.e., more careful handling. From time to time he returned to “Sledgehammer”, grumbling about it. When he said our promise had not been kept I replied, “I repudiate that statement. Every promise has been kept,” and I pointed to the aide-mémoire I gave Molotov.* He made a sort of apology, saying that he was expressing his sincere and honest opinions, that there was no mistrust between us, but only a difference of view.
Finally I asked about the Caucasus. Was he going to defend the mountain chain, and with how many divisions? At this he sent for a relief model, and, with apparent frankness and evident knowledge, explained the strength of this barrier, for which he said twenty-five divisions were available. He pointed to the various passes and said they would be defended. I asked were they fortified, and he said, “Yes, certainly.” The Russian front line, which the enemy had not yet reached, was north of the main range. He said they would have to hold out for two months, when the snow would make the mountains impassable. He declared himself quite confident of their ability to do this, and also recounted in detail the strength of the Black Sea Fleet, which was gathered at Batum.
All this part of the talk was easier, but when Harriman asked about the plans for bringing American aircraft across Siberia, to which the Russians had only recently consented after long American pressing, he replied, curtly, “Wars are not won with plans.” Harriman backed me up throughout, and we neither of us yielded an inch nor spoke a bitter word.
Stalin made his salute and held out his hand to me on leaving, and I took it.
I reported to the War Cabinet on August 14:
We asked ourselves what was the explanation of this performance and transformation from the good ground we had reached the night before. I think the most probable is that his Council of Commissars did not take the news I brought as well as he did. They may have more power than we suppose, and less knowledge. Perhaps he was putting himself on the record for future purposes and for their benefit, and also letting off steam for his own. Cadogan says a similar hardening up followed the opening of the Eden interview at Christmas, and Harriman says that this technique was also used at the beginning of the Beaverbrook mission.
It is my considered opinion that in his heart, so far as he has one, Stalin knows we are right, and that six divisions on “Sledgehammer” would do him no good this year. Moreover, I am certain that his surefooted and quick military judgment makes him a strong supporter of “Torch”. I think it not impossible that he will make amends. In that hope I persevere. Anyhow, I am sure it was better to have it out this way than any other. There was never at any time the slightest suggestion of their not fighting on, and I think myself that Stalin has good confidence that he will win. …
That evening we attended an official dinner at the Kremlin, where about forty people, including several of the military commanders, members of the Politburo, and other high officials, were present. Stalin and Molotov did the honours in cordial fashion. These dinners were lengthy, and from the beginning many toasts were proposed and responded to in very short speeeches. Silly tales have been told of how these Soviet dinners became drinking-bouts. There is no truth whatever in this. The Marshal and his colleagues invariably drank their toasts from tiny glasses, taking only a sip on each occasion. I had been well brought up.
During the dinner Stalin talked to me in lively fashion through the interpreter Pavlov. “Some years ago,” he said, “we had a visit from Mr. George Bernard Shaw and Lady Astor.” Lady Astor suggested that Mr. Lloyd George should be invited to visit Moscow, to which Stalin had replied, “Why should we ask him? He was the head of the intervention.” On this Lady Astor said, “That is not true. It was Churchill who misled him.” “Anyhow,” said Stalin, “Lloyd George was head of the Government and belonged to the Left. He was responsible, and we like a downright enemy better than a pretending friend.” “Well, Churchill is finished finally,” said Lady Astor. “I am not so sure,” Stalin had answered. “If a great crisis comes the English people might turn to the old war-horse.” At this point I interrupted saying, “There is much in what she said. I was very active in the intervention, and I do not wish you to think otherwise.” He smiled amicably, so 1 said, “Have you forgiven me?” “Premier Stalin, he say,” said Interpreter Pavlov, “all that is in the past, and the past belongs to God.”
In the course of one of my later talks with Stalin I said, “Lord Beaver-brook has told me that when he was on his mission to Moscow in October 1941 you asked him, ‘What did Churchill mean by saying in Parliament that he had given me warnings of the impending German attack?’ I was of course,” said I, “referring to the telegram I sent you in April ’41,” and I produced the telegram which Sir Stafford Cripps had tardily delivered. When it was read and translated to him Stalin shrugged his shoulders. “I remember it. I did not need any warnings. I knew war would come, but I thought I might gain another six months or so.” In the common cause I refrained from asking what would have happened to us all if we had gone down for ever while he was giving Hitler so much valuable material, time, and aid.
As soon as I could I gave a more formal account of the banquet to Mr. Attlee and the President.
The dinner passed off in a very friendly atmosphere and the usual Russian ceremonies. Wavell made an excellent speech in Russian. I proposed Stalin’s health, and Alexander Cadogan proposed death and damnation to the Nazis. Though I sat on Stalin’s right I got no opportunity of talking about serious things. Stalin and I were photographed together, also with Harriman. Stalin made quite a long speech proposing the “Intelligence Service”, in the course of which he made a curious reference to the Dardanelles in 1915, saying that the British had won and the Germans and Turks were already retreating, but we did not know because the intelligence was faulty. This picture, though inaccurate, was evidently meant to be complimentary to me.
2. I left about 1.30 a.m., as I was afraid we should be drawn into a lengthy film and was fatigued. When I said good-bye to Stalin he said that any differences that existed were only of method. I said we would try to remove even those differences by deeds. After a cordial handshake I then took my departure, and got some way down the crowded room, but he hurried after me and accompanied me an immense distance through corridors and staircases to the front door, where we again shook hands.
3. Perhaps in my account to you of the Thursday night meeting I took too gloomy a view. I feel I must make full allowance for the really grievous disappointment which they feel here that we can do nothing more to help them in their immense struggle. In the upshot they have swallowed this bitter pill. Everything for us now turns on hastening “Torch” and defeating Rommel.
I had been offended by many things which had been said at our conferences. I made every allowance for the strain under which the Soviet leaders lay, with their vast front flaming and bleeding along nearly 2,000 miles, and the Germans but fifty miles from Moscow and advancing towards the Caspian Sea. The technical military discussions had not gone well. Our generals had asked all sorts of questions to which their Soviet colleagues were not authorised to give answers. The only Soviet demand was for “A Second Front NOW”. In the end Brooke was rather blunt, and the military conference came to a somewhat abrupt conclusion.
We were to start at dawn on the 16th. On the evening before I went at seven o’clock to say good-bye to Stalin. We had a useful and important talk. I asked particularly whether he would be able to hold the Caucasus mountain passes, and also prevent the Germans reaching the Caspian, taking the oilfields round Baku, with all that meant, and then driving southwards through Turkey or Persia. He spread out the map, and then said with quiet confidence. “We shall stop them. They will not cross the mountains.” He added, “There are rumours that the Turks will attack us in Turkestan. If they do I shall be able to deal with them as well.” I said there was no danger of this. The Turks meant to keep out, and would certainly not quarrel with England.
Our hour’s conversation drew to its close, and I got up to say goodbye. Stalin seemed suddenly embarrassed, and said in a more cordial tone than he had yet used with me, “You are leaving at daybreak. Why should we not go to my house and have some drinks?” I said that I was in principle always in favour of such a policy. So he led the way through many passages and rooms till we came out into a still roadway within the Kremlin, and in a couple of hundred yards gained the apartment where he lived. He showed me his own rooms, which were of moderate size, simple, dignified, and four in number—a dining-room, working room, bedroom, and a large bathroom. Presently there appeared, first a very aged housekeeper and later a handsome red-haired girl, who kissed her father dutifully. He looked at me with a twinkle in his eye, as if, so I thought, to convey, “You see, even we Bolsheviks have family life.” Stalin’s daughter started laying the table, and in a short time the housekeeper appeared with a few dishes. Meanwhile Stalin had been uncorking various bottles, which began to make an imposing array. Then he said, “Why should we not have Molotov? He is worrying about the communiqué. We could settle it here. There is one thing about Molotov—he can drink.” I then realised that there was to be a dinner. I had planned to dine at State Villa Number Seven, where General Anders, the Polish commander, was awaiting me, but I told my new and excellent interpreter, Major Birse, to telephone that I should not be back till after midnight. Presently Molotov arrived. We sat down, and, with the two interpreters, were five in number. Major Birse had lived twenty years in Moscow, and got on very well with the Marshal, with whom he for some time kept up a running conversation, in which I could not share.
We actually sat at this table from 8.30 p.m. till 2.30 the next morning, which, with my previous interview, made a total of more than seven hours. The dinner was evidently improvised on the spur of the moment, but gradually more and more food arrived. We pecked and picked, as seemed to be the Russian fashion, at a long succession of choice dishes, and sipped a variety of excellent wines. Molotov assumed his most affable manner, and Stalin, to make things go, chaffed him unmercifully.
Presently we talked about the convoys to Russia. This led him to make a rough and rude remark about the almost total destruction of an Arctic convoy in June.
“Mr. Stalin asks,” said Pavlov, with some hesitation, “has the British Navy no sense of glory?” I answered, “You must take it from me that what was done was right. I really do know a lot about the Navy and sea-war.” “Meaning,” said Stalin, “that I know nothing.” “Russia is a land animal,” I said; “the British are sea animals.” He fell silent and recovered his good-humour. I turned the talk on to Molotov. “Was the Marshal aware that his Foreign Secretary on his recent visit to Washington had said he was determined to pay a visit to New York entirely by himself, and that the delay in his return was not due to any defect in the aeroplane, but because he was off on his own?”
Although almost anything can be said in fun at a Russian dinner, Molotov looked rather serious at this. But Stalin’s face lit with merriment as he said:
“It was not to New York he went. He went to Chicago, where the other gangsters live.”
Relations having thus been entirely restored, the talk ran on. I opened the question of a British landing in Norway, with Russian support, and explained how, if we could take the North Cape in the winter and destroy the Germans there, the path of the convoys would henceforward be open. This idea was always, as has been seen, one of my favourite plans. Stalin seemed much attracted by it, and, after talking of ways and means, we agreed we must do it if possible.
It was now past midnight, and Cadogan had not appeared with the draft of the communiqué.
“Tell me,” I asked, “have the stresses of this war been as bad to you personally as carrying through the policy of the Collective Farms?”
This subject immediately roused the Marshal.
“Oh, no,” he said, “the Collective Farm policy was a terrible struggle.”
“I thought you would have found it bad,” said I, “because you were not dealing with a few score thousands of aristocrats or big landowners, but with millions of small men.”
“Ten millions,” he said, holding up his hands. “It was fearful. Four years it lasted. It was absolutely necessary for Russia, if we were to avoid periodic famines, to plough the land with tractors. We must mechanise our agriculture. When we gave tractors to the peasants they were all spoiled in a few months. Only Collective Farms with workshops could handle tractors. We took the greatest trouble to explain it to the peasants. It was no use arguing with them. After you have said all you can to a peasant he says he must go home and consult his wife, and he must consult his herder.” This last was a new expression to me in this connection.
“After he has talked it over with them he always answers that he does not want the Collective Farm and he would rather do without the tractors.”
“These were what you call Kulaks?”
“Yes,” he said, but he did not repeat the word. After a pause, “It was all very bad and difficult—but necessary.”
“What happened?” I asked.
“Oh, well,” he said, “many of them agreed to come in with us. Some of them were given land of their own to cultivate in the province of Tomsk or the province of Irkutsk or farther north, but the great bulk were very unpopular and were wiped out by their labourers.”
There was a considerable pause. Then, “Not only have we vastly increased the food supply, but we have improved the quality of the grain beyond all measure. All kinds of grain used to be grown. Now no one is allowed to sow any but the standard Soviet grain from one end of our country to the other. If they do they are severely dealt with. This means another large increase in the food supply.”
I record as they come back to me these memories, and the strong impression I sustained at the moment of millions of men and women being blotted out or displaced for ever. A generation would no doubt come to whom their miseries were unknown, but it would be sure of having more to eat and bless Stalin’s name. I did not repeat Burke’s dictum, “If I cannot have reform without injustice, I will not have reform.” With the World War going on all round us it seemed vain to moralise aloud.
About 1 a.m. Cadogan arrived with the draft communiqué, and we set to work to put it into final form. A considerable sucking-pig was brought to the table. Hitherto Stalin had only tasted the dishes, but now it was half-past one in the morning and around his usual dinner hour. He invited Cadogan to join him in the conflict, and when my friend excused himself our host fell upon the victim single-handed. After this had been achieved he went abruptly into the next room to receive the reports from all sectors of the front, which were delivered to him from 2 a.m. onwards. It was about twenty minutes before he returned, and by that time we had the communiqué agreed. Finally, at 2.30 a.m. I said I must go. I had half an hour to drive to the villa, and as long to drive back to the airport. I had a splitting headache, which for me was very unusual. I still had General Anders to see. I begged Molotov not to come and see me off at dawn, for he was clearly tired out. He looked at me reproachfully, as if to say, “Do you really think I would fail to be there?”
We took off at 5.30 a.m. I was very glad to sleep in the plane, and I remember nothing of the landscape or journey till we reached the foot of the Caspian and began to climb over the Elburz Mountains. At Teheran I did not go to the Legation, but to the cool, quiet glades of the summer residence, high above the city. Here a great press of telegrams awaited me. I had planned a conference for the next day at Baghdad with most of our high authorities in Persia and Iraq, but I did not feel I could face the heat of Baghdad in the August noonday, and it was quite easy to change the venue to Cairo. I dined with the Legation party that night in the agreeable woodland, and was content to forget all cares till morning.