Simon Montefiore - Stalin

At 2 p.m., Hitler received Molotov, Merkulov and Dekanozov for a dinner with Goebbels and Ribbentrop. The Russians were disappointed by Hitler’s austere menu that read simply: “Kraftbruhe, Fasan, Obstsalat”—beef tea, pheasant and fruit salad.

“The war is on so I don’t drink coffee,” Hitler explained, “because my people don’t drink coffee either. I don’t smoke, I don’t drink liquor.” Molotov added later: “It goes without saying that I was abstaining from nothing.”

Their second meeting, after the meal, lasted for a “bad-tempered” three hours. Molotov pressed Hitler for answers. Hitler accused Russia of greed. Nothing dented the stolid persistence of “Iron-Arse.” Molotov obeyed Stalin’s telegraphed instructions to explain that “all events from the Crimean War… to the landing of foreign troops during the Intervention [Civil War] mean Soviet security cannot be settled without… the Straits.”

Hitler almost lost his temper about his troops in Finland and Romania: “That’s a trifle!”

Molotov tartly commented that there was no need to speak roughly. But how could they agree on big issues when they failed to do so on small ones? Molotov noticed that Hitler “became agitated. I persisted. I wore him down.”

Hitler drew out his handkerchief, wiped the sweat off his upper lip and saw his guest to the door.

“I’m sure history will remember Stalin’s name forever,” he said.

“I don’t doubt it,” replied Molotov.

“So we should meet…” suggested Hitler vaguely, a meeting that never happened. “But I hope it will remember me too,” he added with mock-modesty, for he had just two days earlier signed his Directive No. 18 that moved the Soviet invasion to the top of his agenda, an enterprise that would guarantee his place in history.

“I don’t doubt it.”

Göring, Hess and Ribbentrop were the star guests at Molotov’s banquet, with caviar and vodka at the grand but faded Soviet Embassy, which was interrupted by the RAF.

“Our British friends are complaining they have not been invited to the party,” joked Ribbentrop as Göring stampeded like a bejewelled, scented bison through the crowd, out to his Mercedes. There was no air-raid shelter at the embassy so most of the Russians were driven back to the hotel. Several got lost and Molotov was shepherded to Ribbentrop’s private bunker. Here, to the music of the RAF bombs, and the cackle of AA-guns, the stuttering Russian sliced through the German’s florid promises. If, as Hitler said, Germany was waging a life-and-death struggle against England, Molotov suggested this must mean that Germany was fighting “for life” and England “for death.” Britain was “finished,” answered Ribbentrop.

“If that’s so, then why are we in this shelter and whose bombs are those falling?” Molotov responded.

Molotov departed next morning, having, as he told Stalin, achieved “nothing to boast of but… it does clarify the present mood of Hitler.”

Stalin congratulated Molotov on his defiance of Hitler: “How,” he asked, “did he put up with you telling him all this?” The answer was that Hitler did not: Molotov’s obstinate Balkan ambitions convinced Hitler that Stalin would soon challenge his European hegemony. Having wavered over attacking Russia, he now accelerated his plans. On 4 December, Operation Barbarossa was set for May 1941.

A few days later, Yakovlev, the aircraft designer, who had been with Molotov in Berlin, bumped into the Foreign Commissar in Stalin’s anteroom.

“Ah, here is the German!” joked Molotov. “We’ll both have to repent!”

“For what?” asked Yakovlev nervously.

“Well, did we dine with Hitler? We did. Did we shake hands with Goebbels? We did. We shall have to repent.” The Bolsheviks lived in a world of sin and repentance. When Stalin received Yakovlev, he ordered him to study Nazi planes: “Learn how to beat them.” 1

On 29 December 1940, eleven days after Hitler signed Directive No. 21 on Operation Barbarossa, Stalin’s spies alerted him to its existence. Stalin knew the USSR would not be ready for war until 1943 and hoped to delay it by frantic rearming and aggressive brinkmanship in the Balkans—but without provoking Hitler. The Führer, on the other hand, realized the urgency of his enterprise and that he had to secure the Balkans before he could attack Russia.

Stalin’s panic to produce the best weapons and create the best strategy created a new Terror around him. The countdown to war redoubled the unreal miasma of fear and ignorance at the heart of the Soviet power. At a Kremlin lunch, the magnates were just standing to leave when Stalin suddenly tore into them, complaining of the symptoms of his own dictatorship: “I am the only one dealing with all these problems. None of you could be bothered with them. I am out there by myself. Look at me: I am capable of learning… every day.”

Kalinin alone dared reply: “Somehow there’s never enough time!”

Stalin retorted furiously: “People are thoughtless… They’ll hear me out and go on just as before. But I’ll show you, if I ever lose my patience. You know very well I can do that. I’ll hit the fatsos so hard you’ll hear the crack for miles around!” He addressed himself especially to Kaganovich and Beria, who knew “very well” how hard Stalin could hit “the fatsos.” By the end, there were “tears in Voroshilov’s eyes.”

The more Stalin realized the parlous condition of his military, the more he floundered, both convinced of his own infallibility and oblivious of his technical ignorance. He supervised every detail of every weapon. His meetings became ever more disturbing, his conduct, thought Mikoyan, ever more “unhinged.”

There was a clear etiquette: it was deadly to disagree too much but, amazingly, his managers and generals stubbornly defended their expertise. “I would have been more afraid if I’d known more,” said one commissar later. Silence was often a virtue and veterans advised neophytes on how to behave and survive.

When Stalin sent the Naval Commissar, Nikolai Kuznetsov, to inspect the Far East, the Admiral complained to Zhdanov, the naval overlord, that he was too busy with his new job.

“The papers can wait,” replied Zhdanov. “I advise you not to say a word about them to Comrade Stalin.” [171] When Admiral Kuznetsov got to know him on their trip to the Far East, Zhdanov chatted about how much he enjoyed working with the navy. “I’d love to go [on a cruiser]. But it’s not always so easy to get away,” he said, adding with a smile, “I am more a river man than a seaman. A freshwater sailor as they say. But I love ships.” Kuznetsov admired Zhdanov who “did a great deal for the Navy.” But he was less helpful to the other services.

When a new official arrived who had never attended a Stalin meeting, he called out “Joseph Vissarionovich” when he wanted to speak. “Stalin looked in my direction and again I saw… an unfriendly expression on his face. Suddenly a whisper from the man sitting behind me explained everything: ‘Never call him by his name and patronymic. He only allows a very narrow circle of intimates to do that. To all of us, he is Stalin. Comrade Stalin.’” It was shrewder to keep silent. Kuznetsov was about to object to building a fleet of heavy cruisers when another official whispered kindly: “Watch your step! Don’t insist!” 2

On 23 December 1940 Stalin called meetings of the high command which might have been a good idea had they not been paralysed with fear. Marshal Timoshenko and his most dynamic general, Georgi Zhukov, who commanded the Kiev Military District, criticized the glaring weaknesses of Soviet strategy and proposed a return to the forbidden “deep operations” devised by the visionary Tukhachevsky. The powerful Zhdanov, Stalin’s chief adviser on everything from howitzers to ships, Finland to culture, sat in on the meetings and reported back to Stalin, who next day summoned the generals. The insomniac Stalin, who was so accustomed to nocturnal life that he could only sleep after 4 a.m., confessed that he had not slept at all the night before. Timoshenko replied nervously that Stalin had approved his speech.