Stalin: A Biography

On vacation at Kholodnaya Rechka in autumn 1948, he got downright nostalgic and ordered arrangements to be made to enable his Gori schoolmates to stay with him. Peter Kapanadze, M. Titvinidze and Mikhail Dzeradze were invited. There was initial embarrassment when they arrived. Kapanadze broke the ice by expressing his condolence about the death of that ‘poor boy’, Stalin’s son Yakov. Stalin replied that he was but one parent among millions who had lost a relative. Kapanadze, who had business to attend to, left after a few days. There was much singing on subsequent evenings but Titvinidze and Dzeradze got fidgety before a week was up. Stalin asked whether they were bored. Titvinidze replied that they knew he had much work to do. Stalin took the hint. Soon they were packing their bags and, after a warm farewell, were driven home to Georgia.⁴ He recognised that the past could not be restored by artificial means, and he never saw his friends again.

His Politburo subordinates were keener guests by the Black Sea or at the Blizhnyaya dacha. His dinner parties were now nearly always allmale affairs. For the politicians, an invitation signified continued favour and prolonged life. Hours of eating and drinking would usually be followed by a film-show. Stalin also still liked to sing those Church trios with Molotov and Voroshilov — accompanied by Zhdanov at the pianoforte — even though his voice had lost its strength and accuracy.⁵ Otherwise, though, the dinners were raucous. As previously, he tried to get his guests hopelessly pickled. Endless toasts would be given to distinguished visitors, and Stalin, despite his demurrals, liked to receive praise.

Yet the soft potency of hospitality at the dachas could harden in an instant. As his political guests knew all too well, the Boss used occasions of hospitality to loosen tongues. Many needed little encouragement. Pravda editor Leonid Ilichëv never forgot the last occasion he went to Blizhnyaya. Stalin had called him at midnight, inviting him over to discuss a forthcoming article. There he came upon Beria, Malenkov and Molotov relaxing with the Leader. After an hour’s work all moved to a lavishly prepared dinner table. Ilichëv was poured a glass of Georgian wine while Beria helped himself to a brandy and proposed a toast to Stalin. Prudently, because he had not yet eaten, Ilichëv swigged only half the glass and picked up a bite to eat. But Beria had spotted a breach of etiquette: ‘You should drain your glass when drinking to comrade Stalin.’ When Ilichëv muttered his excuse, Beria exclaimed in a tragic tone: ‘Comrade Stalin, will you permit me to drink your health by draining his glass?’ Stalin’s eyes glistened derisively but he said nothing. Ilichëv gripped his glass tight. Beria tried to snatch it off him shouting: ‘I wish to drink to comrade Stalin!’ But Ilichëv held on to the glass and drank its contents.

Stalin acidulously announced that the next toast should be to Beria and asked why Ilichëv appeared reluctant to join in. The Pravda editor was speechless with fear. ‘Well, then, comrade Ilichëv,’ ventured the teasing Stalin, ‘I’ll drain your little glass and drink to our much respected friend Lavrenti.’ Ilichëv could not afford to stay out of the toasting round and, after getting plastered, became the butt of everyone’s ridicule. As light dawned, Malenkov helped him into his coat and his waiting car.

Stalin asked the Politburo members what they thought of Ilichëv as an editor. He was using tomfoolery to make a professional assessment. Beria opined that Ilichëv talked too freely; Malenkov added that a ‘more solid’ kind of person was needed. After sobering up, the editor found he had been sacked.⁶ Yet he never blamed Stalin; he failed entirely to understand that it was by this social device that Stalin scrutinised and demeaned his minions. Those closer to Stalin were more aware of what was going on. So long as he kept the Politburo divided, his dominance was secure. Jealousy, misunderstanding and dispute were in the despot’s regular tool-kit. Politburo members understood all this but could do nothing about it short of assassinating him. If ever such a thought crossed the mind of his subordinates, they swiftly dismissed it. The gamble would have been altogether too risky because he was guarded by men personally devoted to him. Even if a group of the politicians had got together in a conspiracy, there was always the probability that the others would gang up against them. Arrest would have been certain.