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Authors: Fitzroy MacLean
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the Commissariat of Foreign Affairs in Tiflis (Georgia, although it had been elevated to the dignity of a Soviet Socialist Republic, was not encouraged to have a foreign policy of its own), I decided that I had better in the first place get in touch with him. I found his office in a side street, in a house with a courtyard. Its occupant turned out to be a large, flabby man called Stark.
This surprised me, for when I had last heard of Stark, he had been Soviet Ambassador in Afghanistan, where for many years he was known to have intrigued actively and conscientiously against our interests and to have organized rebellion in India. He hastened to explain that he had only been transferred to a quieter post because of his health and for no other reason. I replied, perhaps not very tactfully, that there seemed to have been a good many transfers in the Soviet Diplomatic Service recently, and then, to give interest to the conversation, which seemed to be flagging a bit, I mentioned that, while in Baku, I had heard that Podolski, the Representative there of the Commissariat for Foreign Affairs and former Soviet Minister in Vienna, had been replaced only a few days before.
I have never seen a few words, casually spoken, have such an effect. Mr. Stark’s large, flabby face turned a dirty white. Clearly he was in the power of a very strong emotion, and from then onwards it became evident that, even if he had wanted to, he could not have kept his attention on the subject under discussion. From time to time he would make an effort to jerk himself back from the terrifyingspeculations in which he was engrossed; but it was no good. He could not bring his mind to bear on the question of the cemetery, at any rate not of that cemetery. For some reason, he evidently regarded Podolski’s fate as linked to his own, and the news of his removal, so short a time after his arrival at Baku, where he occupied the equivalent post to Stark and whither he, too, had been transferred from a more important post abroad, had filled him with terror for himself. After a time I gave up trying and took my leave. As I went down the stairs, I could hear him talking to his wife in low, hurried whispers. I did not see him again. Not long afterwards it was announced that he, too, had been replaced. His forebodings had been justified.
After this unsuccessful attempt to make use of the correct channels, I decided to address myself direct to the local authorities, in this case the Tiflis Municipal Soviet. It was installed in a large building on the main square of the town, opposite the seminary — now the Palace Hotel — where the young Stalin had received his education. I found it to be a hive of mostly misdirected activity. The officials were mostly Georgians, with a sprinkling of Armenians. Every office that I visited was filled with a depressed crowd of citizens in search of somewhere to live; from their remarks, I gathered that most of them were living five to a room. In the end, together with one or two of the more enterprising supplicants, I penetrated to the office of the Vice-President of the Soviet, an indolent-looking Armenian who was treated with exaggerated deference by his subordinates.
But it soon became clear that he was not interested, and I was just going to leave the building in despair when I was stopped by his secretary, a white-skinned, black-haired, Georgian girl of very considerable personal attractions. Her name, she said, was Tamara, and would I like to come to the cinema? This seemed too good an opportunity to miss and so, postponing my inquiries about the cemetery, I repaired with Tamara and some friends of hers to the special cinema run by the Tiflis Soviet for its employees. There we saw a historical film in Georgian depicting a rising of the Georgians against their Russian oppressors. It was received with enthusiasm by the Georgian audience and I could not help wondering if in their applause there was not perhaps a note of wishful
This surprised me, for when I had last heard of Stark, he had been Soviet Ambassador in Afghanistan, where for many years he was known to have intrigued actively and conscientiously against our interests and to have organized rebellion in India. He hastened to explain that he had only been transferred to a quieter post because of his health and for no other reason. I replied, perhaps not very tactfully, that there seemed to have been a good many transfers in the Soviet Diplomatic Service recently, and then, to give interest to the conversation, which seemed to be flagging a bit, I mentioned that, while in Baku, I had heard that Podolski, the Representative there of the Commissariat for Foreign Affairs and former Soviet Minister in Vienna, had been replaced only a few days before.
I have never seen a few words, casually spoken, have such an effect. Mr. Stark’s large, flabby face turned a dirty white. Clearly he was in the power of a very strong emotion, and from then onwards it became evident that, even if he had wanted to, he could not have kept his attention on the subject under discussion. From time to time he would make an effort to jerk himself back from the terrifyingspeculations in which he was engrossed; but it was no good. He could not bring his mind to bear on the question of the cemetery, at any rate not of that cemetery. For some reason, he evidently regarded Podolski’s fate as linked to his own, and the news of his removal, so short a time after his arrival at Baku, where he occupied the equivalent post to Stark and whither he, too, had been transferred from a more important post abroad, had filled him with terror for himself. After a time I gave up trying and took my leave. As I went down the stairs, I could hear him talking to his wife in low, hurried whispers. I did not see him again. Not long afterwards it was announced that he, too, had been replaced. His forebodings had been justified.
After this unsuccessful attempt to make use of the correct channels, I decided to address myself direct to the local authorities, in this case the Tiflis Municipal Soviet. It was installed in a large building on the main square of the town, opposite the seminary — now the Palace Hotel — where the young Stalin had received his education. I found it to be a hive of mostly misdirected activity. The officials were mostly Georgians, with a sprinkling of Armenians. Every office that I visited was filled with a depressed crowd of citizens in search of somewhere to live; from their remarks, I gathered that most of them were living five to a room. In the end, together with one or two of the more enterprising supplicants, I penetrated to the office of the Vice-President of the Soviet, an indolent-looking Armenian who was treated with exaggerated deference by his subordinates.
But it soon became clear that he was not interested, and I was just going to leave the building in despair when I was stopped by his secretary, a white-skinned, black-haired, Georgian girl of very considerable personal attractions. Her name, she said, was Tamara, and would I like to come to the cinema? This seemed too good an opportunity to miss and so, postponing my inquiries about the cemetery, I repaired with Tamara and some friends of hers to the special cinema run by the Tiflis Soviet for its employees. There we saw a historical film in Georgian depicting a rising of the Georgians against their Russian oppressors. It was received with enthusiasm by the Georgian audience and I could not help wondering if in their applause there was not perhaps a note of wishful
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