Mightier Than the Sword

I first met Josef Stalin when I graduated from the Foreign Languages Institute in 1941. I was on a conveyor belt of graduates being awarded their degrees, and if you had told me then that I would spend the next thirteen years working for a monster who made Hitler look like a pacifist, I would not have believed it possible. But I have only myself to blame, because I would never have been offered a job in the Kremlin if I hadn’t come top of my class, and been awarded the Lenin Medal. If I’d come second, I would have joined my wife Yelena, taught English in a state school, and not been even a footnote in history.

Harry paused as he tried to recall a paragraph that began, For the first six months …

For the first six months, I worked in a small office in one of the many outer buildings within the red wall that encircled the 69 acres of the Kremlin. My job was to translate the leader’s speeches from Russian into English, without any idea if anyone ever read them. But then one day two members of the Secret Police (NKVD) appeared by my desk and ordered me to accompany them. I was led out of the building, across a courtyard, and into the Senate, a building I’d never entered before. I must have been searched a dozen times before I was allowed to enter a large office where I found myself in the presence of Comrade Stalin, the General Secretary of the Party. I towered above him, although I am only five foot nine, but what I remember most was those yellow eyes boring into mine. I hoped he couldn’t see that I was shaking. I learned years later that he became suspicious of any state employee who wasn’t shaking when they first appeared before him. Why did he want to see me? Clement Attlee had just been elected as the British prime minister, and Stalin wanted to know how it could be possible for such an insignificant little man (Attlee was an inch taller than Stalin) to replace Winston Churchill, whom he admired and respected. After I’d explained the vagaries of the British electoral system to him, all he said was, “That’s the ultimate proof that democracy doesn’t work.”

A steaming hot coffee, Harry’s second, and more sheets of paper of different sizes and shapes were supplied by the silent chief steward.

*   *   *

Sebastian took a cab to the High Court shortly after eleven. Just as he had been about to leave his office, Rachel had dropped the morning post and three more thick files on his desk. He tried to tell himself that things would return to normal next week. He couldn’t put off much longer telling Ross Buchanan that he intended to go to America and find out if he had the slightest chance of winning Samantha back, although he wasn’t even sure she would agree to see him. Ross had met Samantha on the Buckingham’s maiden voyage, and later described her as the best asset he’d ever let go.

“I didn’t let her go,” Seb had tried to explain, “and if I could get her back, I would. Whatever the cost.”