Toward the end of his long and distinguished career in the Soviet diplomatic service, Maxim Litvinov tantalized his foreign interlocutors with increasingly candid expressions of dissent from his employers' official line. There are several such incidents on record from May 1943 to February 1947-only some of which have been familiar to specialists in Soviet affairs though never adequately analyzed for what they are worth.1 Yet they raise altogether fundamental questions-about Litvinov and about the whole pattern of Russian behavior during the formative years of the cold war.

There is, to begin with, the obvious question of authenticity, particularly since some of the conversations took place on the premises of the Foreign Commissariat where walls were notorious for having ears. Nevertheless, although Litvinov's views must have been well known in the Kremlin, he was allowed to remain in an official function until August 1946, only to be sent into relatively comfortable retirement afterwards. Why was he able to speak his mind for so long in a country where this was a transgression punished swiftly and routinely regardless of rank?

So anomalous does Litvinov's position seem that his own widow, when queried about it in 1974, flatly denied that he could have possibly said what the various Western accounts of his talks claim he did.2 To be sure, allowance must always be made for a measure of distortion in any account written down from memory-no matter how fresh-after the event rather than recorded simultaneously on the spot. Even so, the different testimonies are unequivocal, independent of one another, and revealing of a consistent train of thought on the part of the Soviet statesman.

Nor were Litvinov's indiscretions of the sort governments sometimes plant in order to test each other's reactions or to influence each other's policies; they expressed truly independent opinion. Can new conclusions therefore be drawn about the extent of permissible dissent during the process of foreign policy formulation even in the heyday of Stalin's autocracy? And if there was a debate, what were the points of disagreement among the participants?

Admittedly, Litvinov after 1939 was no longer one of the inner circle responsible for the conduct of foreign affairs. But he still remained close enough to those who were to speak with authority; what he had to say about their perceptions and decisions therefore amounts to much more than a mere outsider's guess. Indeed, because of his sharp dissent from the conventional Soviet wisdom, he may be regarded as the first of the rare breed of Russian cold-war revisionists. And because of his unique position he brings into the controversy the kind of inside information about Soviet policy the absence of which has made their Western counterparts' attempts to apportion the blame for the conflict seem like so many exercises in make-believe.


Contrary to the legend created by his admirers, Litvinov at the height of his career before World War II did not stand for any particularly altruistic or otherwise morally superior brand of Soviet foreign policy. Like Stalin himself, whom he served for a decade as Foreign Commissar, he was an altogether unsentimental former revolutionary firmly dedicated to the pursuit of Russian raison d'état. As such, he was notably out of sympathy with the aspirations of smaller nations, particularly those which history had taught to beware of the Russian neighbor. In 1929, he gave his name to the Litvinov Protocol designed to bring them closer into Moscow's fold. Its deceptively reassuring nonaggression pledge was a device to diminish their reliance upon the West and to convince them about the superfluity of any mutual combinations as well.

Later on, the ascendancy of Hitler occasioned Litvinov's celebrated effort aimed at mobilizing international action to stop the Nazi dictator. Yet again, Russian self-interest was only too palpable in a campaign calculated to shift onto the Western powers the main risks of that uncertain enterprise, while sparing Moscow the dreaded military confrontation with its chief ideological adversary. And if the Soviet architect of collective security sincerely believed in collaboration with the West in the short run, he also did not hide his contempt for an ally his Marxist conviction had taught him was moribund in the long run.

Nor was the Foreign Commissar conspicuous in those days for any nonconformism within the Soviet hierarchy. Most of those tenuously documented instances when he supposedly differed with his superiors on specific policy issues antedated Stalin's absolute rule.3 As one of a mere handful of old Bolsheviks, Litvinov survived the Great Purge-probably because his removal would have been interpreted abroad as repudiation of the collective security scheme. Moscow was then so ardently pursuing. By the same token, he had to go once the ineffectiveness of that scheme had become obvious. But if he lost his job to Molotov in May 1939, this was less because he disapproved-as indeed he did-of Stalin's planned rapprochement with Germany than simply because his previous employment in the pursuit of the opposite course-not to speak of his Jewishness-had made him totally unacceptable to the Nazis.

In February 1941, Stalin underscored his pathetic efforts to deter Hitler's impending attack-alternating gestures of appeasement with those of defiance-by removing Litvinov also from the Party Central Committee-according to the official announcement because of "nonfulfillment of his obligations." Yet at the May Day parade three months later, Litvinov appeared in a place of honor,4 suggesting that the bankruptcy of the new policy was already evident.

All considered, Litvinov's career had so far been that of one among the autocrat's many replaceable servants; what did distinguish him from the type was-apart from his British-born wife-the knowledge of the outside world and the experience in dealing with foreigners which he had acquired during prolonged stays abroad. He was therefore the right person to be chosen to reassure the West once the honeymoon with Germany was over. In a special broadcast shortly after the Nazi invasion of June 1941, he condemned emphatically the notion that any collaboration with Hitler was possible-more emphatically, perhaps, than Stalin, the latest victim of that illusion, would have allowed him had Stalin not been himself so utterly dejected at that time.5 All the same, the former Foreign Commissar soon celebrated his political comeback when he assumed, on the day of Pearl Harbor, the sensitive post of the new Soviet Ambassador to Washington.

In the spring of 1943, during that murky period of the war when Stalin seemed intent to signal to Berlin his willingness to consider a compromise peace, Litvinov and the other diplomatic protagonist of pro-Western reputation, Ambassador to London Ivan M. Maisky, were ordered back to Moscow.6 Before his departure from Washington, Litvinov, on May 7, called on Under Secretary of State Sumner Welles. This was the first time he took a Westerner into his confidence to share his anxiety about the future of the alliance he had helped to forge.7

The Ambassador complained that he was unable to communicate with Stalin, whose isolation then bred a distorted view of the West and particularly an under-estimation of Western public opinion. He assured Welles that once back home he would do his best to improve matters but was not at all hopeful he could. He gave vent to his frustration about the rigidity of the whole Soviet system and especially about Molotov's tight grip on the Foreign Commissariat. He still abstained, however, from any specific criticism of Moscow's policies.

Although no longer in the limelight, Litvinov by no means relapsed into obscurity. Appointed Assistant Foreign Commissar, he took part in the October 1943 conference of foreign ministers in Moscow. On this occasion, he demonstrated his diplomatic skill by fending off Eden's attempts to discourage a Soviet quest for client states.8 His principal responsibility was now postwar planning, particularly the projected international security organization.

According to a popular myth, Stalin the realist regarded this project as little more than an amusing American folly, the main value of which lay in enabling him to exact from its obstinately idealistic sponsors more substantive concessions in return for his consent. But precisely because of the central role of the organization in the American scheme of things, the issue involved the entire pattern of future relations with the most powerful nation in the world-something on which the security of Russia's expected war gains might well hinge. Thus even though Litvinov's new rank was not elevated, his special assignment was an important one. And it was this assignment that eventually became the catalyst of his dissent.


At no time during the war was Stalin's trust in his allies greater-or, rather, his indelible mistrust of them more subdued-than in the wake of the Second Front, which his suspicious mind had construed as the litmus test of their good faith. Official Russian statements in the aftermath of the June 1944 Normandy landings eulogized the alliance, exuding confidence in the results of impending common victory. In July, Soviet ideas about the world organization-expected to be one of the main products of that victory-were publicized for the first time in an article which appeared in the Leningrad magazine Zvezda under the name of "N. Malinin."9 And four weeks later, Litvinov privately confirmed the opinion prevalent in Moscow diplomatic circles that he was actually the author. 10

The salient points of the article published ostensibly for the purpose of discussion reappeared with a stamp of official approval in the August 12 Soviet memorandum for the Dumbarton Oaks conference which was to lay the foundations of the future United Nations.11 Acknowledging the urgent need to replace the anemic League of Nations with a more vigorous body, both documents stressed that the key to its success was in the proper application of the principle of unanimity. This meant on the one hand that the ability of small nations to make the organization into a vehicle of their selfish interests would be effectively curtailed. On the other hand, however, the pursuit of such interests by the great powers was to be dignified by their prerogative to veto any decisions they disliked. As Litvinov later commented, "this was our way of demanding a guarantee of equality, a guarantee against combinations, and a rejection of the balance of power system."12

There were further concerns and aspirations inherent in both the article and the memorandum. The Russians demanded that the organization limit its activities strictly to security matters, especially leaving economic and social issues outside of its purview. Thus their membership would not necessitate exposure of the rigidly controlled but disrupted Soviet economy to the potentially unsettling impact of the more robust free enterprise system of the West. Similarly, the exclusion of social questions from the agenda would help to shelter the Soviet society from undesirable international scrutiny. It would also facilitate Moscow's management of foreign communist parties whose activities could be justified in Marxist terms as resulting from social tensions. But it was the issue of the veto that finally caused the Dumbarton Oaks conference to end in an impasse papered over by high-sounding generalities.

On August 22, when the conference was still in session but its breakdown already loomed on the horizon, Litvinov hinted for the first time to an outsider that a disagreement between his recommendations and the official policy existed. He told Norwegian Minister Rolf O. Andvord that he wished the views he had expressed in Zvezda were those of the Soviet government but that unfortunately his government favored a looser international organization.13

The Assistant Foreign Commissar further elaborated on those differences in a fascinating off-the-record interview with the American leftist journalist, Edgar Snow, on October 6.14 He explained that his original plan had been discarded; instead, at Dumbarton Oaks, Soviet representative Andrei A. Gromyko had pulled out of his pocket an altogether different scheme. Worse still, an attempt had not even been made to consult Washington and London about it in advance. These were, according to Litvinov, the true reasons why the conference turned out to be such a fiasco.

Litvinov's explanation was not entirely fair. He may not have known that the memorandum had been forwarded to the two governments through diplomatic channels a week before the conference opened. Moreover, its contents were not really all that different from those of the Zvezda article, so that neither contemporaries nor subsequent authors noticed any break in continuity.15 But the August 12 document did omit one of Litvinov's original suggestions-that the world organization be reinforced by a special pact binding the Big Three particularly closely together.

The omission might seem all the more surprising since Stalin himself was definitely attracted to the idea of a new Dreikaiserbündnis, congenial also to Roosevelt's pet notion of "world policemen." As late as August 9, in a conversation with visiting Polish Premier Stanislaw Mikolajczyk, he praised the "sword" about to be forged at Dumbarton Oaks to safeguard future peace.16 He was, of course, alluding to a prospective concert of the giants rather than to any cacophony of the dwarfs filling the halls of the United Nations by virtue of their sheer numbers. All the same, the Russians abstained from any specific proposal to institutionalize the concert.

Whether there had indeed been a shift of policy-as Litvinov suggested-or whether Moscow had merely vacillated-which is a more likely explanation-its behavior in August 1944 underscored a deeper dilemma: Should the Soviet Union anchor its relationship with the two Western powers in an institutional framework conducive to closer collaboration but implying also greater commitment? Or, should it forego the benefits and responsibilities of such collaboration, seeking instead the greatest possible freedom from compulsion in a loose system built upon the prerogative of veto? New military developments at that time added urgency to the dilemma, and Litvinov provided further commentary about the reasons why his government eventually preferred to choose the latter course.


In the late summer of 1944, a chain reaction was set into motion once the Red Army had opened its drive into countries where it was regarded as a conqueror rather than a liberator. This was a dramatic challenge to Soviet statesmanship to which the regime, never distinguished by generosity or tolerance toward weaker opponents, responded in conformity with its traditions. Understandably enough, its response generated misgivings about its intentions-misgivings in turn conducive to Moscow's reassessment of the alliance as a suitable vehicle of its interests.

The pattern emerged in all its melancholy logic as the Poles in August attempted to establish in Warsaw an independent government before the imminent arrival of Russian troops, and Stalin in turn proved unwilling to move fast enough to save them from annihilation by the Germans. At the same time, however, he moved only too fast into Romania and proceeded, without any advance notice to his allies, with the conquest of nonbelligerent Bulgaria in early September. This was the time Churchill saw his nightmare of "the Red Army spreading like cancer from one country to another" and Harriman began dispatching to Washington his ever more urgent warnings that the Soviet Union might become "a world bully."17

Litvinov, to be sure, did not see the situation in quite the same light. In his interview with Snow, he stated emphatically that he disagreed with his "government on many things, but we are absolutely right about Poland. In fact we have been too lenient if anything." He rather castigated what he regarded as the "revival of British traditional diplomacy in Europe . . . this time fully backed up by America." In his opinion:

Britain has never been willing to see a strong power on the continent . . . without organizing a counter-force against it. The idea of collaborating with the strong power is alien to her thinking. She is at work in France and the Lowlands doing that already. She will want to use her occupation of Germany for the same ends.

Litvinov was referring especially to the British-sponsored plan for an association of West European nations and had already predicted that "we won't be able to agree on a common program for Germany."

But, cautioning repeatedly that he was speaking merely for himself, the Soviet statesman was by no means inclined to put all the blame on others. Admitting regretfully that "we are drifting more and more in the same direction," he suggested that "diplomacy might have been able to do something to avoid it if we had made our purposes clear to the British and if we had made clear the limits of our needs, but now it is too late, suspicions are rife on both sides." And, trying to account for this conspicuous negligence by his government, he singled out startling deficiencies of some of its leading representatives.

Among the most revealing passages of Litvinov's long chat with Snow was his lament that the Foreign "Commissariat is run by only three men and none of them understand [sic] America or Britain," namely Molotov with his deputies Vyshinsky and Dekanozov. Deploring the trio's disastrously parochial outlook, he commented that Dekanozov, the ex-Ambassador to Nazi Germany, "sat next to Ribbentrop for a year and that's all he knows about foreign countries." Although Litvinov did not mention Stalin by name, he hinted that the supreme leader, too, was prone to certain misconceptions, especially to reading too much into occasional unfriendly statements in the free Western press. And implying that the responsibility for cultivating these misconceptions rested not so much with the dictator himself as with his entourage, he concluded that "absolutely the only way . . . to improve matters" was by direct talks between Stalin and Roosevelt.

The Assistant Foreign Commissar seemed to worry lest the President, too, might not be exposed to similar prejudicial influences by his respective aides. Indicating that the gist of Harriman's recent alarming messages to Washington was no secret among Soviet officials, Litvinov implored Snow not to mention their conversation to anyone in Moscow, especially not to the American Ambassador. Snow complied. Only after his return to the United States two months later did he send the record of the interview directly to Roosevelt. The President replied graciously that he was "tremendously interested," whereupon the document was filed without further action.18

But whatever the uncanny influence of his camarilla, Stalin himself did not seem to accept readily the disturbing proposition that his subjugation of East-Central Europe would necessarily lead to a clash with the West. Indeed, his November 6, 1944 speech conveyed in especially effusive terms a faith in the indestructibility of the alliance as the foundation of the postwar order.19 And a month later, Litvinov was given the opportunity to further develop his thoughts about the preconditions of that order. In a second "Malinin" article, he focused on "regionalism," which, as he had hinted to Snow, was another matter about which he differed with those who stood between him and Stalin.20

Litvinov advocated the creation of regional groupings within the framework of the United Nations but otherwise under the aegis of the great powers with paramount interests in the respective regions. He took pains to emphasize that he did not mean spheres of influence in which "from the point of view of peace nothing alluring can be found." It was different with "security zones" which he insisted would entail only mutually beneficial military arrangements between the great and the small powers. No matter how dubious this distinction, it was suggestive of a genuine concern lest excessive preoccupation with security lead to unrestrained competition and ultimately the partition of Europe into hostile blocs. The author pointedly warned that "by no means all states need enter one or another of the zones."

While directed primarily against the much-discussed West European bloc under British auspices, the warning applied more immediately to the Soviet Union. For Moscow, increasingly heavy-handed in manipulating the politics of the rapidly expanding area under its military control, had been carving out in East-Central Europe the very sphere of influence Litvinov loathed. At Yalta, Stalin behaved as if he believed the West had acquiesced to such practices-a misconception nourished in turn by his allies' negligence in making sufficiently clear to him what their purposes and the limits of their tolerance were. But once he went ahead and they remonstrated, the slide to hostility that Litvinov had predicted inevitably ensued.

After 1944, the Cassandra in the Foreign Commissariat never again found an outlet in print. The next time he opened his heart to a Western visitor-on April 5, 1945, to Cyrus L. Sulzberger of The New York Times-he sounded like "a regular Jeremiah, full of gloom."21 He mused that "first the Western powers make a mistake and rub us the wrong way. Then we make a mistake and rub you the wrong way."22 He was now thoroughly pessimistic-about the prospects of the United Nations and about the whole future course of East-West relations.


If Litvinov had so far attributed the spiraling cycle of action and reaction mainly to mutual misperception, for which he had held the West as much responsible as the East (if not more), he was soon to revise his estimate. The end of the European war, far from making the limits of Russia's goals clear (as he had wished), witnessed instead an expansion of its desiderata beyond those already on record: territory and bases in Turkey, a share in the administration of Italy's former African colonies, a role in the western Mediterranean. When Snow again came to Moscow in June 1945, he therefore heard from Litvinov a very different diagnosis of the incipient cold war.

Having asked the rhetorical question, "Why did you Americans wait till right now to begin opposing us in the Balkans and Eastern Europe?" the veteran diplomat also provided an answer: "You should have done this three years ago. Now it's too late and your complaints only arouse suspicion here."23 Thus Litvinov finally arrived at an interpretation which was as independent as it was eminently fair: his country's striving for power and influence too far in excess of its reasonable security requirements was the primary cause of conflict; the West's failure to resist that effort early enough was an important secondary one.

The Soviet statesman continued on the same pessimistic note in a subsequent talk with none other than Harriman, whom he had mistrusted so much only a year earlier. Having met him accidentally during a Moscow theater performance in November 1945, Litvinov deplored the recent breakdown of the London conference of foreign ministers. Now he no longer saw any hope of reversing the steady trend toward confrontation. Asked by the Ambassador what the United States could do to satisfy the Soviet Union, he replied: "Nothing." And when further questioned about what his own government could do to improve matters he gave the same curt answer, adding the enigmatic qualification: "I believe I know what should be done but I am powerless."24 Shortly afterwards, the foreign ministers' decision to hold their next meeting in the Soviet capital briefly elated the skeptic, but by May of the next year his gloom was deeper than ever before: "I now feel that the best that can be hoped for is a prolonged armed truce."25

On June 18, 1946, Litvinov gave another lengthy confession of his heresy to CBS correspondent Richard C. Hottelet, similar to that given to Snow almost two years earlier.26 Some of his themes remained the same: the belief that only a great-power condominium of the world could save the peace, and the conviction that a partition of Germany was inevitable. But his other views showed vividly how his dissent had grown as his direst predictions materialized.

The disillusioned prophet of collective security now singled out as the root cause of all evil Moscow's reversion to the antiquated concept of security through the possession of a land mass. Indeed, he made the alarming suggestion that its appetite might be insatiable. Hottelet could not believe his ears as his host, chafing in the ornate Soviet foreign service uniform, gravely pronounced the damning judgment: "If the West acceded to the current Soviet demands it would be faced, after a more or less short time, with the next series of demands." Having been made privy to such a shocking affidavit, the correspondent fully expected to be arrested as soon as he set foot on the street, or else to hear within the next few days that Litvinov had suddenly died, most likely in an accident.

Nothing so drastic happened, at least not immediately, but two months later the dissenter was finally dismissed and pensioned. In retrospect, Hottelet has speculated whether Litvinov might not have received advance notice of this shortly before the conversation; for during the interview, which took place in Litvinov's office on a hot summer day, a fire was blazing in the fireplace as if the old man had been in the process of burning his papers.27 But it is more plausible that the talk in which he set the record of his outspokenness was also the last straw that broke the camel's back.

In September 1946, the pensioner was seen at a diplomatic reception, apparently pleased that the "anomalous situation which he had occupied for such a long time had been rectified by his release from duties."28 But even after that, he could not resist speaking his mind if an opportunity arose. On another social occasion in February of the next year, he told British journalist Alexander Werth that at the end of the war Moscow had had two choices: either to cash in on the goodwill it had accumulated in the West, or to embark alone on the elusive quest for absolute security. Litvinov lamented that "they"-meaning those wily men in the Kremlin who would not listen to him-had refused to believe that goodwill could possibly constitute the lasting basis of any policy. Instead they had opted for the second alternative, trying to grab "all they could while the going was good."29

As Werth was listening, Vyshinsky passed by, giving the speaker an exceedingly dirty look, and that was the end, as far as we know, of Litvinov's indiscretions. A quarter of a century later, a revealing postscript to this extraordinary episode was provided by as authoritative a source as Nikita S. Khrushchev, by then himself out of grace and confiding his own unconventional views to a tape recorder for posterity's sake. He reported that when secret files had been examined and police officers questioned after Stalin's death they had revealed that "Beria's men" had devised a plan to dispose of Litvinov in a particularly dastardly way: like his fellow-Jew, actor Solomon M. Mikhaels, he was to be thrown in front of a truck and run over.30

The reasons why the dissenter was spared this gruesome end and eventually allowed to die of natural causes in 1952 may have been purely accidental. But they may have also been the result of his undoubtedly unique relationship with Stalin-a relationship which alone can account for his having survived for so long in the first place. Conceivably, the dictator-himself fundamentally insecure in the depth of his mind-respected what Louis Fischer has described as Litvinov's "intestinal courage."31 It is even more probable that Stalin was impressed by the diplomat's definite reluctance to put any blame on him personally: according to Ilya Ehrenburg, Litvinov was always reticent in expressing an opinion about the boss.32 But none of these personality traits would have counted if it had been in conflict with political considerations; it is therefore on the political level that our main conclusions must be drawn.


The spectacular manifestations of Litvinov's dissent should not obscure the extent of his basic agreement with Stalin. There was no quarrel between these two devotees of power politics about the axiom that the Soviet Union could and indeed should advance its international status by whatever means it saw fit; only about the fitness of the different means did they come to disagree. Neither saw anything wrong with twisting the arms of weaker nations-except, that is, if relations with the stronger ones might suffer excessive damage as a result. Thus, no matter how appealing his features as a man, Litvinov as a politician wore no halo.

The issue which vexed the Soviet leadership toward the end of World War II was not the desirability of an empire-that was taken for granted-but rather the ways and means of its possible integration into an international order compatible with the Western notions. Litvinov regarded Anglo-American support of any settlement his government would wish to enforce in East-Central Europe as indispensable for Russia's true security. And, keenly aware as he was of the depth of Western sympathy for his country's security needs, he was also convinced that such support could be obtained if only the limits of those needs were stated sensibly and clearly enough.

Nor was Stalin-a cautious tyrant despite all his excesses-rushing headlong to set his exhausted country on a collision course with its mighty coalition partners. Though inclined by nature and experience to expect the worst, he was not so reckless as to ignore all opportunities to avert it. Eager to have the cake of Western cooperation while eating his East Europeans, too, he temporized in search for a solution. Meanwhile it was in his paramount interest not to discourage subordinates from formulating their ideas on the subject-certainly not such knowledgeable ones as Litvinov was.

This was all the more advisable since the men in the dictator's closer entourage, particularly Molotov and his assistants, had a vested interest in stressing obstacles to any long-term accommodation with the West. After all, they were the ones entrusted with the actual conduct of policy and, consequently, vulnerable to being singled out-in conformity with Stalin's familiar habit-as scapegoats for its possible failure. As long as their taskmaster did not make up his mind, they were therefore the primary agents of that fateful drift which Litvinov deplored and to which Stalin himself eventually succumbed.

Thus Litvinov's testimony supports the conclusion that the Soviet leaders realized they had options and weighed them in good awareness of the long-term consequences. Reduced to essentials, the choice was between a policy of low tension, which would give a chance for the alliance to continue as the bulwark of the postwar order, and a policy of high tension, conducive to its ultimate breakdown. Litvinov's most original contribution to the cold-war debate is his contention that Moscow resorted to the latter course not so much because the Anglo-American attitude had stiffened-as the Western revisionists would have it-but rather because it had not stiffened enough. The choice, to be sure, was predetermined-not by external factors however, but by the Stalinist system and the mentality of the leaders it bred.

Under such circumstances, of course, Litvinov's ideas were the cry of a prophet in the wilderness. His was a mature notion that Soviet power and influence could best be promoted by cultivating areas of common interest by positive, albeit carefully circumscribed, collaboration with the West, rather than by allowing exaggerated suspicions to generate a drift toward confrontation. And it should also come as no surprise that, once the cold war had run its course, Stalin's successors would resurrect the Litvinov alternative for their brand of détente.


2 Author's conversation with Ivy Litvinov, Hove, Sussex, November 23, 1974.

3 Henry L. Roberts, "Maxim Litvinov," in Gordon A. Craig and Felix Gilbert (eds.), The Diplomats, 1919-1939, Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1953, p. 365.

4 Arthur U. Pope, Maxim Litvinoff, New York: L. B. Fischer, 1943, p. 460.

6 Vojtech Mastny, "Stalin and the Prospects of a Separate Peace in World War II," American Historical Review, December 1972, p. 1378.

8 Summary of the Proceedings of the Twelfth Session of the Tripartite Conference, October 30, 1943, FRUS 1943, I, Washington: GPO, 1963, p. 680.

9 English translation, "Regarding International Security Organization," Enclosure No. 1 to Dispatch No. 719, July 25, 1944, United States Embassy Moscow, Records of the Foreign Service Posts of the Department of State, RG-84, National Archives, Suitland, Maryland.

10 Harriman to Secretary of State, August 23, 1944, 711.9-Armistice, United States Embassy Moscow, ibid.

12 Record of interview with Litvinov, by Edgar Snow, October 6, 1944, Russia 1945-President's Secretary's File, RG-13, Franklin D. Roosevelt Library, Hyde Park, New York.

13 See footnote 10.

14 See footnote 12.

17 Lord Moran, Winston Churchill: The Struggle for Survival, 1940-1965, Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1966, p. 173; Harriman to Hopkins, September 9, 1944, FRUS 1944, IV, Washington: GPO, 1966, p. 989.

18 Snow to Roosevelt, December 28, 1944, and Roosevelt to Snow, January 2, 1945, Russia 1945-President's Secretary's File, RG-13, Franklin D. Roosevelt Library.

19 Speech of November 6, 1944, Moscow News, November 7, 1944.

21 Cyrus L. Sulzberger, A Long Row of Candles: Memoirs and Diaries (1934-1954), New York: Macmillan, 1969, p. 253.

22 Sulzberger, "Litvinov a Lonely Jeremiah Who Foresaw the 'Cold War,'" The New York Times, January 3, 1952, p. 9.

23 Edgar Snow, Journey to the Beginning, London: Gollancz, 1959, p. 357.

24 Harriman to Secretary of State, November 22, 1945, FRUS 1945, V, Washington: GPO, 1967, p. 921.

25 Harriman to Secretary of State, December 3, 1945, ibid., p. 922; Walter Bedell Smith to Secretary of State, May 24, 1946, FRUS 1946, VI, Washington: GPO, 1969, p. 763.

27 Author's conversation with Richard C. Hottelet, United Nations, New York, October 19, 1974.

28 Durbrow to Secretary of State, September 4, 1946, FRUS 1946, VI, p. 777.

29 Alexander Werth, Russia at War, 1941-1945, New York: Dutton, 1964, p. 938.

30 Khrushchev Remembers, Boston: Little, Brown, 1970, p. 262.

31 Louis Fischer, The Life and Death of Stalin, New York: Harper, 1952, p. 55.

32 Llya Ehrenburg, Post-War Years, 1945-1954, London: Macgibbon and Kee, 1966, p. 278.

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