10.(25-26) Moscow Next - And Joe Stalin

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25.Destination Moscow

The Kremlin is next in my diplomatic tour de force. The idea behind the Japan-Soviet Neutrality pact – disarming Russian suspicions then stabbing them in back – was mine. The Emperor’s aim was different. He thought that diplomatically neutralizing Russia would free him to follow his emotional bent to attack the Anglo-Saxon. But I hoped to convince him to authorize Operation Strike North into Soviet underbelly coordinated with German invasion in west, not in addition to but instead of Japan's attacking Pearl Harbor. The Pact would be useful for the Strike North idea by making Stalin think we would not attack and causing him to reduce Red Army forces on the border. This would prevent recurrence of the 1939 disasters at Nomonhan and Lake Khasan where the Imperial Army was outgunned and outfought when it tried small scale invasions. Any attempt of our Army to strike north must be swiftly successful else it would be humiliatingly abandoned as in ’39, and those who advocated it disgraced.

   I considered also that the Pact might save Japan from Soviet occupation and division after our defeat, which I was certain of if the Emperor persisted in his plan to provoke America into war by attacking Hawaii. But, even before I heard Adolf’s plan, it was my idea to deal with our possible defeat by America by making it an opportunity to recoup our fortunes by a post-War playing off of America against Russia. And we could only do that if we stayed united as one country. Now, after hearing Adolf, I was more intent than ever to succeed at the Strike North strategy and to prevent the Pearl Harbor attack.

26. Metropole

My train pulls into Moscow Central Station. As I step off, onto the platform, a short, squat man in ill-fitting Red Army Field Marshal uniform confronts me. We Japanese, creatures of Confucian culture are formal and we endure grimly even to shake hand, so imagine my feeling on being bear-hugged. I recognize Stalin even on first-meet; but, having seen him in heroic painting, touched-up photo and gigantic statue does not prepare one for the surprise of his physical appearance. Strip him of the Marshal’s uniform and the worshipful entourage, and he passes for middle-eastern ditch-digger. 

   Peasant! I think, expecting the mind of a clod.

   Through interpreters we exchange mutual admiration while newsmen hover and flash-powder explodes to catch us in the usual photos to be viewed by the respective, respectful, respectable boobs of both our nations and the world. As Stalin repeats his bear hug for a photo I am put in mind of the Marx Brothers Groucho and Chico, playing con men meeting and picking each other's pockets.

   We are whisked to Hotel Metropole in fleet of black Packards preceded and followed by motorcyclists in uniform. Moscow is shoddy compared to Berlin: the old buildings, picturesque in classical style, are in need of external cleaning while the post-Revolution buildings are oppressively massive in typical totalitarian style.

   My personal interpreter, an attractive young woman, engages our Russian driver, Valentine, a stout white-haired fellow, in spirited conversation. Valentine turns out to speak perfect Japanese having been raised on South Sakhalin before we Japanese grabbed it and called it Karafuto. With familiar joviality, he claims he is nothing more than the Simple-Simon son of Ukrainian brick worker exiled by Czar to Sakhalin, and now thanks to the triumph of the Revolution and most thanks to Great Leader, Comrade Stalin, he has the elegant, well-paid position of Peoples Driver. The interpreter informs me that a chauffeur is the most envied job in USSR. As there are no private cars and since all the government cars are old and American-made, the few drivers, who also serve as mechanics for the mysterious American machines, are in much demand. Not only does the government pay a driver more than a doctor, the driver also privately profits on the side by using government car as after-hour taxi, private limousine and Sunday tour machine.

   Valentine is not only assigned to drive us, he acts as chaperone and has the hotel room next to our suite. Of course, he is a Colonel in NKVD, a top operative whose specialty is spying on Japanese diplomat, an example of Soviet double-face – giving high ranking foreigner a picture of Russian as incompetent happy-go-lucky, inefficient stumble bum in order to produce contemptuous carelessness which is taken advantage of.

   The Metropole is Czarist Russian style: massive, appearing built for giants. At entrance a doorman, built like sumo wrestler and clothed in epaulet uniform incomparably more elegant than Stalin's, opens car door. With Valentine in lead we enter a plush lobby scene straight out of Grand Hotel. Our suite features Louis XIV bed, Chippendale chairs, Afghan carpet, a beautiful candelabra and wall fixtures of gold. My secretary, a fastidious young Miss is overjoyed to find a bidet in bathroom. I understand this elegance is meant to flabbergast foreigners about amenities in Communist Paradise but we soon discover such luxury is not shared with the workers. That evening as I relax after bath, the secretary bursts in! A hotel maid who is her size, as she helped with unpacking, suddenly held up the woman’s obviously used panties and begged to buy them from her. “But they are used!” the secretary exclaimed in dismay. “Only slightly used, Madam,” the maid replies, “but so daintily designed and such nice fabric; oh Madam, may I have them please? You will not regret my offer.”
   Out of pity the Secretary handed the panties over to the maid freely.
   It is common for visitors to Moscow to be literally stripped of underwear by Russians who sell them on black market. ‘Slightly used’ is code for black market good. Valentine himself told me a Moscow joke about an old Jew arrested for selling ‘slightly used’ toilet paper outside the Kremlin.

   First night we dine in the Grand Restaurant. ‘We’ is me, Valentine, Major Kato the Imperial Army aide the Army sent to spy on me, my secretary and the interpreter. The ceiling is 10 meters high and hung with glistening chandeliers from Palace of the great Catherine. In mezzanine alcove, a classical ensemble plays Rimsky-Korsakoff while waiters in black jackets glide between tables serving caviar, champagne, shish-kebab, borscht and other Russian delights. Five tables are reserved for our party and between courses when not entertained by music we are shown various acts – magician, Cossack dancers, sword swallow and clown. Stalin is pulling out all stops to put our delegation in a pleasant mind-set. 
   Continue Midnight in Moscow now by clicking 10.(27-29) Fate of the World War - End Slim Novel...