Book II - The War in Iberia
The Kremlin, Moscow
August 18
Bukharin briskly walked along the dimly lit hall that ran across the East-West axis of the decaying Yellow Palace of the Kremlin. The grandiose and ornately decorated building, a crumbling relic of Imperial Russia, was in dire need of restoration. However, like the extravagant Winter Palace in Leningrad, the once immaculate palaces of the Kremlin had been neglected by their new proletarian masters, and the inspiring renaissance façades, fine artwork and luxurious furnishings were literally decaying and fading away before one’s very eyes. But this did not bother the demure Bukharin. He did not appreciate unnecessary luxury, and so refused to spend scant state funds on the maintenance of what had been the pride and glory of the Romanov dynasty. As he walked along the long hall each morning from his modest one bedroom private apartment to his small, unimpressive study in the East Wing of the palace, he certainly noticed the peeling paint, cracked walls and fading curtains, but it was not something that would preoccupy his mind, for as soon as he entered his study, his mind was focused solely on the affairs of the state. As Bukharin entered the small waiting room adjoining his study, his private secretary rose from his desk and frowned.
“Good morning Chairman, Foreign Commissar Litvinov is waiting in your office.”
“Ah I see,” Bukharin smiled. “That explains that awfully grim face of yours Yuri.”
“Well he is certainly in a foul mood this morning Chairman.”
Bukharin’s smile grew even more. “Isn’t he always Yuri, isn’t he always?”
Bukharin walked into his office with the wide smile still planted firmly on his face. As he entered, he noticed that the Foreign Commissar, Maksim Litvinov, was seated facing his desk. Litvinov did not turn to face Bukharin as he came in.
“Good morning Maksim.” Bukharin still had his smile.
“Actually, quite the contrary.” Litvinov retorted in his characteristic hostile tone. With that, Bukharin’s smile instantly vanished. He sighed and sat down at his desk. Before he could say anything more, Litvinov launched into one of his tirades.
“See these?” Litvinov brandished a brown folder in front of Bukharin’s face. “These are telegrams from London and Paris. As I expected, the official announcement of our military involvement in Spain has attracted a hostile reaction from both the French and British governments. I warned you. This war in Spain is a folly. I told you nothing good would come of this, and now look!” Litvinov slammed the folder down on the desk. “All the progress that has been made over the past six months destroyed in one swoop. We are back to where we started.”
“I understand that you are frustrated Maksim,” Bukharin began, “but the coup has opened a unique opportunity for Communism. The workers of Spain desire to break free from the shackes of capitalism, and as Communists, it is our duty and responsibility to help them with all the strength we can possibly muster.”
“No need to regurgitate the propaganda. I’ve read it enough in the newspapers over the past few days, not to mention your endless speeches on the matter. We all know this isn‘t about liberating the workers of Spain from the clutches of Fascism, this is about gaining a strategic base in Western Europe. How can you do that while we are trying to gain Western acceptance for the Soviet Union? You pledged to improve relations with the Western powers, but now you have lampooned your own foreign policy by foolishly intervening in a war that has nothing to do with us. ” Litvinov then rose from his chair.
“Come now Maksim, you know as well as I do that…” Bukharin tried to explain himself, but Litvinov brusquely cut him short.
“I am afraid that I have to take my leave now. The British and French ambassadors have requested an urgent audience with me. I must prepare for the scathing verbal lashings I will shortly receive due to your foolish actions.” Litvinov picked up his attaché case and headed towards the door.
Bukharin managed a nervous laugh. “I don’t envy you Maksim.”
Litvinov stopped and turned around. He obviously did not appreciate Bukharin’s attempt at humour.
“This is a terrible mistake Nikolai, you will regret this.” Litvinov sneered.
“Maksim, I understand that you are not happy with my decision, but you have no choice but to accept it. Furthermore, you will respect my decisions no matter what your personal opinion might be.” Bukharin swiftly added.
Litvinov paused for a moment, and his eyes narrowed. “Let me remind you Comrade Nikolai, you are not Stalin.” His words were thick with contempt. “You cannot simply click your fingers and expect everyone to grovel at your feet. You have greatly angered and disillusioned many members of the Central Committee with your recent decision. I promise you, it will not be forgotten any time soon.” With that, he abruptly left, slamming the door behind him.
Bukharin sighed to himself, “and if I didn’t do this, I would have angered just as many members of the Central Committee, if not more.”
His eyes moved to the brown folder that Litvinov had left on his desk. He picked it up, and through it in the bin. He didn’t need to read the angry reactions from the French and British. He knew all too well that he had scuttled the delicate diplomatic relationship with London and Paris that he had been able to cultivate since coming becoming Chairman of the Sovnarkom in January. The British and French had lifted many of the trade restrictions that were placed on Russia in 1917, and as late as July the British Foreign and Trade Secretaries had hinted at Whitehall’s willingness to begin negotiations on a Trade Treaty that would have significantly benefited the Soviet economy. But that was all dead in the water now. Relations were back to where they were during the Stalinist era. He knew he had done terrible and perhaps irreversible damage, but he simply had no choice. He wanted the Soviet Union to be a major player on the world stage, he wanted his beloved country to be the equal of Britain and France. But that would never happen if he stayed within the restrictive boundaries drawn and imposed by the Western powers. This was the Soviet Union’s chance to rise to the international position it deserved, and Bukharin refused to waste the opportunity.