In 1946 the Foreign Press Liaison office had been a few blocks south of the Majestic, but according to Hitchen the current version was in a brand-new building on Makedonska Street. Russell breakfasted in the hotel, and then took the short walk, wondering if these days the Yugoslavs were faithfully aping Soviet methods when it came to dealing with the outside world. The fact that the British had given substantial aid to the partisans during their war might have left them feeling grateful, but somehow he doubted it.
He had no trouble finding the right office, but for almost an hour that was the limit of his achievement. The long wait to see someone was unexplained, and of Soviet proportions. His eventual interviewer, far from being apologetic, seemed almost insulted by Russell’s temerity in still being there. He was a muscular young man with cold blue eyes, prominent lips and a very flat nose, wearing clothes which he seemed to find too tight-every few seconds he would insert a finger to loosen his collar. A uniform would have suited him better-he looked like he’d been fighting for years, and enjoying it no end. The cigarettes he seemed to be chain-smoking reminded Russell of Artucci’s.
No name was offered. He examined Russell’s list of desirable interviewees, grunting incredulously at some, merely shaking his head at others, then abruptly got up and left the office. Another long wait ensued. Russell was beginning to think he’d been either forgotten or simply abandoned when the man returned with his list. ‘Tomorrow,’ was the verdict. ‘Nine o’clock.’
‘Here?’
A grudging nod affirmed as much.
Next morning Russell was back, fully expecting another long wait. But this time he was seen without much delay, and by an official who seemed almost human. Older than yesterday’s version, he had warmer eyes, clothes that fitted, and even introduced himself. His name was Popovic.
He handed Russell a copy of his own list. Most of the names-including the well-known leaders like Tito, Kardelj, and Djilas-had been neatly crossed out, but three had ticks beside them: Marko Srskic, Jovan Udovicki, and Vukasin Nedic. Srskic and Udovicki were known Tito loyalists and would presumably offer up the current Party line. But why had they included Nedic?
He soon found out.
‘I have taken liberty of arranging times,’ Popovic told him in very passable English, passing over another sheet of paper. Srskic and Udovicki were both down for that morning, at eleven and twelve respectively, in their offices at Party headquarters. Nedic was at three, at a different address, for which copious directions had been appended.
‘That is his home,’ Popovic pointed out. ‘Comrade Nedic has been ill, and remains on leave.’
‘Okay,’ Russell said, starting to get up.
‘There is more,’ Popovic said hurriedly, causing him to sit down again. ‘Comrades Srskic and Udovicki do not speak English, so an interpreter will be supplied for your interviews with them.’
‘I also speak German and Russian,’ Russell offered.
‘They do not,’ Popovic said firmly. ‘But Comrade Nedic does speak English. And Russian, too,’ he added, with what might have been the hint of a smile. ‘So you won’t need an interpreter. But you must supply us with a transcript of your interview, and any articles you wish to file from Belgrade must also be submitted for my approval. Is that clear?’
‘Indeed it is,’ Russell agreed.
‘You are sure?’ Popovic asked, sounding less than certain for the first time.
‘Oh, absolutely,’ Russell reassured him. ‘Abso-bloody-lutely,’ he murmured to himself as he walked back out to the street.
The YCP building was a ten-minute walk away. The interpreter, an attractive young woman wearing military fatigues, was waiting in reception, and she escorted him up to Marko Srskic’s third-floor office. The interviews with him and Udovicki proved fairly predictable, and the cynic in Russell wondered if they’d actually been scripted by the same author. On the record, both men affirmed their enormous respect for the first Workers’ State, and insisted that Yugoslavia would fulfil every obligation to all their Cominform allies. There had been friction, yes, but that was only to be expected among members of even the happiest family. Off the record-and they were only too happy to be so-both Yugoslavs comrades admitted how sick they were of their overbearing mentor, and how ready they were to go it alone, regardless of Soviet threats. It was clear to Russell that both official and unofficial messages were intended for public consumption, the first to tell the world how reasonable they were being, the second to let the Soviets know they wouldn’t shrink from conflict.
When he pressed them on how Yugoslav communism might differ from the Soviet model, the lack of any real answer was revealing. Russell was left with the impression that it wasn’t so much Soviet methods and policies that were unacceptable, as Soviet insistence that they should be followed. Tito’s communists needed to look different, and probably were different in some respects, but they weren’t by any stretch of the imagination either pro-Western or anti-communist. If they succeeded in declaring their independence, and somehow fashioning a slightly softer version of communism, both the Soviets and the Americans would have reason to worry.
Neither Youklis nor Serov would be pleased, which had to be good news for humanity.
After lunch at his cafe in the Marketplatz, Russell took the tram stipulated in Popovic’s instructions from a stop farther down Jugowitja, and managed to alight at the right corner in the old Turkish Town. As far as he could tell he wasn’t being followed, but then they knew where he was going. If there wasn’t someone waiting to pick up his trail when he left Nedic’s house, he’d be very surprised.
Popovic’s insistence on a transcript of the forthcoming interview was of course ridiculous-he knew full well that Russell could leave out whatever he chose. So why demand it? Russell could only think of one reason-to provide him and Nedic with a false sense of security. Thus encouraged, they would both blab like lunatics, and someone hidden in a cupboard would write it all down. Or even more likely, the place would be bugged. According to Shchepkin, these days the MGB had a string of science laboratories designing the things, and no doubt they’d passed some on to their Yugoslav disciples in the halcyon days that followed liberation.
Nedic answered the door himself, and he seemed to be alone in the house. He was a stout, balding man in his forties, with a red, drinker’s nose and suspicious eyes. His cooperation had been requested, he said in excellent English, and he would answer whatever questions were put to him, although he found it hard to believe that a Yugoslav communist and an American journalist would share enough common ground for any real understanding.
Having said his piece, Nedic led Russell through to a sparsely furnished room at the back. There were landscapes on two of the walls, and a portrait of a young girl on another. Outside the window, ship’s masts were visible.
Nedic briefly disappeared, then returned with a bottle and two glasses. After pouring two generous measures, he passed one across and carried his own to an armchair. ‘So begin.’
Russell asked him the same questions he’d asked the other two, and got almost identical answers. The difference lay in the intended audience: Srskic and Udovicki had been speaking to the world, while Nedic was addressing his Party enemies. If his house was bugged, he was literally broadcasting his innocence; if it wasn’t, he was relying on Russell to spread the news.
When they were finished, Russell walked across to the window. ‘It’s a wonderful view from here. It must be even better outside.’
Nedic just stood there, waiting for him to go.
‘The weather’s been really unusual today,’ Russell said, hoping it didn’t as ridiculous as he thought it did.
Nedic’s double-take was almost Chaplinesque. ‘I suppose it is a good view,’ he admitted. ‘Come, I’ll show you.’