If it is possible to win time, to get even a short respite for organizational work, we must obtain it.
—Lenin
Expert opinion in the West, hesitant at first to make any judgments at all on the goings-on in the Kremlin, last week was hardening into a conclusion: that the new Soviet peace offensive primarily reflects and responds to internal stress. The men in the Kremlin do not want anyone rocking the boat—either from inside or out—until the scuffle in the wheelhouse is over.
The man chosen to lull the rest of the world, to relax the external pressure in the cold war by seeming to give much and actually giving little, is an old and skilled hand at the game. He is Vyacheslav Mikhailovich Molotov, Foreign Minister of Russia and Communism's Old Reliable—who has been a member of the Politburo longer than anyone else (32 years).
The rest of the world's diplomats heartily dislike and healthily respect Vyacheslav Molotov. Alone of the top men in the Kremlin, he is familiar with lands and peoples beyond the control of the Red army. He alone has had to match the rigidities of Communist dogma with the realities of the undogmatic world outside. He has been the principal foreign agent of Communism since 1939. Most of the twists and somersaults of Soviet foreign policy have been his handiwork—in execution, and often in conception. But not necessarily in the basic decisions: Molotov is a born No. 2 man.
Aunty Molly. Once set in motion, however, robotlike Aunty Molly (as the British call Molotov) can be amazingly effective. An American, contrasting the high hopes aroused by the Russian peace offensive with the minimum so far conceded (an agreement to return 605 wounded U.N. prisoners), paid Molotov a grudging compliment: "They act gracious at parties, like other people.they're sort of polite about shooting down some of our flyers, Vishinsky quits using billingsgate in his speeches at the U.N.—and a lot of people conclude that a fine new day has dawned."
Last week Aunty Molly summoned a group of foreign emissaries to his white-walled ministry. For the first time in years, he chatted pleasantly—a task that is far from easy for a man whose infrequent smiles seem to make his face ache. When the new U.S. ambassador, Charles ("Chip") Bohlen, arrived in Moscow to take up his post, Molotov sent his chief of protocol to the airport to shake his hand. The same day he talked for 49 minutes with the British ambassador, and asked after Foreign Secretary Eden's gallbladder complaint. With such small gestures, and vague hints of bigger ones to come, did Vyacheslav Molotov peddle his latest bill of goods marked "Peace."
Light Out. Of all the shadowy figures in the Kremlin, Molotov is the man the world knows most about. In person, he is a small, unprepossessing, pigeon-toed man with golden pince-nez and the hardpan face of a gravedigger. Looking into his eyes, wrote British Diplomat Harold Nicolson, "is like looking into a refrigerator when the lights have gone out."