As the Balkans buzzed with ominous reports that Russia was massing troops on the Yugoslav border, Stalin's archfoe, Marshal Tito, was enjoying a quiet holiday at his island stronghold of Brioni, in the upper Adriatic. There he received LIFE Photographer John Phillips, who had covered Tito and his partisans during the war. Phillips cabled:
I found Tito standing in the study of his villa. His appearance had not altered since the first time I met him five years back, at a time when he was also fighting for his life. His surroundings were, however, vastly different. Heavy, highly polished furniture which looked both cosy and somewhat bourgeois had replaced the rough tables, chairs and field telephone which furnished his cave headquarters.
Tito had a heavy tan, which made his white-streaked blond hair seem even lighter in color, but he did not look 57. His face was just as mobile as ever, and his harsh look would melt into a ready laugh as he used his hands to emphasize a point. He appeared to be enjoying life, and if he felt under any strain it was not apparent. He wore dazzling white flannel slacks and a pale blue sport shirt embroidered with the monogram "T."
"We will speak English," he said. "I only speak a little but we will get on." He beckoned me to sit down in a large armchair, leaned over and asked me cheerfully: "What do they say in America about my fight with the Cominform?" I replied: "They are very much interested, but they would like to know much more about it." Tito smiled and dropped the subject.
"Where is Tigar?" I asked him, referring to the Alsatian dog from which he is never separated. Tito's face suddenly grew very gentle. "You always remember him," he said. Stepping outside, we found Tigar lolling in the sun. Catching sight of his master, the dog leapt up and joyously wagged what remained of his close-cropped tail.
"We Go Fishing." Tito ordered his personal physician, Dr. Popovic, and his permanent companion, General Zezelj, to take me sightseeing. We toured in a brand-new Mercury. I remember that in Brioni's prewar days, the rich international set were permitted to use only bicycles.
At 5 o'clock the Mercury drove me to what had once been one of Europe's finest polo grounds. There was Tito, now in a flashy riding habit, trotting his handsome white mare, Mitzi. He put her into a gallop, came towards me at full tilt. As he reined up I said: "I hear you like to fish, Marshal." "We go fishing," he said. Briskly he swung Mitzi around and rode off to the villa. By the time we reached the rowboats which would take us to his launch, Tito had made another quick change and appeared in a beige business suit.
We took on board a couple of bottles of wine and a siphon. A slender young boy joined us. "Who is he?" I inquired. "Son," said Tito laconically. Aleksander, or Misa as everyone calls him, is a skinny child with big wide eyes. Later, before I took their picture, the dictator took a comb and smoothed down the boy's unruly hair.
At sunset Tito caught his first fish, which was soon followed by a second. In 90 minutes he caught seven. "Who is the best fisherman," he inquired gaily, "me or President Truman?"