Word: bramuglia
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Every statesman, in his first go at negotiating with Russia, thinks that he will succeed where others have failed. Argentina's Juan Bramuglia was no exception. Nervously chain-smoking his black Argentine cigarettes, he spent two weeks shuttling back & forth between the Soviet Embassy and the headquarters of the Western delegations, trying to work out a compromise for the Berlin crisis...
This week, on the morning after U.N.'s third anniversary, Vishinsky informed Bramuglia that he had a "counter-proposal." Bramuglia hastily called the principals into his suite at the plush Hotel George V, locked the door, and turned the night latch. But the Russian "counterproposal" was no secret. It was the same old story: Russia wanted its currency introduced first-then it promised to lift the blockade...
When the Council finally convened, President Bramuglia put the Little Six compromise proposal to a vote. Arc lights blazed and a hundred cameras clicked as Vishinsky's hand, pausing on its way to flick an invisible speck of dust from its owner's black suit, sharply stabbed the air. "We cannot accept . . ." said Vishinsky. It was Russia's 28th veto. Said the U.S.'s Philip Jessup: "In the judgment of the world . . . if the Berlin question is not settled . . . the responsibility of failure will rest squarely and unavoidably on the government of the U.S.S.R...
Among Latin representatives: Pan American Union's Director Alberto Lleras Camargo, working on his home field (he is a Bogotano), Argentina's Foreign Minister Juan Bramuglia, Brazil's ex-Foreign Minister Joao Neves da Fontoura, Mexico's Foreign Minister Jaime Torres Bodet. They did not know how long the parley would last, but they were prepared for a good many weeks in Bogota...
...third of the world's nations (and Canada if it liked) would bind themselves to resist attack against any one of them, whether by an outside country or by a member republic. Again & again the Argentines had given in on committee disputes. Sharp, thin Foreign Minister Juan A. Bramuglia, sipping maté from a gourd in his Suite 400, had reined in his delegates. His orders flashed by day and by night. An Argentine delegate skidding down the fourth-floor corridor in his shorts to respond to a late-night summons nearly bowled over a startled female. "That...