Word: molotovs
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Dates: during 1950-1959
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...Soviet Russia's hierarchy, the tightest concentration of naked power in the world, a short, fat man from the southern Ural steppes named Georgy Maximilianovich Malenkov now stands just a level below the eminences where Joseph Stalin and Vyacheslav Molotov stand. He seems, in fact, to be pressing so hard on Comrade Number 2 that Western diplomats call him "Number...
Stalin and Molotov are Old Bolsheviks, the aging top-dog survivors of the conspiratorial crew who seized power 32 years ago. Malenkov, an adolescent when the Revolution began, is a New Bolshevik. His character was fashioned in the dark and stormy laboratory of civil war, purge trials, slave labor, thought control and the midnight calls of the secret police. He worked his way through the anonymous, self-anointed inner core of the party to its all-highest Politburo, to be Deputy Premier of the U.S.S.R. His rise to a position within touching distance of Stalin's mantle bears considerable...
...under the sharp eyes of the Communist Party's Central Committee and its Politburo-by Georgy Malenkov, the party's chief organizer. In the past two years, Malenkov has quietly risen to a place in the Soviet hierarchy second only to Joseph Stalin and Vyacheslav Molotov...
...electoral district. At the endless nominating rallies, a carefully picked worker, peasant or small party dignitary gets up and, in words almost identical in all Russia, nominates Joseph Stalin, father and friend of all voters. Stalin's nomination, which is wildly cheered, is invariably followed by nominations of Molotov, Malenkov & Co. Since each deputy in the Soviet can only represent one district, these nominations of bigwigs are mere puffs. Each of Russia's masters has his own home district which, as everyone knows in advance, he will represent, e.g., Stalin runs in the Stalin district in Moscow...
...Diplomat moves airily about from Moscow to Iran to London, casually drags in Stalin, Vishinsky and Molotov as if they were handy stage extras, uses embassies and the halls of Parliament as if they were interchangeable stage props, Lord Essex, half Blimpish charlatan, half rhesterfieldian dandy, is too close to caricature to convince even a reader of Pravda. MacGregor is too churlish, too slow-witted to be anyone's hero, let alone that of a sharp gal-of-all-embassies like Kathy Clive. Whatever a reader's politics, he may well be puzzled by the publisher...