At Lucknow airport, Svetlana and Reva, shadowed by Mrs. Kassirova, were met by the family car and driven the three hours to remote Kalakankar, an ancient village on the edge of the Ganges. They arrived at the Raj Bhavan, the Palace of the Rajah, a huge white building at the end of a long driveway. It looked like a large steamer, docked and ready to sail. A guard stood in the yard with a raised spear beside the locked gates. The palace belonged to Dinesh Singh, who had inherited the role of rajah from his father, which meant that Brajesh and his brother Suresh had in effect become the poor relations. Dinesh held public office as the local parliamentarian and headed a family foundation, while his uncles lived in comparative poverty. Even so, they were still part of the local ruling family.
As soon as Svetlana, Reva, and Mrs. Kassirova arrived, the funeral ceremony for Brajesh began. Suresh took the urn from Svetlana’s arms.
A procession of men, led by Suresh, headed to the sandy shore. Only men were allowed to carry the ashes. Svetlana and the women watched from the terrace as the boats set out for the deep water. In the middle of the river, Brajesh’s ashes were slowly immersed in the Ganges. Svetlana found herself weeping the tears she had held back for months.3
Svetlana was invited to stay at the palace but chose instead to follow Brajesh’s brother Suresh to his more modest house nearby and was given the room where Brajesh had lived when he was in India. The house was crumbling, the impoverishment of its residents apparent, but the part they occupied was warm and cozy. Beside Svetlana’s room was a small terrace surrounded by ashoka trees and ten-foot cacti overlooking the sandy shores of the Ganges. It was like a sanctuary. She took to sitting there for hours. Here she felt “peaceful, so utterly well.”4
She felt as if she had returned to family. Everything was as Brajesh had described it. The beauty of the Ganges, the gardens, the dust, and all the family squabbles. She decided she would not return to Moscow on January 4 but stay in India. Her Indian visa had been stamped for one month, and the consular division in Moscow had approved this. She would insist on staying until that visa ran out on January 20. She wrote to Smirnov and Ambassador Benediktov the next morning, making her intentions clear, and told Mrs. Kassirova to take the letter to Delhi, a clever way of getting rid of her minder. Thinking her career was being jeopardized, Kassirova became hysterical but eventually complied. When Svetlana stood her ground, she was impossible to dissuade.
Svetlana had reached one of those transformative moments that seemed to recur in her life. After the exhaustion and sorrows of the last three years, the intrusions and constraints on her private life, she had reached a limit. This would be a turning point, though where she would turn was not yet clear. Her hope was that she would be allowed to live in Kalakankar. But how? She thought of her manuscript. Perhaps she could sell it. It was not, she believed, political; it was a family memoir, and yet she knew there would be intense public interest. The family she was talking about was Stalin’s. She wrote to Kaul, saying she intended to stay longer in Kalakankar and asking him to send the manuscript to her.
Suresh and his wife were deeply moved at how easily Svetlana adapted to their way of life. When asked by a journalist to characterize Svetlana, Suresh said:
She was, after all, the daughter of the one-time ruler of Russia, and we thought that perhaps we lived too simply here. But Svetlana is the simplest of women. She has not the slightest pretensions or airs about her. She would take household chores upon herself that my own wife is not accustomed to do. We have servants, but Svetlana washed and pressed her own clothing, helped clean and cut up vegetables and was not the least trouble to us. We hope she will come back. We learned to love her, and we believe she loves us.5
Svetlana entered wholeheartedly into Indian life, wearing a sari and eating the family’s vegetarian food. She walked about the village and visited with Brajesh’s old friends, but she had no illusions about the complexities and compromises of life in India. She found the caste system, with its seemingly ineradicable rules, disturbing. However run-down Suresh’s house was, his wife, Prakash, still had a retinue of servants, each with duties assigned by caste. Only the cook, who was a Brahman, could cook; another servant brought him the food, but was not permitted to cook; he also washed the dishes. Two indoor servants served at meals, but could not eat the same food; they also ironed the clothes; an untouchable washed the floor and cleaned the bathrooms. It was absurd, but everyone respected the tradition. When Svetlana tried to wash her own clothes, the servants concluded she was of “common origin” and therefore, to her amusement, treated her in a friendly manner. Still, it was impossible to walk through the village and not see the poverty. She resolved to found a small local hospital in Brajesh’s name, if she was permitted to stay and if she sold her manuscript. She was frustrated that Kaul had not sent it.
She wrote to Paris to Louba Krassin, the wife of the publisher Emmanuel d’Astier, who had visited her on at least four occasions in Moscow. She told Krassin she was in India and didn’t want to return to the USSR. Did she think there was a possibility of publishing her book abroad? Sending such a letter was a risk, but it seemed safer than asking anyone in India. A few days later, she received a cryptic telegram from Paris: YES, POSSIBLE.6
Within the week, Second Secretary Surov traveled to Kalakankar to bring Svetlana back. She was not to be persuaded. He reluctantly returned to Delhi without her.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Gandhi’s visit to the village was scheduled for January 16. Svetlana was determined to meet her, but suddenly she was receiving letters from Kaul to return to Delhi. Dinesh was avoiding her. She felt the reason was that the Soviet Embassy did not want her to meet the Indian prime minister. She wrote an angry letter to Kaul, asking why he had not sent the manuscript. Had he given it to the Soviet Embassy? This was typical of Svetlana. Whenever she thought the machinations of Moscow were operating, she lashed out in anger at anyone she supposed might be involved. Kaul was offended and wrote back testily. If she thought he could betray her trust, their friendship was over. He was probably being sincere, because if the Russian embassy officials had known of the manuscript’s existence, they would have escorted her immediately out of India.
Svetlana told Dinesh she planned to stay to the end of her visa, January 20, and then take the next plane back to Moscow. Because there was only one flight a week, this meant that her departure date would be January 26. In the company of Suresh Singh’s wife, Prakash, she did manage to meet Indira Gandhi when Mrs. Gandhi was campaigning in the area. When Svetlana expressed her desire to stay in the country, the prime minister was surprised but wished her luck. It was clear to Svetlana that Dinesh had never spoken to her. It was also clear that if the Soviets refused her request to stay on, the Indian government would not jeopardize relations with them by helping her. The whole thing was a show. Now Svetlana decided to advance the argument that by law Soviet citizens visiting relatives may extend their visas by two or three months. She would write to Kosygin.
While in Kalakankar, Svetlana read on her balcony overlooking the Ganges. One of the books she picked up from Suresh’s library was Ambassador’s Report by the American Chester Bowles. She was totally captivated. Bowles’s knowledge of India was inspiring, as was his reverence for Mahatma Gandhi.7 She was so enthusiastic about the book that Suresh’s family began to talk of a new plan. The Singhs’ son worked in Seattle as an engineer. Why didn’t she go to the United States? Then she could become an American citizen and return to India.
Svetlana became alarmed. If word leaked back to the Soviet Embassy of such an idea, she would be in grave trouble. And anyway, it wasn’t yet her idea. She dismissed this talk, saying it was absolutely not a step she would ever take. But the thought embedded itself in her mind. If only she could talk with Ambassador Chester Bowles. She began to visualize the embassy building back in Delhi, which she had passed so casually a month before. The idea “hovered, reappearing again and again, recalling itself to me with unexpected tenacity.”8
Second Se
cretary Surov returned to Kalakankar a third time and, repulsed again, sent her letter asking to stay directly to Moscow. It was a pointless gesture, she knew, but it delayed her departure. Finally Dinesh delivered her manuscript from Kaul. He was intensely curious about it. His wife had told him Svetlana had sent a letter to Paris. He asked if her intention was to send the manuscript to a French publisher. She was evasive. She warned him, however, that if the embassy officials knew of her manuscript, they would immediately confiscate it. He replied, “Are you sure they don’t already know about it?” She assured him that Kaul had said nothing.9
Out of the blue, Dinesh Singh told her he didn’t think the Americans would help her, though of course they’d publish the book and turn it into a movie. He said he knew Ambassador Bowles personally and found him charming, but that was not the right route to take. Clearly his wife had been relaying the household gossip. Svetlana assured him that all she wanted was to stay longer in India before returning to the USSR. She had sent a formal request to that effect. “It may work,” he said. She felt that Dinesh looked relieved.10
Again Second Secretary Surov visited. He said that she had already overstayed her travel permit. She had done what she had come to do. The Indian Ministry of Foreign Affairs had prolonged her visa to March 15. She must fly out of India on March 8.
Svetlana was still equivocating. Part of her wanted to begin a new life. Part of her was terrified at the prospect. How could she live? Was she counting too much on her manuscript as her ticket out? She was thinking of her children. Could she part from them? If she left the USSR, she would never be allowed to return, and things would have to change immeasurably there before her children would be permitted to visit her.
She thought of the loving letter she had just received from her son: “Mama, my dear, hello! . . . Here everything is in good shape. With the documents you sent us, we obtained coupons for ready-cooked dinners. Everything is well, except that Katya misses you terribly. I too miss you very much and want to see you.”11
Finally she agreed to go back to Delhi with Surov. As she was getting into the jeep to leave Kalakankar, she glanced back at the village and told Suresh Singh that one day she would return. He smiled warmly. He didn’t understand that this would be possible only if she decided never to return to her family and her country.
Arriving in Delhi on March 5, she was met by Dinesh Singh, who had become extremely friendly—he seemed delighted that she was finally leaving. He assured her that next year he would invite her and her children back to Delhi. She was skeptical. After she had so long delayed her return, the Soviets would not allow her out again. Although he offered her the run of his house until her departure on March 8, she said she preferred to stay at the embassy guesthouse.
She spent the evening of March 5 at the home of Ambassador Kaul and his family. It was an anxious evening for Svetlana. He, too, seemed glad to be getting rid of her. Oddly enough, he asked whether she had her manuscript with her. It was a curious question. Instinctively she replied that she had sent it to Paris. She was terrified lest the Soviet Embassy should learn of its existence and take it from her or that Kaul would somehow intuit the plan that was slowly forming in her mind—could she possibly go to the US Embassy?
The morning of March 6, she was picked up by Surov, who drove her to the guesthouse, where everything was in chaos. The embassy was preparing for the celebration of International Women’s Day. There would be a lecture and an artistic program. The thought of a vodka-filled evening appalled her. The embassy women in the yard were talking of shopping, of all the things they would buy and then sell on the black market in Moscow. It was always the same.
Surov took her to lunch at Ambassador Benediktov’s home. The meal was elaborate, but she barely touched the food, having become accustomed to her Indian diet. Benediktov was contemptuous of her vegetarianism, which he considered an affectation, and railed about India’s backwardness. He, too, would be glad to be rid of her. He invited her to their soiree for International Women’s Day. She replied that she had promised to dine with the Kauls. “That English agent!” he had said. But it was an automatic response. The Indian press considered Kaul to be in the pocket of the Soviet Embassy.
Benediktov congratulated her on the success of her stay and himself on the “concessions” they had made: “It seems to me you have nothing to complain about.” Svetlana held back the retort that was on the tip of her tongue. She needed to ask this man for her passport. “Well here I am,” she said, “all packed with gifts for my family. Now may I have my passport and papers returned to me?”12 To her shock, Benediktov commanded Surov to fetch them. This was against regulations. Passports were to be given back to Soviet citizens only at the airport. This mistake can be explained only by Benediktov’s relief that Svetlana was apparently leaving. She had played her part well.
She returned to her guesthouse at three p.m. Her first idea was to dine with the Kauls and go to the American Embassy the next morning. She packed her large suitcase with the manuscript and the bag of presents. She went out to the Indian watchman and asked how to call a taxi. He showed her where the telephone box was: outside, under the staircase. She would phone a taxi the next morning after breakfast. She was certain no one suspected her plan.
She paced the room. She ironed the scarf she had received from Preeti Kaul. She gazed at the presents she had bought for her children. She worked on logistics. Her coat over her left arm, dragging her big suitcase, the taxi call.
Suddenly it occurred to her. Why wait? It must be now. Otherwise, she might change her mind. In the morning, there would be people about. She would lose her nerve. It would be better to leave under cover of darkness. The Soviet Embassy was holding a reception to honor Marshal Matvei Zakharov, chief of staff of the Russian armed forces.13 The International Women’s Day party was already in full swing at the embassy club. Everyone would be getting drunker. Benediktov and his staff assumed she was dining with the Kauls. No one would look for her. She would leave tonight.
She decided to take only her small suitcase, in which she packed a guesthouse towel, the soap dish, a pair of shoes, a summer coat, and the bag in which she had carried the urn of Brajesh Singh’s ashes. Into this she put her manuscript.14 She unpacked her large suitcase, scattering its contents about, so that to anyone looking into her room, it would appear as if she were still in the process of packing. On the bed lay her presents for her children: a hookah from Benares and gold embroidered slippers for Joseph and his wife, bracelets from Lucknow for Katya. She doubted they would ever get those presents, and for a moment, her resolution faltered.15
It was shortly after six p.m. She went to call the taxi. It was dark under the stairs. She fumbled at the numbers. The dispatcher asked where she was. The Russian Embassy? No, the Russian Guesthouse.
She waited at the gate. No taxi came. Embassy guests passed in cars. Her terror built; she was afraid that Preeti would arrive to pick her up for dinner, that she would be noticed loitering. Everything would fall apart. After twenty minutes, she phoned again. A cab appeared. She returned to the guesthouse for her small suitcase and then climbed into the backseat. “Do you know the American Embassy?” she asked. “Why, yes,” the driver said, surprised, “it’s just nearby.” But as if he understood what she was up to, he first turned into a dark alley, passed the Soviet compound, and only then entered the long driveway of the US Embassy. She glanced at the beautiful pool. Suddenly she was standing at the bottom of the wide staircase. She climbed it on shaky legs. The young marine guard got up from his desk and unlocked the door. As he tried to explain that the embassy was closed at this hour, she showed him her Soviet passport. Without speaking he led her to a small room, sat her down, and told her to wait. Then he disappeared into the far reaches of the building.
PART THREE
Flight to America
Chapter 16
Italian Comic Opera
The CIA officer Robert Rayle, posted to the embassy in Delhi, was charged with spi
riting Svetlana out of India before the Soviets discovered that she had defected.
(Courtesy of Robert and Ramona Rayle)
The ten-hour time difference between Washington and New Delhi worked in Svetlana’s favor. She was already in the air on her way to Rome when the diplomatic machinery in Washington went into overdrive. Undersecretary of State Foy Kohler was obviously angry at Ambassador Bowles’s precipitate decision to help the defector. He began damage control immediately.
On March 6, Secretary of State Dean Rusk sent a secret flash telegram to Llewellyn Thompson, the US ambassador to the Soviet Union, to inform him that Svetlana Iosifovna Stalin, daughter of Joseph Stalin, had requested asylum in the United States. She was traveling on an open ticket to Rome in the company of an embassy officer. She had no reservation beyond Rome. Rusk explained:
Ambassador Reinhardt [US ambassador to Italy] has been advised that we feel it would be undesirable for Svetlana to proceed to the US, both politically and from point of view of her own security. We consider it urgent that every effort be made arrange other safer asylum in Switzerland, Spain, or Italy and have asked Ambassador Reinhardt to make every effort to have her persuaded that such a course [is] in her best interest.1
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