◆ SpookStack

weemed to offer the sok hope of salvation from Fascism. Stem, now in his early seventies, inherited a Large fortune from his banking family in Worth Dakow. His first wife was the wealthy Marion Roseawald who later married Max Ascoli and helped him publish the Reporter maganme. Stern and Dodd were named by the Holly- wood counter-spy, Boris Morros, as pert of an American Communist net- work and in TQS) fied to Menico, picked up Paraguayan passports, removed their wealth from the United States and settled in Prague, Stern, thanks to hit business acumen, was of considerable value to the Communists, and, af feast until a few years ago, was handling several numbered bank accounts for the KGB and others, and he flew frequently between Zurich and Prague under ‘various Names. The Sterns own a grey Mercedes. They live in an ekegani mansion, formerly owned by a single family, Dow spiit up to house three famiires, at pumber 2 u Okrouhliku im the for- Mmerly luxurious Smichov quarter of Prague. Their ground-floor apartment includes a large living room, two bed- rooms, servants’ quarters, and an office for Stern’s business affairs. The woelle ore seme i At eee en, wes re DOVES i COC porary’ paintings, ali originals, but none by any painter familiar to me by name. There is a large unsigned photograph of Fidel Castro among others. The astonishing sight when I was there was a large bow! of oranges, at @ time when oranges in Prague were slraost as rare as moonsoil. One rumour, which circulated two or three years ago. and which J discounted as soon as I read ii, was that either they hed moved to Cuba, or were planning to. J had just come back from Havana which, as ghost towns go, today tivals _ Dawson City, Yukon. The Sterns, iike the rest of their class, Jove the sun- shine, but, again like the rest of their class, if they have to choose between sunshine and creature comfori, they will settle for the latter. Alfred Suern was extremely polite. Wis servant had left me in the living Toom to announce me, and Stern entered wearing a peal double-breas- ted grey suit and an unmistakably Western shirt. He accepted my prof- fered hand and, smiling, said, “Goodbye.”’ “I was wondering if...” “Goodbye.” “] won't take much of your tine. . .” “Goodbye.” And that is how } found myself out in the cold on u Okrouhiiky. The unofficial leader of the Ameri- can group in Prague - that is to say the One who makes the most noise - is ex-Colonel George S. Wheeler of the US. Army, who defected during the Berlin blockade. There is no doubt about Wheeler's reason for fight. An ‘economist from North Virginia, he sat in the four-power economic committee in Bertin, and under the pretext of de- Nazification, was quietly appointing Communist agents as labour jeaders. He escaped to the East just in time to . ie » on escape arresl on charges of conspiracy with the Russians He lives in a shabby house, again a former one-family mansion, which he shares eth six other families at Srobovoa 28, in the middle-class dis- tret of Vinohrady. His quarters are comparatively roomy, as his two dsughters, now grown and thoroughly Crechified, teach English at the uni versity. The last time I was in Prague, a few months ago, neither his tele- Phone nor doorbell was answered. ws an ¢arher visit | had asked re) him if he had been a Commun- Ist while in the Army, of was he converted after he had fied to Prague. His reply was, ““Wouldn’t the Americans like to know" revealing & Way-Ovi ANd rather pathetic egotism in aman few Americans have ever beard of, and most of those who have, have Jong forgotten. 1¢ was not the first time Thad encountered this sarne delusion in the minds of the defectors, a drearn- imagination in which they are still the central figures in the eye of the hurricane of world events, changing the course of a history in which they have made their own niche, believing that should they sudden)y materialise by enchantment in Regent Street or on Pennsylvania Avenue, there would be gasps, crowds, and all heads would eUFL. Colin Lawson saw Wheeler after I did, and described him as “a pathetic, old man doing something of other at - _ ak = ——_ - _ a Gay Burgess in Moscow, I956, one year after be defected. His suit is spotted with stains, the first sign of the personal decline that ended in his éesth the Academy of Science and going to work by tam”. Until two or three years ago, at any rate, he was deliver- ing anti-Amercan economic lectures to Cube and African students. i is an eerie twilight world, waver- ing uneasily on cither side of the borderline of treason. A few of them have secrets that we would love to hear end which they dare not tell. I suggested to John Pret that after his 20 years at the heart of the sensa- tional events of East Berlin, from the Dicckade io the Wail io the Brandi- Stoph confrontations, he could make a great deal of money from his memoirs, if be told all he knew. “Yes, he replied. “If™" And that was that, But his reply, redolent of mystery, the knowledge of dark secrets, and similar ambiguous out mvine may in fact cover the real reason. The defectors fear a return to the rat face. The rat race has become a persona) nightmare. It is equally crue thar the rat race would not have them. John Peet can return to England any time he wants, and often does. His brother, Stephen, works for BBC TY, But where would he make a living? Fleet Street may or may not be open to him, but he would have to compete with hundreds of redundant and newly unemployed journalists. He would be acceptable, presumably, to the Morning Star, oui then one jiis an- other snag. Peet, I suspect, is about as much a Communist as I am, and * aftes so of Berlin, he would probably not want to work among a band of ideologists in Farringdon Road. What began as 3 desperate romantic decision, a venture mio ihe great unknown, endi up as a job and a pay cheque. And yet perhaps there is a clear ideological explanation of defection on record. Late last year a remark- able book was published by Jonathan Cape calied Message From Moscow by “an Obeerver”, the recolt of articles serialised in The Sunday Times. The author's name was concealed, yet the clues to his identity abound, helped by - it seems 10 me after several read-@\, ings + rather than obscured by red herrings. He refers to living in student hostels, although this is an author whe is clearly long graduated. Jt is a brilli- ant work which reveals great love of the Russians, no lack af sympathy for the Communist sysiem, but a detesia- tion of the apperaichik, both Soviet and Tsarist, which from fear, cynicism. self-serving, hypocrisy, inefhciency and what Solzenytsin calis the “hate- vigilance” of the Party hacks, blights everything that is finest in the Russian peopl. The invasion of Czscho slovakia appalled him. ' Who is he? No correspondent or diplomat could have made such a deep And Been mere ertinn af Dussian it. SG DRTC. PODCITaGH Gi meee ale. The author, described as s Russian- speaking westerner, clearly still lives ist the Soviet Union, He is a professional & ‘riter wrth a trained journahst's ey. for incident and detail. Ali this cuts his identity lo no more than two or three - Ralph Parker told me, “We in Mos- cow are a village.” One passage on Page 240 defines, perhaps subcon- tciously, what may be the over. powering reason why well-cduca cultured and even syberitic westerners Choose to turn their backs on theif comforts and defect to Moscow, “Russia,” be says “has @ unique ability to stimulate foreign interest, even love. Perhaps because of the universality of its great literature and art, perhaps because of its size, strength and a kind of purity, Russia Tepresents the human condition and Siruggic of ibe human spirit more vividly than our own countries. We are fascinated by what is here: we want to be part of the struggle. We person- ally and often inveluntarily (my italics) identify with this people's difficulties and fate.” If T had incide information on the : @uthor’s identity, I would be ethically obliged to respect his anonymity. As . do not, | am entitled to a guess. Ma) fean could not have written it. Dagleish jacks the talent. Parker and Johnstone are dead, and could not have written it alive. Burchett would have po reason to conceal his identity; he would have writien the book for tfoney and been aware that his name on the cover would be more vaju- able than mere “Observer”. The old Moscow wire-service hands, Henry Shapiro and Ed Stevens, have been inere tog fong wo see the scene so vividly. I suggest that somewhere in the pie is discernible the finger of Kim Philby. —-