At Teheran, in 1943, I'm sitting waiting for the official portrait session to start, and suddenly I look, and there's Stalin. Beautiful cap, uniform. Somebody said he got his beige uniform from Saks Fifth Avenue. Nobody could prove or disprove it. He walked around, and he looked to me like a Balkan peasant. You know, slow-footed but very sure. I could have touched him. No expression. His face was pockmarked, like a piece of granite. His right hand was shriveled like the Kaiser’s. And then out comes Churchill in his air force uniform. He sits in a very comfortable armchair. He looked like a bad-tempered angel.
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