hings, result in numerous disagreements between Churchill, Marshal Stalin, and I, and I sincerely hope that this parley will also be responsible for the settling of these disputes. Despite this morose observation of mine, however, I am as optimistic as ever about the caucus' potential, which is certainly more than I can say for Churchill or Uncle Joe. I regained composure today, no longer tired or ill, and began to prepare myself for the session that occurred this evening. Hardly any time seemed to have gone by before I was notified of Stalin's arrival. His Black Packard, excellent car if I do say so myself, made its way up the curving driveway, and Stalin, looking sleepy and rather sawed-off, climbed out. I was not really surprised by his naturally haggard appearance, but I did not expect him, a man of great pride and unnerving ego, to look so weary and forlorn at such an important international function. I suppose part of it can be accounted for by his pessimism, but I cannot help wondering if he is becoming just as tired as I am of the war. Stalin found me waiting for him in my chair, positioned next to the window of a large room on the first floor that overlooked Livadia's garden. Not that the garden was much to look at this time of year, but anything seemed to be better than spending another dreary hour locked up in my quarters reviewing paper after paper after paper of proposed documents and possible discussion topics. Stalin greeted me through his interpreter, and, naturally, I did the same. I had not seen him since Tehran, and we engaged in a casual conversation, much to the chagrin of the already-overworked interpreter. Inevitably, the conversation slowly turned to business, and I soon had to force myself to put up with Stalin complaining about de Gaulle, which is not something new. I remember him at Tehran, going on and on about de Gaulle's unrealistic attempts to demand equality with him, Churchill, and I, and lis...
