I OFTEN wonder what his thoughts were at that moment. He came because he was ordered to and because he knew the alternative. He knew he was to die, but he obeyed because by so doing he could prolong life a little, and because there was always a chance.
At that moment I deeply regretted knowing no Russian. The twenty one who came in talked among themselves in short sentences. They saw us, but ignored us. Baker spoke, first in English and then in German. The one called Stalin understood the German, for he looked at Baker searchingly for a moment, and then turned away. Only one of them replied. This was Malik, the man who wrecked the old United Nations and then became Foreign Minister after Vishinsky was murdered. He ignored the German and spat out his reply in English.
"You will not live to gloat over us. He will kill you too, all of you!"
We can never be sure of what Kazu planned, because now—and of this I am certain—his plans changed. There was suddenly a stillness. We waited. Then I ran to the window and looked upward into the great face.
It had changed. A deep weariness and a bewilderment was upon it—as though Kazu had suddenly sickened of destruction and slaughter. His whispering was the roaring of winds as he said, "No—no. This is not the way—not Buddha's way. They must talk. They must understand each other. They must sit at tables and settle their differences, that is my mission."
Kazu took five steps. Below us was an airfield.
"Can you fly?" he asked us. Chamberlin had been an army pilot in the fifties. Kazu pushed the box up to a transport, an American DC8.
"Go in this," he said quite clearly. "Go in this plane until you are in Washington. Tell America about me. Tell America I am coming—that I am bringing—them. Tell America there must be—peace."
We scrambled out of the steel box, leaving the Russians in a miserable heap in one corner.