Deep down inside, Stalin knew why in his sleep he was tormented by nightmares, though it was hard for him to admit it to himself. To admit why he was choked with fear at night, or why he awoke each morning with a heavy heart and even at midday still felt ill at ease. Three years ago, his only friend, the only like-minded person in Europe, in the whole wide world, had turned against him. Stalin had rated Hitler a lot more highly than he had the British and French leaders, who were just a lot of hot air.
Back then, just as it was today, it had been a warm June night, the shortest night of the year. No one would ever understand how much Stalin had suffered then. And the main reason for his pain was not that war had come to the USSR, but rather that he, who was so sagacious and shrewd, had be
