Vyacheslav Dalevich Karnegiev

All week long, the diplomats and states men came and went. Not only in Washington and New York, but across the nation, citizens got unaccustomed glimpses of the traveling salesmen of East and West who had come to the U.S. to consult on plans for a changing world and to at tend the tenth birthday party of the United Nations (see UNITED NATIONS).

India's Krishna Menon was the first to arrive. Fresh from Peking, he carried a proposition from the Red Chinese. Its gist: Chou Enlai, fearing U.S retaliation, has given up the notion of forcibly taking Formosa. The Red Chinese had shown their peaceful intentions by releasing four U.S. flyers (TIME, June 13); soon, Menon cooed, he thought the eleven other flyers still held prisoner in China would be released, too. In return, Menon hinted, it might be helpful if the Chinese Nationalists quietly abandoned Quemoy and Matsu.

Goo-Goo Eyes. Hard on Menon's heels was Germany's Konrad Adenauer. The Russians had been making goo-goo eyes at Germany, too, and Adenauer wanted to consult his American friends on coordinated action. In informal talks Adenauer, Secretary Dulles and the President reached complete agreement on the steps to be taken. Adenauer would "probably" accept his invitation to the Kremlin, but not until after the Geneva summit conference in July and not until the Russians had answered three pointed questions: 1) What does Russia propose to do about the German prisoners of war still behind the Iron Curtain? 2) What plans does Russia have for revising Germany's eastern frontier? and 3) What do the Russians intend to do about reunifying Germany?

The tough old Chancellor firmly rejected any notion that he might buy unification by neutralizing the German state. Said he: "Such a bargain is absolutely impossible, both for us, the Germans, and for Europe."

Fellow Travelers. By all odds the most interesting VIP to arrive in the U.S. last week was Soviet Foreign Minister Vyacheslav Molotov. It was difficult indeed for the free world to accept the picture of Chou giving pleasant little dinner parties for democratic diplomats in Bandung, or Khrushchev reeling with conviviality in Belgrade -- but Molotov's change of pace was almost unbelievable. Twenty years of treachery and invective toward the West had made Molotov a symbol of the fanatic, devious, hate-filled Old Bolshevik. Now, like good Communists everywhere, he was suddenly trying to win friends and influence people by sweetness and light.

"We are fellow travelers on a calmer sea," he told New York Times Editor Charles Merz during a chance encounter on "A" deck of the Queen Elizabeth. Arriving in the U.S. for the first time in 8-L- years, he had serene "greetings" for "the people of the world-famous city of New York, and with them all those in the United States who are in favor of lasting peace, international cooperation and consolidation of friendship." Molotov went sightseeing, had some pleasant comments to make about American paintings in the Metropolitan Museum of Art (see ART).

Instead of flying on to San Francisco, the Foreign Minister decided to see the country, and packed his 54-man entourage (including 13 bodyguards and the Foreign Minister of Poland) aboard three special Pullman cars. During a stopover in Chicago, he went rubbernecking, toured the city for five hours. Along Lake Shore Drive,, he suddenly left his car to walk for a while, then just as suddenly crossed the drive in the midst of rush-hour traffic. Automobiles were tied up for miles as his motorcade and police escort jockeyed through an illegal U-turn to keep up with the wandering diplomat.

Ten-Gallon Hats. During a three-mile drive through the huge South Side U.S. Steel works, Molotov corrected a detective who told him the plant's annual production was 4,500,000 tons of steel. "No," snapped the well-briefed Foreign Minister. "It is 5,500,000."

The Chicago tour included a visit to the odoriferous stockyards. A good breeze was blowing, and the Russian sniffed deeply. Said he: "It is not unpleasant."

The trip was not without some unpleasantness. In Omaha an angry crowd of Baltic refugees from Soviet tyranny picketed Molotov's train, and the Russian delegation stayed discreetly aboard. But in Cheyenne, Wyo. the Soviet diplomat hit the high spot of his tour when a reporter from the Denver Post presented him with a ten-gallon hat. The reporter had three Stetsons of different sizes, just to be sure the fit was right. Molotov first tried on a size 7 1/8, which was too snug. The newsman offered him a 7 1/2. That was just right. "Thank you. Thank you very much for the hat," beamed Molotov as he returned to his train. "We must all work for world peace."

Back in New York, French Foreign Minister Antoine Pinay told Dulles and Britain's Harold Macmillan another story of how easily Molotov changes hats. In France, on the way to the U.S., Pinay reported, Molotov had also been a regular sunshine boy. During a conversation with Pinay. he had smilingly suggested that in view of German rearmament it would be wise for France to cultivate her relations with Russia. France found that difficult. Pinay replied, because of the Kremlin's strong support of French Communists and their efforts to undermine French democracy. Instantly, the Russian's amiability melted, and it was the old, cynical Molotov, in his old hat, who answered: "You have your police."

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