The Broncobuster

As the Balkans buzzed with ominous reports that Russia was massing troops on the Yugoslav border, Stalin's archfoe, Marshal Tito, was enjoying a quiet holiday at his island stronghold of Brioni, in the upper Adriatic. There he received LIFE Photographer John Phillips, who had covered Tito and his partisans during the war. Phillips cabled:

I found Tito standing in the study of his villa. His appearance had not altered since the first time I met him five years back, at a time when he was also fighting for his life. His surroundings were, however, vastly different. Heavy, highly polished furniture which looked both cosy and somewhat bourgeois had replaced the rough tables, chairs and field telephone which furnished his cave headquarters.

Tito had a heavy tan, which made his white-streaked blond hair seem even lighter in color, but he did not look 57. His face was just as mobile as ever, and his harsh look would melt into a ready laugh as he used his hands to emphasize a point. He appeared to be enjoying life, and if he felt under any strain it was not apparent. He wore dazzling white flannel slacks and a pale blue sport shirt embroidered with the monogram "T."

"We will speak English," he said. "I only speak a little but we will get on." He beckoned me to sit down in a large armchair, leaned over and asked me cheerfully: "What do they say in America about my fight with the Cominform?" I replied: "They are very much interested, but they would like to know much more about it." Tito smiled and dropped the subject.

"Where is Tigar?" I asked him, referring to the Alsatian dog from which he is never separated. Tito's face suddenly grew very gentle. "You always remember him," he said. Stepping outside, we found Tigar lolling in the sun. Catching sight of his master, the dog leapt up and joyously wagged what remained of his close-cropped tail.

"We Go Fishing." Tito ordered his personal physician, Dr. Popovic, and his permanent companion, General Zezelj, to take me sightseeing. We toured in a brand-new Mercury. I remember that in Brioni's prewar days, the rich international set were permitted to use only bicycles.

At 5 o'clock the Mercury drove me to what had once been one of Europe's finest polo grounds. There was Tito, now in a flashy riding habit, trotting his handsome white mare, Mitzi. He put her into a gallop, came towards me at full tilt. As he reined up I said: "I hear you like to fish, Marshal." "We go fishing," he said. Briskly he swung Mitzi around and rode off to the villa. By the time we reached the rowboats which would take us to his launch, Tito had made another quick change and appeared in a beige business suit.

We took on board a couple of bottles of wine and a siphon. A slender young boy joined us. "Who is he?" I inquired. "Son," said Tito laconically. Aleksander, or Misa as everyone calls him, is a skinny child with big wide eyes. Later, before I took their picture, the dictator took a comb and smoothed down the boy's unruly hair.

At sunset Tito caught his first fish, which was soon followed by a second. In 90 minutes he caught seven. "Who is the best fisherman," he inquired gaily, "me or President Truman?"

It was night when we got to the villa.

Tito led me to the dining room and seated me on his right. He helped himself to some pale pinkish wine, which he mixed with soda. "Not strong," he said, and recommended that I drink a potent-looking dark wine instead. We had noodles for our first course, and as we ate, Tito told stories. Once in the Soviet Union, he recalled, the Russians had given him a horse that nobody had ridden. With gestures, he described his mad ride, whipping through a forest, ducking branches that ripped his clothes, but never letting go until the horse was exhausted. Fascinated, the guests stopped eating and General Zezelj kept muttering, "Bogati, bogati" ("O God, O God").

Dictation & Dictators. The second course came up--steaks for all except Tito, who ate stew. "I can write well here," he mused. "I used to write a lot too in Siberia." I asked him if he wrote in longhand. Tito nodded. "You ought to try a dictating machine," I suggested. "You fasten a microphone to your shirt. You can then pace the room, and when you think of those wonderful sentences you simply say them aloud." Tito changed the subject. But later his doctor grabbed me when we were alone. "What is it called, this new machine you fasten to your shirt?" he asked. "The Marshal wants one."

As dinner progressed to Turkish coffee and pears, the conversation switched to the movies. "American film industry is very fine," Tito remarked, "but sometimes we find the films a little foolish." I asked him about his favorite films and he beamed: "Cowboy films and Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy." I asked him if he liked Charlie Chaplin. "Modern Times," said Tito, imitating the scene where Chaplin goes berserk and runs around twitching two wrenches. "He has made several since that one," I said. "In one he imitates Hitler." "You mean The Great Dictator?" inquired Tito blandly.

We moved to the adjoining room to see a 16-mm. American film with German subtitles, called Yours Forever--an export version of Mrs. Parkington. It dealt with millionaires who had squandered their own lives and their ancestor's hard-earned money. The opening shot showed children singing carols in front of a mansion. A blase woman dripping in furs brushes half of them off and asks the butler to sweep the rest away. Then she pours herself a large shot of liquor. Tito nudged me. "Whisky!" he said.

Greer Garson appeared, looking 80, but luckily we soon had a flashback to her youth and she quite literally made Tito sit up.

In the same flashback, Walter Pidgeon careened down a street with horse & buggy This caused Tito to say hopefully, "Cowboys!" But we saw no more horses, and Tito slumped back, disappointed.

As the film ended, Greer had decided to sacrifice her worthless relatives to justice. She explained that this would have been her late empire-building husband's decision. "He wanted power because he knew how to use it," she said. Tito sat up straight again.

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