Reincarnated: Vive La France

Stalin sat at the head of the table, his pipe resting between two thick fingers, a slow ribbon of smoke curling upwards into the haze.

He said nothing yet.

He preferred silence at the beginning silence made men uneasy, made them speak rashly, or sweat out their nerves before he demanded a word.

Around him sat Vyacheslav Molotov, rigid.

Lavrentiy Beria, broad-faced, predatory eyes hidden behind his spectacles.

Kliment Voroshilov in uniform and two other senior men from the NKVD.

A stack of papers lay before Stalin.

German troop movements, intercepted reports, coded telegrams smuggled from Prague.

Czechoslovakia had fallen astonishingly quickly, its government paralyzed while German divisions took command of the streets.

"Comrades," Stalin began finally, exhaling smoke, "Hitler swallowed another country in weeks. Like a wolf tearing a lamb apart. The world calls it 'peace.' Britain once again smiles. France once more sleeps. And what do we call it?"

Voroshilov struck the table with his palm. "An outrage, Comrade Stalin! A threat to us all. With Czechoslovakia gone, his tanks face Poland, and then..."

"..and then our western border," Beria finished.

"Our scouts already report unusual movements near Poznań. Germans building depots. Training grounds in Silesia. Nothing decisive, but…" He shrugged. "Preparation."

Stalin sucked at his pipe, his eyes narrowed into slits. "Preparation. Yes. Hitler prepares. And what do we do? Sit. Drink. Argue. Poland is the chicken on the table, and the knife is already raised."

Molotov adjusted his glasses, his expression unreadable.

He had not spoken yet. Stalin glanced at him, waiting, but let the others bicker.

Voroshilov puffed himself up. "We must strengthen our western armies. Reinforce Kiev Military District. Move more tanks to Minsk. Show Berlin we are not weak!"

Beria chuckled.

"And what then, Kliment Yefremovich? We send the tanks, yes. And then what? The Poles will scream that Moscow wants to devour them. London will write their editorials about 'Red aggression.' No one trusts us. They'd rather kiss Hitler's boots than shake our hands."

Voroshilov glared. "Better they fear us than dismiss us!"

"Fear without respect is wasted," Beria replied smoothly. "And respect we do not have."

The room grew tense.

Stalin's pipe tapped twice on the ashtray.

"You speak of tanks, fear, respect…" Stalin muttered. "None of it matters if Hitler marches east before we are ready." His voice lowered, deliberate. "We are not ready."

The silence after that was heavy.

Everyone knew it.

The purges had gutted the officer corps.

New men wore stars on their shoulders, but many lacked experience.

Industry was expanding, yes, but tanks rolled off the lines slower than Stalin demanded.

Planes were being tested, yet pilots still learned by trial and error.

Voroshilov tried to speak again, but Stalin raised his hand.

"Molotov," Stalin said, his voice suddenly direct. "You are quiet. Tell me what does our Foreign Commissar think of all this?"

All eyes turned.

Molotov sat straighter, folded his hands before him, and let the silence stretch just long enough to draw suspicion.

Finally, he spoke, his tone calm. "Comrades… we are watching a Germany that grows strong too quickly. Yes. They have swallowed Austria, then Czechoslovakia, almost without firing a shot. Their machine runs fast, their propaganda faster. And all the world trembles."

He paused.

"And yet," he said slowly, "perhaps this is not only danger. Perhaps it is also… opportunity."

Voroshilov leaned forward, confused. "Opportunity? When the wolf eats lamb after lamb?"

Beria narrowed his eyes. "What sort of opportunity, Vyacheslav?"

Molotov's voice remained steady, deliberate. "Poland."

The word hung in the air like a thunderclap.

Voroshilov barked a laugh, harsh and incredulous. "Poland? You speak as if.... as if...."

".....as if we should carve it with Hitler's knife," Beria cut in sharply, eyes wide with sudden realization.

He looked at Molotov in disbelief. "Are you suggesting an understanding with Germany? Impossible. Madness."

The NKVD officer across the table muttered under his breath, "Suicide."

Molotov did not flinch. "Madness, perhaps. But think carefully. Why Poland?"

Stalin leaned forward at last, pipe forgotten.

His dark eyes locked on Molotov. "Explain yourself, Vyacheslav. Slowly. No riddles."

Molotov folded his hands more tightly. "Poland is hated by both Berlin and Moscow. They bar us from the west, choke our lines of contact. They are weak, divided, clumsy in their diplomacy. Their arrogance blinds them they think Britain or France will save them. But if Hitler wants Poland, and we want Poland…"

He let the sentence dangle.

Beria slammed his fist lightly against the table. "No. No, no. To suggest alliance with Germany, after all their filth about Bolshevism? Hitler spits on communism every day! His entire regime is built on hatred of us. We are the beast in his speeches, the 'Asiatic plague' he warns the world about. And you suggest we take his hand?"

Voroshilov snorted. "I agree. This is not politics, Molotov, it is betrayal."

But Stalin did not scold.

He did not nod.

He only stared at Molotov, pipe smoke curling in his mustache, until the silence grew unbearable.

"On what basis?" Stalin asked finally. His voice was calm, low, dangerous. "You whisper of Poland. You hint at alliance. But on what basis do you claim this?"

Molotov's lips pressed into a line.

His voice grew quieter. "Reports. Conversations from Berlin, through intermediaries. Nothing firm. Just fragments. But I believe… I believe Hitler could be tempted. If he sees advantage, he will make a pact with the Devil himself."

Voroshilov slammed his hand on the table. "Speculation! Fragments! This is no doctrine, Vyacheslav, this is smoke! Do you want the Red Army marching shoulder to shoulder with fascists? Do you want our people to choke when Pravda writes we are brothers with the Nazis?"

Molotov's gaze did not waver. "I want to protect our Union. And I want time. If Berlin devours Poland with our silent agreement, we gain a shield a buffer zone. Our borders move west. And in that time, our factories will arm, our soldiers will train, our planes will fill the skies. Then, when Hitler grows overconfident, we crush him."

The room erupted with overlapping voices.

"Insanity!" Voroshilov spat.

"A trap!" Beria snapped.

"They will betray us the moment they can!" shouted one NKVD man.

Molotov simply sat still, unshaken.

Finally, Stalin raised his hand.

His eyes did not leave Molotov's face. "You say much. But you admit it is conjecture."

"Yes, Comrade Stalin," Molotov replied softly. "Conjecture. Nothing more yet. But I ask time to confirm. Give me time to test the waters, to speak with those who know Berlin's mind better than their own wives. Then we will see if the smoke is real fire."

Beria sneered. "And if it is smoke only? We will look like fools. Traitors."

Molotov adjusted his glasses again, the faintest hint of a smile at the corner of his lips. "Better to look like fools in secret than corpses in truth."

The room fell into uneasy quiet.

Stalin leaned back slowly, pipe returning to his mouth.

He drew in smoke, exhaled, and let his gaze move from man to man before returning to Molotov.

"You have courage, Vyacheslav," Stalin murmured. "Or madness. Perhaps both. Very well. Confirm your conjecture. Dig deeper. But do it quietly. No one must suspect. Not London, not Paris, not even Warsaw. Especially not Warsaw."

Molotov bowed his head slightly. "As you command."

Voroshilov muttered, "This will be remembered, one way or another."

Stalin's gaze snapped to him. "All things are remembered, Kliment Yefremovich. History forgets nothing. But history is written by those who survive."

He rose, signaling the meeting was near its end. "Enough for tonight. Let the world choke on Germany's appetite. We will not choke. We will breathe carefully. Go."

The men stood.

As they left, Stalin lingered by the window, pipe in hand, staring out into the black Moscow night.

Behind him, Molotov gathered his papers, his face as unreadable as ever.

Only Stalin saw the flicker in his eyes the flicker of a man who had glimpsed a possibility no one else dared touch.