Reincarnated: Vive La France

The next evening, the Kremlin's private chamber once again filled with smoke and voices.

Stalin sat in his usual place, pipe in hand, eyes unreadable.

Around him Molotov, Beria, Voroshilov, and the senior NKVD men.

A fresh map of Eastern Europe lay spread across the table, Poland at its center, like a carcass ready to be carved.

"Comrades," Stalin began, his tone quiet but edged, "last night we heard Molotov's… suggestion. Poland as the key. A possible understanding with Berlin. Tonight, I want more. No vague whispers. Speak plainly."

Voroshilov grunted, his mustache twitching. "Comrade Stalin, with respect, I will speak plainly. Hitler is a viper. His speeches call us subhuman, his generals spit on our name. An alliance with Germany is like shaking hands with a man who hides a knife behind his back. It will never be genuine."

Beria leaned forward, voice oily. "Kliment Yefremovich is right in principle. But we must separate principle from reality. In reality, Britain will not fight. France delays. The Poles despise us more than they fear Berlin. Who else stands between Germany and us? No one."

Molotov finally spoke, his tone as calm as if reading a ledger. "And if no one stands between us, then we must decide if Poland is to be our shield… or our grave."

One of the NKVD men scoffed. "You speak as though Hitler would honor any agreement. He signs a paper, then tears it the next morning."

Molotov adjusted his glasses. "Perhaps. But if we gain time? If we gain land? If the Wehrmacht marches into Warsaw while we move quietly into Vilnius and Lwów, then perhaps the paper lasts just long enough."

Stalin tapped his pipe against the ashtray, ash scattering like dust on the map. "Time. That is all that matters. Are we ready for war now?"

The table was silent.

Everyone knew the answer.

"No," Beria said bluntly. "Our factories are still expanding. Our tanks are improving but not enough. Our planes… not enough pilots, not enough experience. We cannot meet Germany head-to-head today."

Voroshilov bristled. "But in a year? Two?"

Beria spread his hands. "Then perhaps. If we use that time wisely."

Stalin leaned back, eyes narrowing. "And Molotov says Hitler may give us that time. For Poland."

Molotov nodded. "Yes. For Poland."

The NKVD man slammed his hand on the table. "It is absurd! To trust Hitler for even one day..."

Stalin cut him off sharply. "Who said anything about trust? I do not trust Hitler. I trust opportunity. Even a wolf may be led if you hold the right piece of meat."

The room fell quiet again.

Stalin's words carried more weight than Molotov's.

Molotov leaned in, seizing the moment. "Comrades, listen. Germany hates us, yes. But Hitler hates Poland more. Versailles left him bleeding. Danzig, the Corridor these are his obsessions. If we quietly show him that we do not object… he may find it useful to speak with us. Not as friends. Not as allies. As temporary partners in carving a corpse."

Voroshilov spat the words. "Temporary until he turns his knife against us."

Molotov's voice did not waver. "Temporary is enough. While he marches west, we build east. While his soldiers die in Warsaw, ours train in Kiev. And when he overreaches, we strike."

Beria's lips curled into a thin smile. "And in the meantime, what do we tell our people? That the Soviet Union, fortress of socialism, has embraced the fascist wolf?"

Stalin's voice rumbled. "We tell them nothing. We show them strength. Let Pravda write of vigilance, of peace, of protecting the worker. The people will believe what we tell them. They do not need to know who signs papers in the night."

Molotov inclined his head. "Exactly, Comrade Stalin. Diplomacy done in shadow. Publicly, we remain the enemy of fascism. Privately, we buy the time to sharpen our knife."

Voroshilov muttered, "You make it sound so simple."

Stalin's eyes snapped to him. "Do you think the world is simple? Britain sleeps. France trembles. America watches. Poland struts like a rooster in a yard soon to be slaughtered. And we... we are the only ones who must think clearly. If the road to survival lies through a pact with the devil, then we walk it. But we do not let go of the knife in our pocket."

Molotov seized on Stalin's words. "And we gain more than time. We gain land. If Poland is partitioned, the Soviet Union moves its borders west. Think, Comrade Stalin, the Baltics are already within reach, but Poland has stood between us and Germany for twenty years. If that barrier falls, we choose where to step."

Beria chuckled darkly. "So Molotov dreams of carving Poland in half. Who would have thought?"

"Not dreams," Molotov replied coolly. "Calculations. Nothing more."

Stalin tapped the map with his pipe stem. "And what of the Germans? Suppose they march into Warsaw with our silent blessing. Do they not then become stronger? Richer? More dangerous?"

Molotov met his gaze evenly. "Yes. But they also become arrogant. They will believe themselves invincible. They will stretch further. They will make mistakes. And we will be ready when they do."

Stalin studied him for a long moment.

Finally, he grunted. "Perhaps you are right. Or perhaps you are a fool. Time will tell."

Voroshilov growled. "I still say we prepare openly for war. No shadows, no whispers. Tanks, divisions, planes. Let Hitler see our strength and choke on it."

Beria sneered. "And provoke him to strike us before we are ready? Do you want the Red Army buried in Smolensk before it has even learned to fight?"

"Better to fight now than bow tomorrow!" Voroshilov roared.

Stalin slammed his fist on the table.

"Enough!" Stalin's voice was cold, deadly. "You speak of pride. Pride feeds no soldier. Pride builds no tank. Pride wins no war. We need time, not slogans."

He turned back to Molotov. "You say you need time to confirm your conjecture. How much?"

Molotov replied calmly. "Weeks. Perhaps a month. I must speak with certain channels in Berlin. Quietly. If there is substance, I will bring it to you. If not, then we lose nothing but silence."

Stalin nodded slowly. "Do it. But carefully. If word leaks, if London or Paris suspects, if even the Poles whisper of it I will hold you responsible."

Molotov inclined his head. "I understand, Comrade Stalin."

Beria muttered, "And if he succeeds? If he brings back a German offer?"

Stalin's lips curled into something between a smile and a snarl. "Then history will curse us as devils. And we will laugh, because devils survive where saints are slaughtered."

Stalin rose, pipe in hand. "The meeting is finished. Voroshilov strengthen our western defenses, but quietly. Beria watch Warsaw, watch Berlin. Report every whisper. Molotov do what you must. But remember the wolf may smile before it bites."