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."
