CHAPTER 332: SO MUCH INK FOR SO MUCH BLOOD.

The curtains were drawn tight, heavy velvet keeping the night air and curious eyes outside.

Two guards stood at the far end of the hallway, unmoving, as though carved into the woodwork.

Inside the room, only two men sat across a low table that carried a glass of vodka, untouched.

Vyacheslav Molotov adjusted his glasses, his face impassive.

Across from him, Joachim von Ribbentrop leaned forward in his chair.

He poured himself a glass, even though Molotov hadn’t moved for the bottle.

"It is rare," Ribbentrop began, his German accent thick, "that our two nations sit face to face without pretenses. We should take advantage of this moment, Herr Molotov."

Molotov didn’t answer immediately.

He studied him, letting the silence stretch long enough to feel uncomfortable.

Then he said, flat and precise, "We are here because guessing across walls wastes time. Words are cheaper than soldiers."

Ribbentrop raised his glass faintly, as if in toast, then set it down untouched. "Then let us speak directly. Germany intends to settle the question of Poland. You know it. We know it. The question is whether Moscow will resist... or understand inevitability."

Molotov’s lips barely moved. "Inevitability is a word for men who cannot imagine alternatives."

Ribbentrop allowed himself a short laugh. "Poland is not an alternative. It is a nuisance. It sits between us like an unwanted child, shouting, clinging to France, to Britain. It will not survive another storm. Surely you see this."

Molotov’s eyes flicked to the decanter, then back. "Moscow does not concern itself with Polish survival. We concern ourselves with borders. Security. Influence."

"Exactly," Ribbentrop said quickly, leaning forward. "Berlin respects that. We know you desire a proper buffer. Stalin has no wish to see German troops brushing the gates of Minsk, and we have no wish to see Soviet troops strolling into Berlin. Poland can be the solution. You take your share, we take ours."

Molotov tapped a finger once against the armrest, a small sound in the thick silence.

"You speak of carving a country. Not unusual for Europe. But we require clarity. No vague promises. No phrases open to twisting."

Ribbentrop’s smile thinned. "Then clarity you shall have. Germany will take the west. The old Prussian lands. The corridor. Warsaw itself. The heart of Poland belongs with us."

"And the east?" Molotov asked.

"Yours," Ribbentrop said smoothly. "The borderlands, the countryside. We know the line that once divided us Curzon, yes? Something near that. It can be redrawn. The details can be adjusted, but the principle is sound."

Molotov shifted slightly in his chair.

His voice was calm, almost bored. "Principles do not hold armies. Lines on maps must be exact. Otherwise we bleed later."

Ribbentrop reached into his briefcase and pulled out a folder.

He slid a sheet of paper across the table.

It was a rough sketch map, lines penciled across Poland.

"This," he said, "is our proposal. Not final. But a beginning."

Molotov bent forward, adjusted his glasses again, and studied it.

His expression gave nothing away. "You draw generously for Germany."

"History is generous to those who act," Ribbentrop replied, his tone stiffening. "Our Führer believes Poland has no right to deny us what was stolen. Danzig must return. Silesia, Poznań. These are not negotiable."

Molotov glanced up, his face still unreadable. "And what of Lithuania?"

Ribbentrop hesitated, then said, "Lithuania? A minor question."

"For you, perhaps," Molotov said. "For us, it is not. Vilnius must return to us. The Baltics are within our sphere. Estonia, Latvia, Lithuania. That line is not blurred."

There was a pause.

Ribbentrop clasped his hands together and forced another smile. "Very well. Lithuania to you. Germany has no appetite for swampy provinces. But the west no compromise."

Molotov set the map down.

His hand rested on it, fingers flat. "If Moscow agrees, it is not for Germany’s convenience. It is because it buys time. Do not mistake agreement for trust."

Ribbentrop spread his hands in mock innocence. "Trust is a luxury. Interests are what matter. Our interests align, for now. Your leader is practical, so is mine."

Molotov’s mouth curved, not quite a smile, more an acknowledgment. "Practical men know paper is nothing without signatures."

"Then let us draft something worthy of signatures," Ribbentrop said.

He took out a second sheet, this one already typed in German, with spaces left blank.

He set it down between them. "We call it a non-aggression pact. Publicly, it assures the world that Berlin and Moscow will not quarrel. Privately..... "

He tapped the map. "....we know the truth."

Molotov read the opening lines, lips moving silently. "Non-aggression. Neutrality. Consultation. And the secret protocol of division."

"Exactly," Ribbentrop said. "Two documents. One for the world. One for us."

Molotov leaned back. "And Romania?"

Ribbentrop frowned. "Romania?"

"Yes," Molotov said. "Your Führer eyes its oil. We eye Bessarabia. If we agree to Poland, we will also note Romania. Silence is not enough."

Ribbentrop’s voice cooled. "You want too much, too quickly."

"We want clarity," Molotov said, his tone unchanged. "Without it, no agreement leaves this room."

The German studied him.

The arrogance in his smile faltered, replaced by calculation.

At last he said, "Very well. Bessarabia... noted. No German claim will stand in your way."

Molotov inclined his head. "Then Poland is divided, Romania acknowledged, the Baltics secured. Germany gains the heartland we gain the shield. This is the skeleton of a treaty."

"A skeleton," Ribbentrop echoed. "But one with strong bones."

The two men sat in silence for a moment.

Molotov finally poured himself a glass of vodka, slow and deliberate.

He lifted it, not in toast but in simple acknowledgment, and drank.

Ribbentrop followed, eager not to appear hesitant.

When the glasses were set down, Molotov said.

"We will take this draft to Stalin. He will read every word, every line. Do not expect quick smiles. He does not smile."

Ribbentrop gave a short, nervous chuckle. "And I will take it to Hitler. He will not smile either, but for different reasons."

Molotov looked back at the map, the penciled line cutting Poland in half. "So much ink for so much blood."

Ribbentrop’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

He gathered his papers, careful, precise, as if order on the table could mask the chaos they had just agreed to unleash.

When he stood, Molotov did not rise immediately.

He watched the German smooth his coat, adjust his tie, and collect his briefcase.

Only then did he say, "History will not forgive us. But history is not in this room tonight. Only necessity."

Ribbentrop paused, one hand on the doorknob.

He looked back, his voice steady, almost defiant. "History forgives winners."

Molotov’s gaze was like stone. "Then we had better win."

The door opened, the guards straightened, and the cold night air seeped in for a moment before it closed again.

Molotov remained seated, staring at the map, his hand resting on the line that cut through Warsaw, through fields and towns, through lives.

He did not move for a long time.