Few days later.
A bigger chaos was approaching Europe.
A chaos that will finally push brink into certainty.
A agreent that will ring across the history as sothing that rung the bell of World of War 2.
The Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact.
All the watching eyes will find themselves in a storm they cannot escape.
So will loose, so will survive and so will win.
The answer is set but there is soone trying to change it.
------
The night before departure, the air in Tempelhof was full of tension and expections.
Too much has been put on stake just for this flight to reach Moscow.
After all Hitler is still having a hard ti with the Military.
Ribbentrop stood beside the plane, gloves already on, staring at the frost gathering on the wings.
He hated flying.
Always had.
But the Führer insisted.
Moscow, Stalin, Molotov history waiting for a handshake.
And when he insist you don’t question it.
Otherwise there won’t be enough of you left to question anything else.
Krüger walked up from the staff car, coat collar turned high. "You’re early."
"I don’t sleep well before history," Ribbentrop said.
"Huh, I hate when you talk like this. Please speak in normal human language not as if you are a main character of a novel" Krüger said, half a smile.
Ribbentrop didn’t answer.
He looked toward the runway, where a few chanics were tightening bolts, their movents fast and nervous.
The Reich Minister for Foreign Affairs was not a man one kept waiting.
Behind them, the terminal lights flickered.
Berlin slept, but half the ministries hadn’t.
Telephones burned all night.
It’s not a easy task when a man of such stature visits a country that is destested by all.
"You have everything?" Krüger asked.
"The docunts. The drafts. The coded copies."
Ribbentrop tapped his briefcase. "All in order."
Krüger glanced at it. "Strange, isn’t it? A single folder to decide the fate of Europe."
Ribbentrop looked at him. "You sound like a priest."
"I used to believe in nations," Krüger said quietly. "Now I believe in paper. For they always decide the fate. Like jews a year ago they were citizen of this country. Today? Rats that can be hunted slowly and steadily."
Ribbentrop feeling uncomfortable adjusted his hat. "Then pray the paper holds."
In the Reich Chancellery, Hitler stood by the map of Europe.
Thin trails of smoke rose from the cigarette between his fingers. (Yes a cigarette smoking Hitler. Well to avoid copyright from the Third Reich and show how creative I am. Work with this for now.)
He didn’t look at Goering or Keitel, both standing at attention.
"Ribbentrop will manage it," Hitler said. "Stalin wants Poland as much as we do."
Goering nodded carefully. "The army still has concerns..."
"Let them have concerns," Hitler said. "They had concerns about Austria. They had concerns about Prague. They’ll learn to have victories instead."
Keitel sighing inwardly.
Hitler turned, eyes sharp. "By the ti Paris wakes, we’ll have peace with Moscow. Imagine that. Peace! With the communists! The English won’t know what to think."
Keitel spoke softly. "And the French?"
Hitler smiled. "The French are still busy in a shit hole with Moreau slowly becoming like a real French Leader. Incompetent and useless."
Goering gave a small laugh, but no one else joined.
For this may sound like a joke but many knew there is sothing suspicious about Moreau but they couldn’t pin point it.
Hitler’s eyes went back to the map.
"By next week, gentlen, the world changes. And we will write its schedule."
At dawn, Ribbentrop boarded the plane.
A Heinkel, stripped of insignia, painted gray. Inside, the hum of the engines was low, steady.
He buckled his belt and opened the dispatch folder.
The top sheet bore the words:
"Non-Aggression Pact – Draft 4. Final Revisions."
Underneath, another envelope unmarked.
He didn’t open it.
He didn’t need to.
The Führer’s handwriting was on the seal.
Krüger’s voice ca through the cabin door. "Engines ready, sir."
Ribbentrop nodded. "Then let’s fly to the devil."
The engines roared.
Berlin fell away beneath them streets, roofs, the gray river winding through the heart of the Reich.
The sky above Poland was empty, cold.
Ribbentrop closed his eyes for a mont, trying to imagine Stalin’s face.
He’d seen photographs.
Thick mustache, unreadable eyes.
The kind of man who asured people by how much silence they could stand.
He turned to his aide. "What’s Moscow like in August?"
The aide shrugged. "Gray, sir."
Ribbentrop looked out the window. "Then we’ll match."
By midday, Berlin’s newspapers were already rolling off the presses.
GERMANY TO SIGN HISTORIC AGREENT WITH SOVIET UNION
New Era of Peace Expected in Europe
"Reliable sources from the Foreign Office confirm that Foreign Minister Joachim von Ribbentrop is en route to Moscow for negotiations with Soviet representatives.
The agreent, expected to be finalized within forty-eight hours, will guarantee peaceful relations between the two great nations of Europe.
Officials describe it as ’a triumph of diplomacy’ and a ’turning point for stability on the continent.’"
Below that, a smaller headline:
France Silent. Britain Skeptical.
In London, Churchill tossed the paper onto the table.
"Peace, my foot," he said. "When a wolf and a vulture make peace, it’s only because they’ve found a carcass."
The room was silent.
Chamberlain sat at the far end, hands clasped. "We can’t be certain what the pact entails."
Churchill poured himself a drink. "Oh, co now. You think Stalin shakes hands for sport?"
Chamberlain looked tired. "If it keeps the Germans from the East..."
"It won’t," Churchill cut in. "It only frees their hand in the West."
He leaned forward. "Mark , Neville. Poland’s finished."
In Moscow, the airfield was empty but for a few guards and a convoy of black cars.
The Heinkel descended through clouds, wheels hitting the runway with a heavy thud.
Ribbentrop stepped out into the sunlight.
Two n approached one Soviet officer, one diplomat in a dark coat.
The diplomat smiled.
"Welco to Moscow, Herr Minister," he said in precise German. "Comrade Molotov sends his greetings. The Chairman awaits you tomorrow."
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