Reincarnated: Vive La France-Chapter 121: "If China falls, there will be no communism. No Kuomintang. Only colonized soil."

Chapter 121: "If China falls, there will be no communism. No Kuomintang. Only colonized soil."

August 1, 1935.

Yan’an, China

The dust came first, rolling in over the cracked flagstones before the people even arrived.

Yan’an wasn’t a city in the modern sense more like a wound that refused to scab.

It was damp in the mornings, dry by afternoon, cold at night, and always hungry.

But here, in this former temple with broken doors and half-plastered walls, something was about to be declared that would rang through every valley and river of China.

There were no uniforms in the room.

Only patched jackets, mismatched boots, and tired eyes.

Soldiers sat next to farmers.

Cadres next to former students.

Some squatted on stones.

A few leaned on the back wall, rifles slung lazily across their backs.

At the front, Mao Zedong stood quietly beneath a single lantern.

Beside him, Zhou Enlai reviewed a stack of papers one last time.

Bo Gu was whispering something to a junior officer, though no one seemed to be listening to him anymore.

Mao didn’t begin with greetings.

"We issue this declaration," he said, voice firm, "not as a party, not as victors of a hill, or of a doctrine but as sons of China."

The room went silent.

Not because of reverence.

Because no one expected that first sentence.

Zhou handed him the declaration.

Mao barely glanced at it.

He had written the final version by hand the night before and revised it again at dawn.

"For nearly a decade," he continued, "we have fought our brothers. And for that, history will judge us harshly. But today, I say this, the true enemy is no longer each other."

Someone in the back coughed.

Mao’s voice grew louder.

"Japan has taken Manchuria. They’ve built railroads through our bones. They have established puppet states. They are moving south, into Hebei, and when they arrive at the gates of Beijing, will we still be fighting over who owns the gate key?"

A veteran raised a hand. "You say stop the civil war. But the Kuomintang doesn’t want peace. They want us erased."

Mao nodded. "Yes. Chiang Kai-shek wants a China without Reds. I want a China that still exists five years from now."

Bo Gu leaned forward and whispered, "Watch your tone on Chiang. This will be broadcast."

Mao didn’t look at him.

"To the officers in Nanjing," he continued, "we offer no apology. But we offer unity. The Red Army will halt its attacks on Nationalist positions. If they want to keep fighting us, so be it. But they will do it while the Japanese tighten the noose around all our necks."

Zhou stepped up beside him, holding up the second page.

"We call for a National Defense Government," he said. "We call on all parties, all provinces, all citizens to form one front. Not red. Not blue. But Chinese."

Murmurs spread.

There were confused glances.

Some looked down at their boots.

A younger man face still scarred from the Long March stood.

"My brother was killed by the 4th Nationalist Division. Shot in the back. You’re asking me to forget that?"

"No," Mao said. "I’m asking you to postpone vengeance. We can bury the Kuomintang later, if we must. But first, we must keep China alive."

Zhou interjected, more gently, "If China falls, there will be no communism. No Kuomintang. Only colonized soil. Is that what your brother died for?"

The young man clenched his jaw.

Then sat.

Another voice, this time from the door.

A teacher from Xi’an. "How will they respond? You think Chiang will trust us now?"

Mao didn’t smile.

"I don’t care if he trusts us. I care if he fears what happens when he refuses."

He held up the page now.

"This will go out over radio. Copies will be carried across every province. Foreign journalists will receive it in Shanghai. Moscow already knows. Let Nanjing pretend not to hear. But they will hear it from the people. And they will answer."

There was no applause.

Just silence.

That same night in Nanjing, inside the marble halls of the Kuomintang headquarters, the declaration was read aloud.

Aides stood rigid by the doors.

The generals sat in their pressed uniforms.

In the center of the room, beneath the chandelier, Chiang Kai-shek stood with his arms crossed.

The paper in his hand trembled slightly.

Or maybe it was the air.

"A truce?" one general scoffed. "They want a pause so they can breathe. Then stab us in the back later."

"They want recognition," muttered another. "Not peace. Never peace."

Chen Cheng spoke quietly. "Still... they named Japan."

"They always name Japan," a staff officer said. "That’s how they cloak their rhetoric."

Chiang said nothing.

"Generalissimo?" one asked.

He finally looked up.

"I do not believe in Communist promises," he said. "But I believe in Japanese bullets."

No one spoke.

Chiang placed the declaration on the table.

"They’re not wrong about one thing. The enemy has crossed the river. And we are still setting the table."

"What’s your order?" Chen asked.

"Say nothing," Chiang replied. "But keep the door open. A crack. That’s all. A crack."

Back in Yan’an, the Red Army worked through the night.

Cadres ran copies of the declaration to outposts in Shaanxi, Gansu, and even Hunan.

Old typewriters hammered out lines while runners tied scrolls to their backs.

Mao sat beside a stove, warming his hands.

Zhou returned with the latest radio log.

"The Comintern approves," he said. "They’ve sent it to Paris and Prague. It’ll be in Le Figaro by morning."

"And Tokyo?"

"Mocking it."

Mao nodded. "Of course they are. They don’t fear words. Yet."

Zhou leaned forward. "Will the Kuomintang answer?"

Mao looked toward the dark ceiling.

"They will when Beijing falls."

In Shanghai, the Associated Press bulletin read.

"Red China Appeals to Kuomintang for United Front Against Japan."

Western papers received it with confusion.

In Tokyo, the press dismissed it.

But in the villages of China, word began to spread.

Not in print, but in whispers.

That the Reds were calling for unity. freeweɓnovēl.coɱ

That maybe, just maybe the time had come to fight together.

In Reims, France, the clouds had cleared.

Moreau sat in his office, the window cracked open.

A newspaper lay unfolded in his lap.

A translated wire from China, clipped and forwarded from the French Embassy in Moscow, sat atop it.

He read the final paragraph again.

"This is not a plea for peace, but a demand for survival. We do not ask who you are. Only if you will fight."

He folded the paper slowly and set it on his desk.

Outside, the PAP drills had ended.

Silence now.

He looked at the paper again.

Then whispered, "Another checkpoint."

He slid it into a drawer.