Reincarnated: Vive La France-Chapter 143: Even birds know when it is time to vanish.

The sky over Moscow was orange with the sun’s glow.

Inside NKVD headquarters.

General Commissar Genrikh Yagoda leaned forward at his desk, eyes tracing the bold lines on a cable just received from a GRU operative in Milan.

"Confirmed: Italian and German officers met May 12. Plans for shared doctrine training under review. Likely buildup for Mediterranean coordination."

He circled the final line twice:

"Rome-Berlin cooperation now tactical, not theoretical."

Yagoda exhaled slowly. Then stood.

"Comrade Klevtsov," he said to his aide, "wake the encryption team. This goes to the Kremlin. Full clearance. Top threat tier."

Klevtsov saluted sharply. "Yes, Comrade Commissar."

Yagoda walked to the far wall of his office where an oversized operations map showed the European continent.

Dozens of red and black pins stabbed the map like old wounds.

He tapped one near Milan, then another in Berlin.

"Code name this thread Tsiganochny Pakt. The Gypsy Pact. They dance now, but soon they’ll march."

"Yes, Comrade."

"And initiate Project Chimney Sweep."

Klevtsov paused. "Is that... internal?"

Yagoda’s face hardened.

"They will see fascism in the mirror before they see it on the horizon."

At the same hour, deep inside the Kremlin, Stalin reviewed a growing stack of personnel files while Marshal Mikhail Tukhachevsky stood rigid across the desk.

The air was warm, but no one breathed easy.

"You’ve requested four additional armored schools," Stalin said calmly, not looking up. "And moved tank divisions toward Smolensk without Politburo clearance."

Tukhachevsky replied evenly. "Modern war demands initiative, Comrade Stalin. The Germans are arming with speed."

"And perhaps they are not the only ones with initiative," Stalin murmured.

Tukhachevsky did not flinch. "If you suspect me, Comrade General Secretary, ask your informants. I have nothing to hide."

Stalin rose slowly, circling behind him like a farmer evaluating a bull.

"You were once a hero of the Revolution. But even the sharpest sword must be tested... or broken."

Tukhachevsky said nothing.

He saluted and left.

Outside, he walked through the silent halls of the Kremlin with the feeling of a blade being drawn behind him.

By May 25, across the Soviet Union, a quiet frost began to fall not from the sky, but from orders passed in sealed folders.

NKVD field agents moved swiftly.

In Novosibirsk, an artillery colonel was arrested for "intellectual deviation."

In Kiev, a tank commander was stripped of rank for "unauthorized correspondence with émigré family."

All of it part of the expanding sweep of Stalin’s paranoia.

The great purge though is yet to start.

In Leningrad, Colonel Anatoly Kurakin received a late-night knock.

Two men stood at the door.

One carried a leather-bound dossier.

"You are being summoned for inspection. For the integrity of the people’s army," one said.

Kurakin didn’t resist.

He kissed his sleeping daughter’s head, and walked away with them.

Meanwhile, inside the Geneva compound of the Soviet delegation to the League of Nations.

GRU agent Leonid Vekselberg disguised as an interpreter, met in secret with two French communists and a neutral Swiss intermediary.

"The British are idle," one Frenchman whispered. "Blum’s victory has the generals on edge. They won’t rally to his defense if Berlin moves."

"And Mussolini?" Vekselberg asked.

"They celebrate him like Caesar. And now he walks with Hitler."

Vekselberg scribbled notes in shorthand.

"You must return this to Moscow immediately," the Swiss said. "The League is a stage play. The actors forget there is a fire backstage."

Back in Moscow,.

On May 27, massive Komsomol youth parades flooded the streets of Moscow, Leningrad, and Tula.

Loudspeakers shouted slogans above the roar of banners and songs.

"Down with the Fascist Beast!"

"Only the Worker Knows Peace!"

In Gorky Park, schoolchildren staged a performance titled The Snake and the Hammer, featuring papier-mâché caricatures of Hitler and Mussolini being smashed by heroic Red workers.

At the Writers’ Union headquarters, famed playwright Alexei Arbuzov read from a new act of Dawn in the Dust, a brutalist allegory set in a bombed-out Spain:

"They wear medals on bloodied chests, But it is the grave that salutes them."

At Comintern headquarters on Staraya Square, a heated strategy session unfolded.

Aleksandr Lozovsky slammed his hand on the table.

"We must accelerate anti-fascist organizing in Western Europe. Trade unions. Student unions. Underground press. When the next war begins, we need a million voices shouting before the first bomb falls."

An Italian communist in exile muttered, "You mean if it begins?"

Lozovsky barked: "It has already begun. Ask the hills of Ethiopia. Ask the gutters of Madrid!"

A young Spanish republican stood. "We’re training already in the Pyrenees. If France falls to paralysis, we will not."

Lozovsky pointed. "Then you are the fuse."

In Stalin’s office, the folder marked TUKHACHEVSKY – CONFIDENTIAL became more bigger.

Yagoda entered quietly.

"I have verified at least 37 officers who corresponded with German attachés or foreign theorists since 1933. Ten of them directly served under Marshal Tukhachevsky."

Stalin lit a pipe.

"Time makes traitors," he muttered. "Or traitors make their own time."

"And the Comintern?" Yagoda asked.

"They will scream about fascists in the West," Stalin said. "So we may whisper about them in our barracks."

Yagoda nodded.

"What of the French?"

Stalin took the folder and placed it in his private safe.

"They chose a poet to lead them. I am building iron."

That evening in Paris, a GRU cable arrived.

"Doctrines emerging from Camp Sainte-Marie carry unusual efficiency. Named ’Spectre.’ French Left supports innovation; Army Right fears its independence."

Stalin scribbled in the margin:

"Spectres are useful. Until they haunt you."

And so May ended in a Union.

Factories ran night shifts.

Propaganda presses never cooled.

In a sealed wing of Lubyanka, six officers waited in the dark, hearing footsteps come closer.

In Red Square, brass bands drowned out the quiet of those never seen again.

And in a garden behind the Kremlin, Stalin walked alone, watching a bird land on a rose bush.

It fluttered once, then flew away.

He frowned.

Even birds, he thought, know when it is time to vanish.