Russian revolution narrative four lead
The scratch-scratch of the inked pen is all that can be heard in the room.
Scratch. Scratch. Scratchhhh.
It’s almost like we’re frozen, air held back tightly in our throats and our eyes staring in bewilderment. Pairs of eyes that stretch wider and wider in recognition of the pen scratching against the paper.
The scratching stops.
A stoic blank faced man with a cropped square mustache straightens up and nods tightly. My breath pushes against my mouth and my lungs plead for me to breathe, but I do not dare to make a sound.
“You agree to give us Poland, yes?” I turn to my right to look at Stalin while he speaks and spots his left eye twitching in agitation. He’s weary. I’m weary. No. I’m terrified.
The man with the mustache huffs out a quick breath, which can either be a sigh or a laugh.
“Half of Poland”, sweeping his eyes at the other officers as if sending a silent threat. “I trust this will be confidential?”
Stalin replies through clenched teeth, “obviously”.