Chapter 40
Chapter 40
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Translator: crow
Chapter Title: Gentleman of the Kremlin (2)
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April in Moscow was not as mild as I had expected.
As the capital of the cold Ice Empire, a chill still hung in the air, sharp and biting.
I was greeted at Moscow Station by Soviet Foreign Minister Molotov.
“You must be exhausted after such a long journey, General.”
“Thank you for the warm welcome, Minister.”
Molotov had a distinctive bulging forehead that caught the eye—it almost made me wonder if he’d just taken a punch from Stalin during a meeting.
We rode in a car provided by the Soviets straight to the Kremlin.
Upon arriving at the Kremlin, a figure I’d seen countless times in portraits approached and greeted me.
“This must be our first time meeting like this.”
“It’s an honor, Comrade Secretary-General.”
The man who had split the Korean Peninsula in two and left us with the nightmare gift of Kim Il-sung stood before me.
Stalin introduced the generals lined up beside him one by one.
Since I was visiting officially not as head of state but as the top military leader, no civilian officials appeared aside from Molotov.
But with Stalin himself coming out—considering his real power—it didn’t matter.
*That must be Voroshilov.*
Seeing Stalin’s close friend Voroshilov, he looked far too comfortable for someone who’d fallen from grace.
*Well, if Stalin purged him too, he’d have no one left to talk to.*
I shook hands in turn with men like Timoshenko, the victor of the Finnish front, and Marshal Budyonny.
They all had the bold, rugged presence of men who’d carved their names into history.
They might be mere playthings under Stalin, but surviving that butcher was reason enough to rate them highly.
Once the greetings between our generals were done, we dove into a brief conversation.
With no formal summit, Stalin led the talk with jokes mixed in.
Of course, the atmosphere wasn’t exactly relaxed.
As the discussion warmed up, I casually broached the subject.
“What do you think, Secretary-General? How will this war end?”
“Who knows. I’d love to have certainty, but I can’t predict it. The bitter lesson from Finland must’ve taught me some humility.”
Stalin said this while glaring at his generals.
Just his gaze alone felt like it could freeze your heart solid.
“And what’s your view, General?”
Well, Germany wins in ‘six weeks,’ of course.
That was the short-term outlook, anyway. The long-term picture was different.
I was convinced Germany would ultimately collapse in the long run.
The reason was simple.
*Germany has no means to subdue Britain.*
Neither by air nor sea.
Germany’s vaunted army was powerless before the narrow 40-kilometer moat of the English Channel.
If they entered a prolonged war without breaking Britain, Germany’s plunder-driven wartime economy would hit its limit soon enough.
Even Hitler’s invasion of the Soviet Union was just him cashing in his gamble on an opponent he could plunder.
Structurally, the Nazis operated on an economic model that couldn’t last.
When I laid out my take that Germany couldn’t beat Britain, Stalin seemed intrigued.
“Then what about the order after Germany falls?”
“Well, it’ll become a battleground for the surviving ideologies, won’t it?”
Democracy and communism.
The two giants would stand atop Germany’s corpse, vying for dominance in Central and Eastern Europe.
Stalin seemed to find my prognosis plausible; he stroked his mustache.
“A contest of ideologies. That’s quite a perspective for a soldier, General.”
Of course. It wasn’t the soldier speaking—it was the knowledge of ‘future man’ Kim Seong-jun.
Naturally, I didn’t correct the misconception.
I moved to the main point.
“That’s why I believe securing a reliable friend before the postwar order takes shape is crucial.”
“A reliable friend.”
Neither Stalin nor I trusted the other.
We both knew we’d stab each other in the back without hesitation if it served our interests.
Our surface identities—Reds and warmongering militarists—explained that much.
“Secretary-General, Korea is considering the Soviet Union as a future partner.”
“With such vast ideological differences?”
“You and I are both realists with our feet on the ground, aren’t we? Ideology is secondary.”
“Realpolitik. True, interests trump ideology.”
Even at Stalin’s shocking words, his subordinates didn’t bat an eye.
“So, General, what about our federation caught your eye?”
“Our weight class, what else?”
Stalin might’ve expected some spiel about the allure of communism, but I answered bluntly.
“I value that too. In that sense, you and I see eye to eye.”
Of course, we just talked well.
There was zero trust between us.
‘Necessity’ filled that void instead.
A vague foresight that, as the global power dynamics shifted, Korea and the Soviet Union would need each other—that created room for a handshake.
Our first conversation ended on a friendly note.
In truth, we’d already sized each other up in this initial probing.
We’d tested if the other was open to joining hands, willing to transcend ideology from a realist viewpoint.
We’d gotten the price quote, so to speak.
The remaining technical talks were mere formality.
The next day’s meeting with Voroshilov went exactly as expected.
“General, our federation agrees to a mutual military exchange pact with Korea.”
Mutual military exchange meant dispatching officers to each other’s armies.
Given the ideological chasm between militarism and communism, it was remarkable progress.
*Or maybe not so remarkable.*
Even the Junkers-dominated Weimar Republic had exchanged freely with the Red Army.
We exchanged concessions cleanly and decisively.
But it wasn’t an alliance.
Not yet, anyway. I didn’t want one.
Signing a mutual defense treaty now would mean we’d have to send troops to the anti-German front in 1941.
No thanks.
If we were to ally with the Soviets, 1944 would be better—when they were exhausted and on their last legs.
When they barely had the strength for a final blow against the Nazis, stepping in to help would secure our position perfectly.
The technical talks with the Soviets wrapped up in just four days.
Dealing with a dictatorship meant no need to drag things out.
Once the strongman decided, the rest was procedure.
On the train back home, Kim Seong-ju asked me.
“General, have you decided to ally with the Soviets?”
“Three years from now seems right.”
I’d concluded Stalin was someone I could use.
He was too rational to stray from his own logic easily.
Even getting caught off-guard by Hitler stemmed from assuming the man thought ‘rationally’ like him.
In other words, Stalin’s actions were predictable.
He met the first criterion for an ally: stability.
“What do you think?”
“I can’t trust those Reds one bit. The moment a small gain appears, they’ll stab us in the back for sure.”
Fair enough.
That was the Reds’ defining trait.
But even they could calculate.
No, they were sharper at math than anyone.
“Think long-term. Korea needs friends right now. America would be ideal, but they don’t see it that way. They won’t drop their guard until we crawl under their wing.”
It was the part I regretted most.
Frankly, for long-term stability, sheltering under America was best.
But even if we wanted to tuck ourselves under their coattails, we needed a justification to sell to the people.
Japan had taken atomic bombs, its state reset, so they accepted starting anew under America.
We weren’t in that boat.
Spit out our gains in China, release Japan from our sphere, bow our heads to the U.S. on those terms?
Absurd.
Korea was a full-fledged great power, an empire with strong pride.
Talk of clinging to another power’s leg because we were a bit short on strength, and we’d face a ‘revolution.’
“Seong-ju.”
“Yes, General.”
“I often wonder if this Korea is on the right path. And every time, do you know what thought comes to mind?”
“No idea.”
“That this country has it tough.”
That was my honest sentiment.
Knowing the future?
It was useless.
That only worked if you were born in colonial Joseon under Japanese rule. In powerhouse Korea, it didn’t fly.
Knowing how the future might shift didn’t mean you could move recklessly.
“With all your deliberations, General, good results are sure to follow.”
“I hope you’re right.”
The train belched white smoke as it raced eastward, ever eastward.
The fateful six weeks were about to begin.