CHAPTER 328: YET EUROPE IS FULL OF MADNESS THESE DAYS.

In Warsaw newspapers shouting headlines about Hitler’s triumph in Prague.

Inside Palace the men who led Poland sat around a long table.

Marshal Edward Śmigły-Rydz, commander-in-chief, sat stiff in his uniform, his baton resting across his knees like a scepter.

His gray eyes scanned the room with impatience.

Across from him, Foreign Minister Józef Beck adjusted his tie and drummed his fingers lightly on a folder of cables from Paris and London.

The President, Ignacy Mościcki, looked more like a professor than a head of state round spectacles, hair too thin, face too soft for a room like this.

At the far end, Prime Minister Felicjan Sławoj Składkowski tapped his cigarette against an ashtray and muttered, "So the Germans walk into Prague, and not a shot fired. The world applauds. And yet the same world tells us to be calm."

Śmigły-Rydz’s voice cut like a saber. "Calm? If Hitler thinks he can treat Poland as he treated the Czechs, he is gravely mistaken. The Polish Army is not a toy for German parades."

Beck leaned forward, his eyes cold, his words precise. "Marshal, with respect the Czechs thought the same. They had tanks, fortresses, fine generals. And yet their allies abandoned them. France looked the other way. Britain muttered about peace. Now Czechoslovakia is a memory."

The President sighed. "And what of us? Do you think Paris will stand by us if the storm breaks?"

Beck’s lips tightened. "Paris? Moreau is no longer a Frenchman we can trust. He is a soldier who fancies himself an emperor. France has Spain under his heel he looks at Europe with hungry eyes. Do not think he will rush to our defense for sentiment’s sake."

Śmigły-Rydz slammed his baton on the table. "Then we must show Berlin that Poland is no Prague! We have fought the Bolsheviks, we have stood against the Czar, against the Kaiser. We will not be cowed by Hitler’s speeches."

"Pride is not artillery," Beck murmured.

The Marshal glared at him. "Pride makes soldiers stand when artillery has failed. Do you forget 1920, Minister? Do you forget when we stopped the Red Army at the Vistula? They thought us finished then too. We showed them."

"Marshal," Beck said evenly, "wars are not won by repeating miracles."

The Prime Minister exhaled a stream of smoke. "Gentlemen, we are not here to quarrel about the past. We must consider the present. Hitler has Austria. He has Prague. His eyes turn to Danzig. To the Corridor. To us."

"Danzig is Polish," Śmigły-Rydz said sharply. "By treaty, by blood."

"By treaty, yes," Beck replied. "By blood? There are more Germans than Poles there. They cheer Berlin every week. Do you think we can hold Danzig with declarations?"

The Marshal struck the table again. "We hold it with divisions."

Silence followed, broken only by the crackle of the fireplace.

President Mościcki rubbed his temples. "What of Moscow?"

Beck answered first, his voice sharp. "Moscow is no friend. They watch us as a butcher watches cattle. If Hitler ever turns on us, do not think Stalin will rush to save Poland. He would carve us as quickly as Berlin."

Śmigły-Rydz nodded vigorously. "Better to face Germany alone than to invite Bolsheviks into our land. Let them ’help’ and they will never leave."

One of the generals, Wacław Stachiewicz, spoke for the first time.

His voice was quiet but heavy. "The army watches German maneuvers in Silesia. More trains. More depots. They say it is only exercises. But I tell you, they do not build depots for games."

The Marshal dismissed him with a wave. "Let them build. We watch too. If they cross, we will fight. The Polish soldier has no equal in courage."

"Courage," Beck said softly, "does not stop tanks."

Śmigły-Rydz rounded on him. "Do you insult the army?"

"I insult illusions," Beck replied. "I have met German generals, spoken with them in embassies and salons. They speak openly now, no longer with the caution of five years ago. They are certain the Führer will move east. And they are certain Poland will fall quickly."

"Then they are fools!" Śmigły-Rydz snapped. "Every village, every river, every forest will fight. Poland is not a rabbit to be frightened into surrender."

Beck’s tone turned icy. "No. Poland is a rooster that crows while the knife is raised."

The room went still.

Mościcki adjusted his spectacles uneasily. "Gentlemen. Enough."

The Prime Minister ground out his cigarette. "So we agree on nothing. The Marshal believes our strength will save us. The Minister believes the West will betray us. The President believes Moscow circles like a vulture. Tell me then what do we do?"

For a moment, no one spoke.

Finally, Beck straightened. "We must hold to our alliances. France may be led by a general with ambitions, but France still has treaties. Britain speaks of peace, but Britain also fears a Germany too strong. They will not let Hitler devour us whole."

Śmigły-Rydz muttered. "They let him devour Austria. They let him devour Prague."

Beck’s voice sharpened. "And perhaps they will let him devour Warsaw too unless we make them see the cost."

The Marshal leaned forward. "Meaning?"

"Meaning," Beck said slowly, "we remind them that Poland is not Czechoslovakia. That if Hitler strikes us, war will follow, war they cannot escape. If we must, we tell London directly if Poland falls, France falls next. If Poland bleeds, Britain will drown."

The Marshal chuckled bitterly. "You threaten our supposed allies into helping us?"

"I remind them of their own interests," Beck corrected. "Nations do not fight for honor. They fight for fear. Make them fear a German Poland, and they will stand with us."

Mościcki looked doubtful. "And if they do not?"

"Then we fight," Śmigły-Rydz said gripping his baton. "And we show the world that Poland fights to the last."

General Stachiewicz spoke again, softly. "Marshal, if we fight both Germany and Russia..."

"Russia?" The Marshal’s eyes blazed. "Russia is nothing! Their army is gutted, their officers shot, their soldiers green boys. I fought them in 1920. I know them. They are clumsy. If they dare move, we will cut them again."

Beck frowned. "Marshal, you underestimate them. They are weak today, perhaps. But tomorrow? And what if they do not move against us, but with Germany?"

"Absurd!" Śmigły-Rydz barked. "Hitler with Stalin? Oil with water? Never. Hitler built his Reich on hatred of Bolshevism. To imagine alliance is madness."

Beck’s eyes narrowed. "And yet Europe is full of madness these days."

Silence again.

The Prime Minister spoke finally. "Then we prepare as we always have alone, proud, and unbowed. Gentlemen, Poland stands. Let the Germans march where they will. We will answer."

The Marshal rose, slamming his baton onto the floor. "Poland does not fear wolves. We are the eagle. Let Hitler come. He will find only graves."

Beck did not rise.

He watched the Marshal with cold eyes, and murmured just loudly enough for the table to hear.

"Eagles fall too, Marshal. And when they fall, no one remembers their flight."

No one answered him.