Reincarnated: Vive La France

The train from Berlin crossed the Czech border at dusk, its windows dark, curtains drawn.

Onboard sat men who did not wear uniforms, but carried orders more dangerous than rifles.

They stepped off quietly in Ústí nad Labem engineers, documentarians, handlers.

They didn't speak Czech.

They didn't need to.

The local German-speaking organizers were already waiting.

One of them, a man with thick glasses and tobacco-stained fingers, handed over a sheet.

It listed incidents planned ones.

Broken Sudeten shop windows with Czech slogans.

A Czech teacher accused of beating a German child.

A fake letter from a Czech colonel boasting about "cleansing Sudetenland."

"It needs to happen before Thursday," the handler said.

"Why so soon?" the organizer asked.

"Because the next speech is Friday. We need outrage before applause."

In Prague, Edvard Beneš sat alone in his study, a single lamp casting light over his desk.

Marta entered quietly, holding a tray of tea.

"You've barely slept," she said.

He didn't look up. "How can I? Every time I close my eyes, I see the Sudetenland burning."

"They haven't lit the match yet," she replied gently.

"No," he whispered, "but they've soaked the wood."

There was a knock.

General Syrový entered with slow, deliberate steps.

"Mr. President," he began, "there's been another attack. A Czech constable was found outside Eger. Tied to a tree. Dead."

Beneš closed his eyes. "Who did it?"

"No one claims it. But the flyers left behind blame Czech oppression."

Beneš clenched his jaw. "We are being framed. Slowly, inch by inch."

Syrový nodded.

"And the world refuses to blink."

In Karlsbad, Henlein delivered his next address.

This time, the crowd was larger.

Flags everywhere.

Chants carefully orchestrated.

The speech was broadcast not only in Germany but across Europe.

"…and yet, they call us separatists, traitors. We, who only ask for the right to be heard. We, who have built these towns, buried our fathers in this soil. Must we bow forever to a Prague that denies our voice?"

The applause was thunderous.

Camera flashes exploded like lightning.

Beside him, a journalist from Hamburg took notes and whispered to his photographer.

"Send it with the headline: 'A nation within a nation rises.' Make it romantic."

That evening, in a Sudeten village, a Czech librarian was forced to shut her library early.

Men gathered outside and threw a stone through the front window.

Inside, she picked up a fallen copy of Karel Čapek's War with the Newts.

Its spine was cracked.

Blood stained the cover.

She hadn't noticed the cut on her hand.

She locked the door behind her, tears hot in her eyes.

On the wall behind her, someone had written "Prague out!" in chalk.

Beneš met privately with the French ambassador.

It was a quiet, uneasy meeting.

"You promised support," Beneš said, voice low but steady. "Where is it now?"

The ambassador shifted uncomfortably. "There is still hope for negotiation."

"They don't want to negotiate," Beneš snapped. "They want to devour. First Austria. Now us."

The ambassador sighed. "Head of State orders are clear, we are still very busy with Spain."

"Our people are bleeding now," Beneš said coldly. "If France waits until we're dead, she'll find no allies left to stand beside."

In Berlin, Hitler read the latest update from Goebbels.

One line stood out.

"Czech restraint now paints them weak. Push further. Henlein's next speech should call for full autonomy."

Hitler scrawled a note in the margin.

"Or annexation? Let them demand the very thing we plan to give them."

He summoned Ribbentrop.

"Send word to London. We expect Prague to respect self-determination. Remind them they praised it in Versailles."

Ribbentrop nodded. "And if they resist?"

"Then we got what we wanted."

In the countryside near Liberec, a Czech farmer refused to hang a German flag over his barn.

That night, they came for him.

Five men in overcoats, carrying batons and ropes.

His son watched from the hayloft, frozen.

The next morning, villagers found the barn burned, the flag nailed to the ash-black door.

In the Czech Parliament, the debate raged.

"We must impose martial law," a deputy cried. "Suspend German-language newspapers. Show them this is still our republic!"

But another shouted back, "And what then? Riot in the streets? Berlin wants our overreaction."

Beneš entered mid-debate, listening.

When it was quiet, he stepped forward.

"If we silence them, we hand Berlin the excuse they crave. But if we stay still, we are drowned. So we must do neither. We act with care, but we do act."

Someone asked, "What action, Mr. President?"

He looked around. "Mobilize the reserves in secret. Not to fight, but to be ready. Tell our people we are not giving up our home without breath, without memory."

In a school in Brno, children were told to stop singing the national anthem during morning prayer.

A girl of ten stood defiantly and sang the first verse alone, her voice trembling but clear.

The teacher stared at the floor.

At noon, her parents were summoned.

A German administrator said, "She must learn restraint."

Her mother replied, "She must learn pride."

In London, Chamberlain dined with Lord Halifax.

They spoke of economy, of Germany, of weather.

Chamberlain finally muttered, "It's like watching a theater burn and debating the wood quality."

Halifax raised a brow. "And yet you still hold the bucket."

Chamberlain didn't reply.

Marta found Beneš asleep at his desk, maps scattered around him.

She gently placed a blanket over his shoulders.

A note on the top read.

"If this is our end, let us write it with dignity."

In the Sudeten hills, a group of boys aged sixteen to eighteen trained in the forest.

A man in a grey coat showed them how to hold a rifle.

"What if we get caught?" one asked.

The man smiled sadly. "Then you'll be called terrorists. Until twenty years from now, when someone calls you heroes."

In a Sudeten town, a Czech priest rang the bell at midnight.

He wasn't supposed to.

It had been ordered silent for Henlein's broadcast.

When asked why he did it, he simply said, "Because it still rings."

That night, Beneš met with his old friend, a poet named Ján Šimáček, in a quiet garden.

"What do you see when you look at them?" Ján asked.

"Mirrors," Beneš said. "And masks."

"Then what do we do?"

Beneš looked at the stars. "We pray Europe still knows the difference."