Reincarnated: Vive La France

In the old district, beneath the stone arches of the war ministry, a guard lit a cigarette with trembling fingers.

He exhaled into the cold.

Inside, the mood was worse.

General Krejčí stood over a map that had not moved in days.

The pins were the same.

The regions marked in red ink had not changed.

And yet everything around them had.

He pointed to a cluster of towns along the northern border. "Three minor rail depots struck in one night. Explosives, likely homemade. No casualties, but it's a message."

Interior Minister Černý leaned in. "And the message?"

"'We can touch you,'" Krejčí replied. "And we will again."

Beneš stood at the window, his hands clasped behind his back.

He did not speak for a while.

Černý waited, then cleared his throat. "We believe the operations are coordinated with someone inside the ministry. A leak."

Beneš turned slowly. "A name?"

"Not yet. But there are whispers. Meetings missed. Cables intercepted. Someone is feeding Berlin."

"And what does Berlin feed them in return?"

"Chaos," Krejčí muttered.

Beneš walked to the table and tapped a folder.

It contained photographs.

Blurred faces.

Piles of leaflets.

Scrawled German slogans on Czech homes. A shot of a funeral the boy from Teplice.

Ten years old.

Caught in a stone-throwing between Czech and German youth.

Died from a blow to the temple.

"He's already a martyr," Černý said. "Henlein's press claims he was executed by Czech police."

"He was killed by a thrown rock," Krejčí snapped. "We all know that."

"But that is not what matters anymore," Beneš said quietly. "The truth has become optional."

There was silence.

Then Beneš said, "Shut down the northern crossings. I don't care if it's trade or livestock. Let the Sudetenland feel the weight of our patience."

Krejčí raised an eyebrow. "Won't Berlin scream blockade?"

"Let them," Beneš said. "They've already begun the chorus. I'd rather be accused of defiance than die of hesitation."

In Berlin, Konrad Henlein sat in a room with no windows.

Goebbels poured tea into two porcelain cups.

"You look tired, Konrad," he said lightly.

Henlein didn't answer at first.

He stared at the steam rising from the cup. "Things are moving too fast."

"Are they?" Goebbels asked.

Henlein finally looked up. "We had a plan. Escalation, outrage, demand. But now towns burn before we name the fire. My men are improvising. The line between agitator and fanatic is thinning."

Goebbels sipped calmly. "And what is the problem with that?"

Henlein leaned forward. "I don't control it anymore."

Goebbels smiled faintly. "Control is for peacetime. During transition, chaos is your ally. The more smoke, the more our message seems like a torch."

Henlein shook his head. "It's not sustainable. One wrong spark, and Prague will declare martial law."

"Good," Goebbels said.

Henlein blinked.

Goebbels stood and walked toward a cabinet.

He opened a drawer and removed a thin red folder.

Inside were photographs Sudeten rallies, Czech troops repositioned, even aerial shots of Brno.

"The Führer wants escalation. He wants Prague to tighten the noose. We want images of tanks. Fences. Men in helmets. Let the world see Czech steel pressing down on German voices."

Henlein stood too. "If they declare martial law, people will die. Children. Families."

Goebbels turned.

"And they will die beautifully. On film. In headlines. In speeches before the League. That is what you're building, Konrad a monument of just cause."

Henlein's hands trembled slightly.

"I didn't want war," he said quietly.

Goebbels walked past him, gently clapping his shoulder. "Then you should not have asked for history."

In Prague, Krofta returned from a midnight meeting with the British chargé d'affaires.

His coat was soaked.

He tossed it onto a chair in the President's office, where Beneš was still awake.

"Anything?"

Krofta shook his head. "They urge restraint. Again."

"And France?"

"No reply. Renaud is pushing, but Moreau's silence speaks louder."

Beneš didn't speak for a long time.

He lit a match and watched the flame burn down to his fingers.

Then he said, "We have twenty thousand men in reserve. I want them armed, equipped, and on twenty-four-hour alert."

Krofta hesitated. "That could be seen..."

"It's not for them to see," Beneš interrupted. "It's for us to know we are not helpless."

"Understood."

Beneš turned to a pile of messages on his desk.

One was marked intercepted transmission.

It had been decoded hours ago.

From Henlein.

To Berlin.

"Minor elements within Sudeten territories begin acting independently. Recommend further instruction or risk unpredictable escalation. Press image holding strong. Suggest Prague's silence no longer read as control but fear."

Krofta read over his shoulder.

"Fear," Beneš repeated. "They mistake restraint for weakness. Again."

"And yet you still refuse to speak publicly."

Beneš looked at him. "When I speak next, it will not be a defense. It will be a line in stone. And I am not ready to carve it."

In a town near Liberec, a Czech soldier named Lukáš was on patrol near a burned-out customs station.

He kicked a loose beam aside, then crouched near a scorched sign.

The only words still visible were "Deutsche Heimat."

He touched the charred edge.

His companion, Sergeant Bílý, came around the corner.

"Nothing left here but ashes," the sergeant said.

Lukáš didn't look up. "They left in a hurry."

"They always do."

A low wind stirred the ruined flagpole.

Lukáš stood. "How long before they do this in Brno? Or Prague?"

Sergeant Bílý spat into the snow. "Not long, if we keep waiting."

"But the President says we hold."

Bílý shrugged. "The President sits behind walls. We stand in the smoke."

In Berlin, Ribbentrop met with Göring behind closed doors.

"You're moving too slow," Göring said. "Why wait for their mistake when we can fabricate one?"

"Because we still wear the mask of diplomacy," Ribbentrop replied coolly. "The British are not ready. The French are watching. One wrong step and they find their spines again."

"And the Führer?"

"Enjoys the theater."

Göring poured himself a drink. "This is not theater. It's conquest."

"And conquest must look like defense."

Late that night in Prague, Marta found Beneš in the corridor, pacing.

She held a cup of broth in her hands.

"Still awake?"

"I read something," he said quietly. "An old dispatch from Masaryk during the Great War. He said, 'A nation is not the lines on a map, but the breath of its people. If that breath holds, no line can erase it.'"

Marta handed him the broth. "You think ours will hold?"

He looked down the hall.

Then back to her.

"I don't know. But I intend to make sure the world hears it before it fades."

She smiled faintly. "Then maybe that's enough."

On the edge of Sudetenland, a torchlight vigil was held in silence.

Children held photos of the Teplice boy.

Mothers held banners written in neat black ink.

"Justice. Not Revenge."

"Dignity for Germans. Peace for All."

In the crowd, a man passed out candles and took down names.

He handed a note to a courier.

"Deliver to Berlin. They need to see the faces."

As the crowd dispersed, a camera clicked quietly from the shadows.

Not German.

Not Czech.

British.

At dawn, Beneš received a package wrapped in oilcloth.

Inside were photographs.

One showed a Czech patrol walking past a line of children holding flowers in Karlsbad.

Another showed a shopkeeper sweeping glass from his doorstep beneath a Czech flag with a noose scrawled across it in red paint.

The final image was of a woman middle-aged, tired, clutching a torn Czech passport.

No caption.

Just a note.

"They are framing fear as dignity. And dignity as fear."

Beneš folded the note.

Then he walked to his desk, opened a new file, and labeled it.

"Public Response Draft – To the People and the World"

He sat down.

Picked up his pen.

And began.