Reincarnated: Vive La France

The clock in the presidential office ticked so loudly that Marta wondered if it would shatter.

She stood near the window, watching the rain trace erratic paths down the glass.

Behind her, voices overlapped, arguments rising and falling.

It was past midnight, but the Cabinet had not left for hours.

Krejčí was the first to speak, as always.

"Without clear orders, my men will do nothing. You know this, Mr. President. They're loyal, but they're not mind readers. We cannot have battalions marching east while Berlin watches for any excuse to call us the aggressors."

Beneš rubbed his temples. "Mobilization means war. Not just here. Everywhere."

"War is coming whether we stand or kneel," Černý said, almost shouting. "The lines are cut, the Sudetenland is lost, and every officer under my command is begging for instruction."

Krofta looked hollow-eyed, the last week's telegrams stacked in trembling hands. "The British envoy has not responded since midday. Paris's last message was a list of condolences. Condolences, Edvard. For a country that's not yet dead."

A moment passed.

Marta crossed the room and set a cup of tea before Beneš.

He managed a tight smile.

"Thank you, Marta."

She lingered, as if the act might shield him from what was coming.

Černý slapped the table. "Let's stop pretending. The border posts haven't reported in since dusk. There's a blackout in Liberec. In Jablonec, the police station burned. That is not an accident. That is not confusion. That is the signal we were promised."

Krejčí fixed his eyes on the map, fingers running along the border. "We must move troops to Pardubice. Quietly, but now. If we delay, we will be encircled before morning. And I want artillery in reserve. If the Germans cross, we make them pay for every kilometer."

Beneš stood, slow but steady.

He looked at each minister in turn.

"I know you want clear orders. I want them too. But if we act without a pretext, we are finished. If we wait too long, we are also finished. I see the trap as well as any of you."

Krofta's voice cracked. "They will find any excuse, Edvard. If not today, then tomorrow. If not with words, then with blood."

A knock at the door.

Marta answered.

A young officer stepped in, boots dripping.

"Report from the north, sir," he said, handing Beneš a sheet. "Border patrol at Varnsdorf made contact at 21:14. Shots fired. Two casualties, one missing. They retreated under cover. Civilians reported Sudeten paramilitaries in German helmets."

Černý pounced. "Proof! That's the proof Berlin's regulars are in play. Use it issue the alert."

Krejčí hesitated. "Let me verify. Give me three hours."

Beneš nodded, not looking at anyone.

"Three hours. Then we decide."

In a stone barracks outside Hradec Králové, Captain Jan Veselý gathered his officers by candlelight.

They were silent.

A lieutenant asked, "Sir, what are our orders?"

Veselý shook his head. "We wait. We're to be ready but not provoke. Keep the men inside, keep weapons close. No one is to be seen on the roads."

Another voice. "If we're attacked?"

"Hold your ground. Protect the civilians. Do not give chase. If you see Germans in uniform, you document, you report, you do not fire unless fired upon."

The men nodded, but restlessly.

"Sir," one of the sergeants said quietly, "I have a family in Liberec. I haven't heard from them since yesterday. If things get worse…"

Veselý put a hand on his shoulder. "We'll do what we can. But our first duty is here. That's what will keep them safe, if anything can."

Someone from the back: "And if nothing can?"

Veselý closed his eyes. "Then we'll be remembered for how we stood, not how we ran."

Marta moved through the halls of Hradčany, a silent witness to the conversations she passed.

In the corridor, Krofta slumped against the wall, hands trembling as he folded yet another telegram.

She sat beside him.

"You look older tonight," she said gently.

He chuckled without humor. "I feel it. Thirty years of building bridges, and all it takes is one storm to sweep them away."

"Why did you choose this?" she asked.

Krofta stared at the opposite wall. "Because I believed words could be stronger than bullets."

She put a hand on his arm. "And if they aren't?"

He shook his head. "Then I hope they still echo, even after the shots."

She nodded and squeezed his hand. "Rest. Even the tired can speak for the living."

In a small apartment in Plzeň, a young reservist named Petr Novák packed his knapsack.

His mother hovered at the door.

"They say the Germans are already in Sudetenland," she whispered.

Petr nodded. "We haven't been called, but I'll go if they ask."

She bit her lip. "Your father fought for Vienna. He said he'd never send a son to war."

He forced a smile. "I go for Prague, not Vienna. For home."

She wiped her eyes. "If you go…write. Every day, if you can."

He zipped his bag. "Every day."

A pause.

"Petr—do you think we'll win?"

He stopped, considering. "I think we'll be remembered, one way or another."

In the Hotel Adlon in Berlin, Henlein paced his suite, watching the streetlights flicker against the heavy drapes.

The phone rang.

He hesitated, then picked up.

"Yes?"

A clipped voice, unfamiliar. "You are requested at the Reich Chancellery. Immediately."

Henlein frowned. "By whom?"

"By those who matter."

The line went dead.

He poured a drink, staring at his reflection.

"I am the architect of my own irrelevance," he murmured.

He finished the drink in two gulps, donned his coat, and left without looking back.

Back in Prague, Krejčí's office was filled with whispered arguments.

A colonel entered, eyes wide. "Sir, radio intercepts from the west. German columns moving near the border, not in full strength. Armored cars, support trucks. Not a drill."

Krejčí turned to his adjutant. "How many?"

"At least three battalions, no insignia visible, but German formations."

Krejčí nodded. "Put our reserve artillery on rolling alert. Move them by night. Absolute silence. No radio unless you have to. If the enemy crosses, do not fire unless the capital gives the word."

He paused.

"And send word to Beneš. We can delay, but we can't hide."

In a makeshift press room, three university students hunched over a battered typewriter.

One tapped keys with shaking fingers.

"If this is our last day, let us be counted."

They attached the Children of the Republic's signature.

One read the lines aloud as the others bundled the leaflets.

Another. "We need to get these to the French embassy. Let them see we have spirit, if not guns."

A knock on the door. The youngest stiffened.

"It's Marta," a whisper.

She entered, handed over a loaf of bread.

"For the road," she said softly.

One girl met her gaze. "You believe we can make a difference?"

Marta smiled. "Every word, every risk, every hour. That's all any of us ever have."

She left, and the girls continued, emboldened.

At the League of Nations in Geneva, Krofta's aide delivered a cable marked urgent.

The man behind the desk gray suit, silver pen barely looked up.

"The League does not act on rumors, Monsieur," he said coolly.

"These are not rumors. This is invasion by preparation. We ask only for a hearing."

The official signed a form, handed it back.

"We will place it on the agenda. Next week, perhaps. Perhaps not."

The aide stared, deflated.

The official did not notice, busying himself with the next item.

Henlein arrived at the Reich Chancellery.

He was escorted not to the usual salon but down a corridor, past portraits of dead emperors, into a room empty but for a desk and two chairs.

Goebbels waited, alone.

"You called for me?" Henlein asked.

Goebbels gestured to the seat. "The time of the Sudeten German Party is ending, Konrad."

Henlein sat, hands folded.

Goebbels smiled coldly. "You have served the Reich. Now you must serve silence. There is a new play one you will watch from the wings."

Henlein stiffened. "My people...."

"Are no longer your people," Goebbels interrupted. "They are German. You are a memory. Accept it. Or disappear."

Henlein stood abruptly. "I am not finished."

Goebbels shook his head. "You were finished the day Berlin marched. Now step aside."

The door opened.

Two guards entered.

Henlein's last glimpse of the room was Goebbels' smile.

At dawn, Marta returned to the President's office.

She found Beneš seated, pen poised, a blank sheet before him.

He looked up. "It's time."

She nodded. "What will you say?"

He thought a moment.

"Not much. Not yet. Just enough."

She poured his tea, sat by the window.

Outside, the city was waking nervous, exhausted, but alive.

Inside, Beneš began to write.

"To the citizens of the republic...

You are not alone.

Your patience is not weakness.

Your silence is not surrender.

You are the voice I will carry.

Whatever tomorrow brings."

He finished, folded the letter, handed it to Marta.

"Have it printed. Everywhere."

She took it, heart pounding.

As she left, she glanced back.

For the first time in days, Beneš looked calm.