Reincarnated: Vive La France

The phone on Krofta's desk rang just before sunrise.

He'd fallen asleep against a folder of telegrams, waking with a start at the shrill tone.

Marta answered first.

"It's Paris," she whispered, passing the receiver. "At last."

Krofta pressed the phone to his ear, barely breathing.

The line crackled.

A French official, voice drained and formal.

"Monsieur Krofta, I bring regards from Minister Moreau. The situation is most regrettable. We must ask for utmost caution on your part."

He bit back the words he wanted to say. "We have shown only caution. It has gotten us nothing."

There was a pause, paper shuffling. "We urge continued restraint. The world is watching. No further provocation, monsieur."

Krofta's hand trembled. "When will France act?"

"France is not alone in this matter. I assure you negotiations continue. But we cannot be the ones who light the fuse."

He set the receiver down, staring at his desk for a long time.

Marta watched him.

"Well?" she asked softly.

He smiled, hollow. "France will do nothing. At least, nothing before it is too late."

In the Cabinet room, the ministers assembled again, faces pale in the dawn light.

Sleep had left none of them rested.

Krejčí stood, voice brittle. "If France will not move, we must. Our units are in position, but if we do not issue clear orders, we will lose the initiative and the faith of the men."

Beneš nodded. "I have not forgotten what is at stake, General. But if the first report of a Czech battalion crossing a road is broadcast in Berlin before I explain why, we will be painted as the aggressors for all time."

Černý leaned forward. "You cannot let headlines decide our fate! Every minute we wait, another border town goes dark. Our officers are being shot in the back. In Děčín, the mayor was found hanged from the town hall balcony. How many signals do you need?"

Krofta raised his hand, weary. "There is a League session in Geneva this afternoon. I have demanded the floor. It may be our last chance for public appeal."

Beneš met his gaze. "Do you believe it will matter?"

Krofta was silent.

Beneš turned to Krejčí. "Mobilize every available reserve, but keep them behind the Elbe. I want the world to see our patience until we cannot afford it."

Krejčí saluted, but it was only half-respect, half-despair.

As he left, Černý muttered to Krofta, "If this is patience, I'd hate to see resignation."

Krofta said nothing.

Across the city, Petr Novák finished his letter to his mother.

Dearest Maminka,

They say we may be called to the line any day now. Some of the men joke, some pray. I don't know which I am. I think about our house, your apple trees, how quiet it was before any of this. Don't be afraid for me. I will write again soon. Love, Petr.

He folded the letter, tucked it into his coat, and headed to the square.

On the way, he passed the baker's shop boarded up, a sign reading "Gone to join the militia. Pray for us."

In front of the church, Children of the Republic leaflets fluttered in the wind.

"If you are afraid, you are not alone. If you refuse, you are not lost. If you act, you are the Republic."

He took one, tucking it into his pocket.

At the barracks in Pardubice, Captain Veselý stood at attention as Krejčí entered.

"Orders, sir?"

Krejčí handed him a sealed packet. "Mobilize the 22nd and 24th reserves. No uniforms in the streets. No weapons shown until the alert is given. Understood?"

Veselý nodded. "Understood, General. The men are ready."

A brief smile. "Are you?"

Veselý shrugged. "We're all ready for something. We just don't know what it is yet."

Krejčí gripped his arm, then left without another word.

In Geneva, League of Nations.

Krofta's speech was brief.

"We have not attacked. We have not provoked. Yet each day, we lose citizens shot, hanged, disappeared. The Sudetenland is awash in violence, and German officers have been sighted directing paramilitaries.

I ask you at what point does defense become a right, not a provocation?

If the Republic of Czechoslovakia is to die, let it not be said that it died in silence, or alone."

He stepped down to a hush.

A British delegate leaned to his French counterpart.

"Stirring," he whispered, "but hopeless."

The Frenchman looked away, jaw tight.

No resolution passed.

In Berlin, Goebbels received news of Henlein's forced "retirement" with a wry smile.

He summoned his aide.

"Draft a statement," he said, "commending Henlein for his service and loyalty. Make it clear that, in these difficult times, the fate of the Sudeten Germans is the fate of the Reich itself."

"And the paramilitary?"

Goebbels glanced at the aide. "Let them run a little longer. The world expects a spectacle. Let's not disappoint."

Henlein sat in his hotel room, suitcases packed, staring at a blank page in his notebook.

He tried to write a final message to his followers, to his wife, even to himself.

Nothing came.

He set the pen down, walked to the window, and watched Berlin glow with the lights of a city that had moved beyond him.

Night again in Prague.

Beneš met with Marta in the library.

"Do you think it's too late?" he asked quietly.

She didn't answer right away.

She ran her fingers along the spines of the books.

"You always ask if it's too late," she said. "But the question is too late for what? For hope? For change? For survival? Maybe for all those. But not too late for dignity."

He closed his eyes, listening to the rain.

"I feel responsible for every son who might die tomorrow," he whispered.

Marta's voice was steady. "You are. But you are not the only one. We all share this."

A silence.

He looked up at her. "Will you stay here tonight?"

She smiled gently. "As long as you need."

Out in the Sudetenland, the paramilitary leaders met for the first time without Henlein's knowledge.

A man in a black coat a Berlin emissary addressed them in clipped tones.

"The Reich is ready. Your instructions are simple: keep the pressure. Block roads. Sabotage lines. Cause confusion. If you meet Czech soldiers, provoke never initiate. If civilians resist, make them examples."

A local commander protested. "And if the Czechs defend themselves?"

The emissary smiled. "Then history will know who started the war."

They dispersed into the fog, silent and determined.

Late night, Plzeň.

A teacher, Anna Šimková, wrapped bundles of banned Czech books in wax paper.

Her husband, Jan, helped seal the bundles.

"They'll burn them if they search the school again," he said quietly.

"Not if they never find them," Anna replied. "The walls have hidden worse."

Jan watched her. "You're braver than you know."

She shook her head. "I'm not brave. I just remember what it's like to be free."

He kissed her forehead. "Promise you'll run, if you must."

"I promise I'll do what's right," she answered, looking him in the eye.

Marta returned to the kitchen for tea.

She found Černý standing at the sink, sleeves rolled, scrubbing his hands.

She regarded him.

"Couldn't sleep?"

He shook his head. "Never could, before a storm. I used to think I'd welcome a fight. Now I just pray it passes."

She poured two cups, handed him one.

"Why do you keep fighting?"

He considered the question, then answered, "Because I was born Czech, and I want to die that way."

She nodded.

"Then we will, one way or another."

Midnight at the barracks in Hradec Králové.

Veselý's men played cards, read letters, polished boots in tense silence.

A distant boom artillery, perhaps, or just thunder.

A young private, Havel, leaned over to the sergeant.

"Do you think we'll fire a shot?"

The sergeant shook his head. "I think someone will. The question is who, and when."

Veselý checked his pocket watch.

Every tick echoed louder.

In Geneva, Krofta walked alone along the edge of the lake.

A French diplomat caught up with him.

"Old friend," he said, "I'm sorry."

Krofta managed a small smile. "For what?"

"For all of it."

The Frenchman stopped walking, looking up at the cloudy sky. "You know, when this is over, and the borders are changed, we'll pretend we never had a choice."

Krofta touched his arm gently. "You always had a choice."

He walked on, leaving the Frenchman staring into the dark.

At Hradčany, the Cabinet assembled for the final time that night.

Beneš entered, letter in hand, coat over his arm.

He faced his ministers.

"Tonight we stand as one. Tomorrow may bring what it brings. But tonight, you are my witnesses.

We have not fired the first shot.

We have not abandoned the living.

We have not shamed the dead.

And we have not surrendered except to our own conscience."

He paused.

"If morning brings war, let the world know who lit the fuse."

He passed the letter to Marta.

"Print this one as well. Distribute it everywhere. Let every window in Prague bear these words."

She nodded, tears shining in her eyes.

Krejčí stood, saluting.

Černý followed.

Even Krofta, for all his weariness, managed to stand straight.

As they left, Beneš caught Marta's hand.

"Thank you," he whispered.

She smiled, resolute. "I was born to serve, Edvard. Like you were born to lead."