Reincarnated: Vive La France

The first sign was not an explosion, but an absence.

In Liberec, the church bells did not ring at dawn.

The clock tower stood silent, hands paused at five-thirty.

In the gray light, shopkeepers pressed their ears to the radio, searching for familiar music, but finding only static then a German voice, reading the hour with precise, foreign consonants.

Petr Novák sat upright on his bunk at the barracks.

He blinked in the cold, wondering if the dream had followed him into waking columns of trucks crawling over the hills, their engines muttering like distant thunder.

In the command office, Captain Veselý stood at the telephone, listening for a line that would not answer.

The general's voice came through at last, thin and tinny.

"Any word from the north?" Veselý asked.

A pause.

Static.

Then.

"Nothing since midnight. Reports of armor moving on the Jablonec road, but no confirmation."

Veselý's hand tightened on the receiver. "Orders?"

"Hold position. Await further instructions. And Jan keep the men inside. Do not fire unless you must."

"Yes, sir."

He replaced the receiver, staring at the blank map on the wall.

In the square below, the soldiers waited for news.

Some smoked in silence, others watched the rooftops as if expecting a sign.

Petr joined the others, feeling the world shrink to the space between his heartbeat and the sound of boots on stone.

"Anyone seen the paper?" a private asked. No one answered.

Havel, the youngest, broke the hush. "Do you think they're coming?"

Petr shrugged. "They're already here. We just don't see them yet."

He looked at his rifle, polished and ready.

He wondered if he would carry it out of this place, or if it would be left behind for someone else.

At Hradčany Castle, Marta poured coffee for Beneš.

She watched his hands steady, but not calm.

Krofta entered, eyes rimmed red.

"There's a message from Pardubice. Armor sighted, but no shots. They're waiting at the river, as if for permission."

Beneš set his cup down. "That's all they ever wanted from us, from Paris, from London. Permission."

Krejčí arrived, uniform sharp, voice tired. "The radio lines are breaking down. We can hold for hours, maybe less. The roads to Prague are open."

He paused. "Shall I issue the alert?"

Beneš looked at Marta, then at Krofta, then at the rain outside.

"Yes," he said softly. "Tell the men s do not run. Do not provoke. Hold the city. Wait for my word."

He signed the order with a borrowed pen.

In Brno, Anna Šimková woke to the rumble of trucks on cobblestones.

She rose, pulling back the curtain to see men in unfamiliar uniforms standing by the old synagogue, rifles slung easy, as if this were just another posting.

She turned to Jan. "It's begun."

He nodded. "Stay inside today. Promise me."

She kissed his cheek. "Promise me you'll come back."

He squeezed her hand, and they parted without another word.

Anna hurried to the school, arms heavy with the last bundles of hidden books.

In the hallway, she heard boots on the stairs.

She ducked into a storage closet, heart thudding, and listened as voices in German echoed through the halls.

After a moment, they faded.

She pressed her forehead to the cool stone wall and breathed.

At the League of Nations, Krofta's cable arrived just as the session opened.

The clerk read it in a monotone.

"Foreign troops have crossed our borders. The government of Czechoslovakia appeals for immediate intervention under the principles of collective security."

The chamber buzzed, then quieted.

No one stood.

No one replied.

A British delegate scribbled a note.

"History will not forgive our silence."

A French envoy stared at the ceiling.

In a Sudeten village, a group of local men, faces grim, watched as the first German tank crawled over the border bridge.

A child clung to his mother's dress.

She whispered, "Look away."

But he did not.

A Czech policeman stood by the road, cap in hand, unmoving.

The German officer in the lead car nodded, almost politely, and the policeman stepped aside.

The column passed.

The village clock ticked on.

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

Marta entered, holding a single sheet of paper. "The BBC has requested a statement."

He took the paper, reading the words he had written the night before.

He shook his head. "No. Not these. I'll speak myself."

She nodded, turning on the radio transmitter.

When the red light glowed, he spoke not as a president, but as a father, a son, a man caught in the undertow of history.

"To the citizens of the Republic," he began, voice steady, "the hour we dreaded has come. Our borders have been crossed, not by invitation, but by force.

I ask you now, as I have always asked: hold fast. Do not give in to despair.

You are not alone. You are the memory of this land, and its hope.

Whatever comes, remember you are not conquered in your hearts."

He signed off, the room silent as the transmitter's light faded.

Marta stood behind him, tears on her cheek.

"Thank you," she whispered.

Beneš did not answer.

In the streets, the city waited.

At midday, a single German scout car appeared on the Charles Bridge.

It paused, engine idling, as Prague's citizens stared some in hatred, some in fear, some in numb resignation.

A baker set down his basket, crossed himself, and walked home.

In an attic, Children of the Republic leaflets fluttered out a window, catching in the gutters, sticking to the wet stone.

"This city is not conquered. This land is not lost. As long as we remember, as long as we speak, the Republic endures."

Night came early.

The radio played foreign songs, then silence.

Captain Veselý stood watch at the barracks window.

The men cleaned their rifles, packed bags, sharpened knives not because they hoped to fight, but because it was all they could do.

Petr wrote another letter.

He didn't know if it would ever be sent.

"Maminka,

The city is quiet now. The Germans are here, but no one has fired a shot. Maybe tomorrow will be different. Maybe I will see you soon.

I am not afraid not for myself. Only that we will be forgotten.

Tell Father I stood my post. Tell the others the same.

Love, Petr."

In Berlin, Goebbels drafted the morning headlines. "Order Restored. Sudeten Germans Embrace Reunion."

He approved images of smiling children, flags waving, generals shaking hands with grateful mayors.

Outside his office, the night was restless.

The newsmen hurried, the typewriters clicked.

Back in Prague, the Cabinet gathered once more.

No one argued.

Krejčí reported losses few, so far.

Černý read a report. "In Ústí, the garrison surrendered without resistance. The commander requests permission to evacuate families."

Beneš nodded. "Give it."

He closed his eyes, listening to the silence.