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.
