The train pulled into Karlsbad.
Konrad Henlein stepped onto the platform to a small crowd of supporters, young men holding banners with clean fonts and smiling faces.
A few chanted his name.
One handed him a bouquet of white flowers.
He accepted it without emotion.
German-speaking children whispered words they'd been taught carefully by their parents.
"Autonomy." "Oppression." "Heritage."
Words that sat heavy on small tongues.
A girl, no older than six, whispered to her brother. "Papa says we have to be quiet now."*
The brother, older, wiser in the way kids get when things turn ugly, muttered back.
"Not forever."
Henlein made his way to the local town hall where chairs had been arranged for the speech.
Flags were draped behind the podium both the Sudeten German Party's and, prominently, the swastika.
He stepped.
The room went still.
"My brothers and sisters," he began, "you know why I am here."
A soft murmur passed through the room.
