Reincarnated: Vive La France
Chapter 284: What does a nation become when it forgets how to speak for itself?

Chapter 284: What does a nation become when it forgets how to speak for itself?

At 04:32 on a dull morning, under cover of low clouds and plausible deniability, the first motorized column of the 8th Army rolled past the Bavarian border post near Freilassing.

The guards Austrian and visibly cold made no motion to stop them.

They lit cigarettes instead.

Whether it was resignation or quiet approval, no one spoke.

The engines filled the silence.

Officially, no orders had been issued.

But the maps had changed.

Berlin called it "Operation Ostmarsch."

A mobilization.

A symbolic repositioning.

Nothing aggressive, of course not even in the radio broadcasts that accompanied the rumble of treads with soft violin concertos and interviews with emigrated Austrian poets, now "returning" under the promise of unity.

To the locals watching from kitchen windows, it felt like fog being replaced by shadow.

Vienna, still technically sovereign, was paralyzed.

Markel had ordered no formal resistance but also gave no official welcome.

His directive to border garrisons was phrased with ambiguity.

"Until clarification from parliament, avoid engagements which may be interpreted as escalatory or fratricidal."

The military commanders, already doubting their ammunition counts and the integrity of their ranks, took that as what it was, a retreat masquerading as discretion.

In Linz, where a youth rally had spontaneously erupted the previous evening under the banner.

"The Fatherland Returns."

German trucks were greeted with cautious cheers.

Some students waved flags some black-red-gold, some red-white-red.

Most simply watched.

Wilhelm Keppler had returned to Vienna once again.

"The soldiers are not invaders," he told a gathering of Austrian civil society leaders.

"They are protectors of peace, of shared blood, of common destiny."

No one interrupted.

And yet, no one applauded either.

Across Austria, the speed remained careful.

There were no synchronized parades, no salutes, no radio declarations.

This was not blitzkrieg.

This was inheritance performed in real-time papers signed not with pens but with the silence of dissenters.

In Graz, Mayor Dörfler asked his staff not to fly any flag not until "the legal basis is secured."

But by midday, the German flag flew anyway from the city hall tower.

No one admitted to raising it.

The Vienna military district received its orders late that night.

They were brief.

"Do not obstruct logistical traffic."

No signature.

General Löhr looked at the page for a long time before setting it down.

"So that’s it," he murmured. "We’re watching the ink dry."

Beside him, Colonel Gruber said nothing.

His uniform had been freshly cleaned that morning.

Not because of defiance, but dignity.

If they were to yield, it would not be in shame.

From Berlin, additional agents filtered in plainclothes, precise, prepared.

They visited newspaper offices with friendly edits.

They met with local clergy, often invoking phrases like "moral consolidation" and "brotherhood under heaven."

They were careful not to threaten.

The Austrian Broadcasting Service aired a newly revised segment that evening.

"This is not surrender, dear listeners, but reunification. A return not just to borders but to belonging."

Meanwhile, Goebbels stood in the Reich Chancellery war room, watching the teleprinter updates arrive line by line.

His spectacles caught the glow of the machine as his fingers hovered over a map labeled not Austria, but Süddeutscher Korridor, South German Corridor.

"Every town that lets our men walk through without resistance earns another Chapter in our myth," he muttered. "Not conquest. Consent."

Himmler, standing nearby, nodded. "The real victory is emotional. We are not invading their territory. We are reclaiming their memory."

He turned to one of his aides.

"Send flowers to the widow of that Styrian alderman who endorsed reunification last year. Quietly. With a note. ’You were early, but not wrong.’"

Back on the ground, the SS detachments kept their weapons holstered.

Their orders were crystal-clear: escort, observe, encourage.

In Salzburg, one officer visited a local university dean and offered a position at a new Reich institute being formed in Munich.

"Your lectures," he said, "belong to a greater audience."

In Innsbruck, German engineers arrived to "inspect" local telegraph infrastructure.

The Austrian technicians didn’t protest.

Many offered to help.

There were exceptions.

At a small checkpoint near Zell am See, a company commander named Wilhelm Hartl refused to lower the Austrian flag.

His men stood behind him.

When the German column approached, he saluted and declared. _{f|ree(w)ebn\o.vel.com}

"This ground is still Austrian."

The German officer, a captain from Munich, dismounted and approached.

There was no confrontation.

No shouting.

The two men spoke in private for less than two minutes.

When they returned, Hartl turned to his men and said.

"Stand down."

The flag remained, but the column passed.

That night, Hartl resigned.

His letter read.

"Loyalty without bloodshed is not defeat. But I will not officiate the dissolution of my own country."

In Vienna, Markel met with Interior Minister Schmidt.

Where Markel drafted one last speech.

He wrote slowly, in longhand, tearing pages when the words felt too hollow.

He did not call for resistance.

He did not call for unity.

Instead, he asked.

"What does a nation become when it forgets how to speak for itself?"

The speech was never aired.

By the third day, German administrative liaisons were already coordinating with Austrian civil authorities.

Not replacements "partners."

Their insignias bore both flags in a joined crest, hastily designed, quickly distributed.

A memo circulated among mid-level bureaucrats in Vienna:

"Joint commissions are being formed to ensure stability. Those who cooperate shall retain office and salary."

In truth, it wasn’t even bribes anymore.

It was weather forecasting.

The storm had passed slow, patient, decisive.

Now came the sunlight of narrative.

On the fifth day, Hitler departed from Munich.

His train was marked discreetly.

At every station, onlookers waited.

They didn’t cheer.

Not all.

But many waved.

Some wept.

"It feels like my father returned," one woman told a reporter. "Only this time, he brought order."

Hitler did not wave.

He simply nodded.

He would arrive in Vienna on Sunday.

Just as he had promised.

In Berlin, Goebbels finalized the newsreel scripts.

"The footage must show warmth. Handshakes. Children offering flowers. Uniforms only in the background. This is not an occupation it’s a reunion."

Cameramen were deployed to border towns with strict framing instructions.

"If you see a tear, capture it. But no screaming. No shouting. This is a silent celebration."

By the end of the week, nearly every major Austrian institution from the police to the postal service had accepted administrative integration.

The word "Anschluss" was still forbidden.

But the world already whispered it.

On the seventh day, Markel locked his office for the last time.

He handed the keys to a junior officer who avoided eye contact.

"They say Berlin will install a commissioner by next month," the officer said quietly.

Markel adjusted his coat.

"Then let them find the furniture warm."

He didn’t wait for a car.

He walked through Vienna alone, passing shopfronts with new signage, posters advertising a concert of "unified German music," and one street corner where a boy was chalking three words onto the pavement.

Ein. Volk. Reich.

The boy looked up.

"Is that allowed?" he asked innocently.

Markel stared at him for a moment.

"It will be," he said.

Then kept walking.