Reincarnated: Vive La France-Chapter 139: "In war, churches fall. Just make sure the press never sees the rubble.”

Chapter 139: "In war, churches fall. Just make sure the press never sees the rubble.”

The photographs began to surface by morning.

Grainy prints, smuggled out of the Tigray highlands by foreign journalists and Red Cross volunteers, appeared first in the Paris Le Matin, then in the Times of London, and later that afternoon in the Chicago Defender.

One image stood out above all others.

A church, its walls collapsed inward, with two priests lying facedown in front one missing a leg, the other with hands bound behind his back.

Written in Italian on the adjacent stone wall: "Per l’Impero."

For the Empire.

The world did not turn away this time.

In London, the newspapers sold out by noon.

Outside the Parliament, protesters gathered with signs reading "Sanctions Now" and "Italy Murders with British Oil."

An MP from the Labour Party, Clement Attlee, raised the matter in the Commons:

"If this is civilization," he said, slamming the paper against the dispatch box, "then God help us all."

Foreign Secretary Hoare tried to deflect. "We must maintain stability," he said. "We are monitoring the situation."

"Monitor what?" Attlee retorted. "How many cathedrals must be flattened before it’s no longer a matter of neutrality but one of decency?"

A roar followed.

That night, in a quiet office in Whitehall, Neville Chamberlain wrote in his journal.

"The public grows restless. Mussolini has awakened a fury we thought buried in the trenches of 1918."

In Harlem.

Volunteers mounted a massive canvas across the side of the Abyssinian Baptist Church.

Painted by local artists, it depicted the Virgin Mary holding a child with a fascist soldier’s bayonet inches from the child’s chest.

Inside, Reverend Adam Clayton Powell Sr. stood before hundreds.

"They call it modernization," he thundered. "We call it murder. They drop bombs where our ancestors built temples, and then they say they’re bringing order?"

Amens rang through the pews.

The next morning, The Chicago Defender printed a scathing editorial.

"Ethiopia burns and the world watches with folded arms. If this is the future of Black sovereignty, then it is a noose fashioned not from rope but from silence."

Letters poured into the White House.

The NAACP’s Walter White wrote directly to Roosevelt.

"Mr. President, neutrality between a lion and a lamb is complicity in the slaughter."

There was no reply.

In Moscow, the Pravda headline was simple:

"Mussolini: The New Pharaoh."

The article beneath condemned "Italian fascism’s crusade of colonial terror," and called for international volunteers to rally behind Ethiopia.

At the Comintern meeting that day, a young speaker from Spain rose to offer support.

"They may be Black, and they may be poor," he said, "but they bleed like us. Their mountain is our barricade."

The hall erupted in applause.

Behind the scenes, Stalin reviewed the memo with mild interest.

"Mobilize writers," he said. "We’ll publish an open invitation for anti-fascist fighters. Ethiopia is far but the enemy is the same."

In Delhi, a telegram arrived at the Emperor’s desk.

It was from Mohandas Gandhi.

"Your Majesty, I write not as a leader but as a man watching another nation suffer. We condemn tyranny in all forms. You do not stand alone."

In West Africa, Kwame Nkrumah, then a student, held a meeting with fellow Pan-Africanists.

"This is not just about Abyssinia," he said. "This is about whether the color of a nation’s skin decides its right to exist."

In Dakar, in Lagos, in Accra rallies swelled.

In Paris, a café crowd listened as a thin-voiced French radio announcer relayed an Italian communique.

"The conquest of Amba Aradam is complete. The Empire expands. Resistance is scattered."

An old man at the bar shook his head. "We said ’never again.’ After Verdun. After Ypres. We said it. And now?"

In the corner, a young man read the evening paper.

The headline: "Churches Burn in Tigray."

He folded the paper slowly.

That man was Major Étienne Moreau.

Back in Reims, in his office Major Moreau stood before a large wall map.

Red pins marked every known Italian advance.

Black markers denoted confirmed chemical weapon zones.

"Axum... Mekele... Amba Aradam," he murmured.

Chauvet entered quietly.

"More footage from Eritrea," he said, holding a reel.

"I’ve seen enough," Moreau said, eyes still fixed on the map. "They flogged priests. They shelled a hospital. They call this Rome."

Chauvet exhaled. "There’s talk in Paris. Laval is wavering. Even the Quai d’Orsay is shaken."

"They’ll do nothing," Moreau replied. "Because Italy is not threatening them. It is bullying the weak."

Chauvet leaned against the desk.

"You think Italy is foolish?" ƒгeewёbnovel.com

"No," Moreau said, turning. "I think they are cowards. They would not dare test a European army. So they bomb villages. Shoot monks. Pretend it is war."

He walked to the cabinet and pulled out a manila folder marked Provisional Doctrine – Colonial Occupation Resistance (C.O.R.).

"They are writing the handbook for future occupation. And no one stops them. Not London. Not Paris. Not even Washington."

He threw the folder down.

"They say neutrality," he said. "But it’s just distance pretending to be ethics."

Chauvet hesitated, then said, "The League finally declared Italy the aggressor."

Moreau laughed once.

"So they’ve found the courage to name the obvious. And?"

"No sanctions yet."

"Of course not."

Moreau turned to the window.

Chauvet sat quietly.

In Rome, Mussolini stood on the Palazzo Venezia balcony, arms outstretched before tens of thousands.

"The world sees an empire!" he bellowed. "Let them watch. We do not ask permission to be great!"

Below, a chorus of "Duce! Duce!" rose into the air.

Inside Ciano listened to the broadcast with a glass of grappa.

His aide approached.

"Another town fell today. Civilians buried in a cave shelter. Our bombers collapsed it."

Ciano didn’t react. "Mark it down. Keep moving."

The aide hesitated. "But... it was a church."

De Bono drank. "In war, churches fall. Just make sure the press never sees the rubble."

That night, across the globe, flames still burned in the Ethiopian hills.

And somewhere in those hills, a girl carried her younger brother on her back.

Their village had vanished in a raid.

Their father a priest had been shot by an officer who called it "pacification."

They had no home.

No country that spoke for them.

But she walked.

Toward what, she did not know.

But she walked.

And history, quietly, followed her steps.