Ripples Across Time

Klausenburg, 

Somewhere in the Balkans 

October 1912, beginning of conflict

ON THE EVE OF THE WAR, our circle had called an emergency meeting at the tenth hour. I was running late since my shift at the hostel kept me working overtime. As I was jogging towards St. Michael’s Chapel, my footsteps fired loudly against the brick walls. When I reached the train tracks, the thrum of the wagons was reverberating throughout the chilly afternoon air. My wool sweater was wet at the back, and my beard itched. The train’s coaly smell, vapor mixed with smog, prickled at my eyes and throat. 

I hastily checked my pocket watch—it was twenty past four. The ticking rang in my ears, along with the beating of my heart that threatened to escape from my rib cage. The train finally passed, and I crossed the tracks to reach St. Michael’s. The wooden door of the chapel creaked obnoxiously loudly as I opened it. The place was dark, and the air was heavy. I traversed the empty nave towards the basement door. Our secretary’s voice boomed from below, strong and clear. 

I quietly walked down the stairs and leaned against the back wall, listening in while catching my breath. The room was packed with members from our circle, as well as faces I’ve never seen before. Stefan was at the front, addressing the crowd while waving a newspaper. I spotted Mireille’s inky-black hair in the front row—she was nodding along to our secretary while furiously stenographing his words.

“If we want the war crimes to end,” Stefan was shouting, “then let us refuse to be the victims and accomplices of our masters! As long as the imbecile religion of the Fatherland rules over us, we will be their slaves, their cannon fodder. The Fatherland is us, the workers and the producers of all social wealth. We alone know better than anyone else what needs to be done!” The audience whistled in agreement as he continued, “This is not national defense, but the defense of the interests of the wealthy, the few against the poor. Reject this war announcement, and their cannons will fall silent. Peaceful disarmament can only be achieved if we refuse to pick up arms!”

My body instantly became enveloped by gooseflesh as a chill ran down my sweaty back. I felt as if I was floating above myself, getting lost in the sea of shouts rippling among my fellow trade unionists, my compatriots. Our secretary always had a way with words—words of hope, zest for life, and resilience. Despite his short stature, he was standing tall and proud, glowing even in the dim light of the basement. Stefan ran a hand through his short, coal-black hair, his handlebar mustache wiggling above a smirk.

“Starting tonight, we’ll be working on a pamphlet that we’ll circulate among the workers. While our nation has remained neutral so far, in case the winds shift, we’ll have to convince our brothers to refuse the call to enlist.”

After the secretary adjourned the meeting and most of the attendants returned upstairs, Stefan and Mireille found me in my lone corner. I hugged my darling and kissed her on the cheek.

Stefan tapped me on the shoulder and stared into my eyes. “Constantine, my dear friend, I’m glad you could make it. Will you be able to stay the night and help us finalize the pamphlet?”

Mireille grabbed my hand and grinned, “Don’t worry, I’ll tell your folks you’ll be spending the night with me.”

I squeezed her small palm, returning the smile, and then I looked back at the man that I admired so much. “Sir, I’d love nothing more. What will you be calling it, the pamphlet?” 

Stefan’s eyes sparkled as he answered, “War Against War!”

---

The Capital

September of 1913

End of the conflict

The predictions came true: in the second year of negotiations, our nation came out of neutrality and finally joined the armed conflict, though our movement had grown in popularity among the workers. Yet, Stefan, I, and Johann, our printer, had spent a month in jail at the end of the war. The Secret Service discovered that we were responsible for the pamphlet. The army declared our crimes: inciting defection, anti-militarism, and anti-patriotism. 

Our punishment: death. 

The socialists and the syndicates abandoned us, the anarchists, throwing us to the wolves. And now here we were, the three of us, tied to a pole in front of the Capitol crowd, who were watching us with empty eyes. If they felt glad, sad, or scared, they didn’t show it. 

The first shot was fired. Johann was the first to go, his whimpers finally ceasing. To my left, Stefan was looking his executioner straight in the eye, our secretary stoic to the end. The second shot went off, echoing throughout the plaza, smoke escaping from the musket as Stefan’s head went limp on the pole.

The soldier reloaded. I caught sight of my mother fainting in my father’s arms. Next to them, Mireille was looking in my direction. She mouthed the words “I love you.” I blinked in acknowledgement.

The shooter arrived in front of me. The ticking of the watch in my pocket synchronized with the beating of my heart. I braced myself, glancing up at the endless sky. Mireille’s words reverberated loudly in my head. The memory of our work washed away with the cold September rain.

Ready. 

Aim. 

Fi—