I am finally convinced enough to upload what would be the beginning of my story...
When Enjolras gets awake, the sun is shining through the window. It is early afternoon. It is as he had been sleeping for days. He looks around but there is nothing here that he would recognize except himself. He doesn’t know the room he is in. How did he come here? He doesn’t remember anything. Where are all the others? He was with them yesterday, wasn’t he? This is so confusing.
He steps outside, maybe he finds them there. And hears indeed voices. Are they here? Enjolras enters the room to find it out. The people in there seem to be not much younger than he is and in this moment they are involved in a discussion. But as soon as he realises there is no one and nothing he knows, Enjolras goes back into the room he just comes from.
Is this his room? It seems to be. But why is he here and how did he get here? Yesterday everything was as it always was, wasn’t it? They were preparing their revolution. And they were discussing just as those people here do. Was it really yesterday?
He examines his room. Everything looks different. He looks out of the window. That is not Paris, he thinks. The houses look so much different from the ones he knows. And also the people looked so much different, the clothes they wear, their hair, everything. What were they discussing about? He doesn’t know. He was thinking too much about their appearance, his appearance. That just seems so strange.
More and more he remembers. There is the funeral of General Lamarque, he sees himself and his friends build the barricade. But what happened then? He sees them fighting at the barricade, he sees several of his friends die. Bossuet, Feuilly, Courfeyrac, Combeferre. One followed the other. More and more the pictures come again in his mind. He sees the barricade fall, how they retreat to the Corinthe . He sees himself as the only one who was still living, the approaching soldiers of the National Guard, determined to kill him. He sees Grantaire joining him. “Vive la République” he said. But why did he do that? He didn’t expect that from him. Why did he just give his life away? Why for once he was not drunk? Then there is that one sentence. “Do you permit it?”, he asked. He sees himself and Grantaire, expecting what has to come, standing face to face with those soldiers with their guns, determined to kill them. Now he understands. He spent much time asking himself why Grantaire was even interested in defending their revolution. But what if he did not go to battle for the Republic, for democracy but for him? What if his only wish was to die together with him?
These were the last instants he remembers. But what came after that? He did not die. That cannot be possible. If he was dead, he could not be here living? But he also does not look like as he had been fighting on a barricade for several days. So how does he come here? And where is Grantaire? Did that really happen or was it only a dream? Or is this a dream? He doesn’t know anymore.
On the table in the corner there are some books? Are those his books? He doesn’t know it. It seems to him as he had never seen them before.
There is a newspaper too. As Enjolras starts to read it he realises that it is about topics that are very familiar to him. It is about freedom and democracy, that everyone should be allowed to say his or her opinion, to be actively involved in politics. It is also about progress which was made during the last months. Progress? He does not remember there was any progress. There are still so many people that are starving, people living in the street, children that don’t have their parents anymore. There is so much hopelessness around, children that are born in this world of poverty and that do not have any possibility to get out of this bad situation. They are born poor and they die poor. Those people have to accept the situation without having a chance to participate in politics although they are just as much affected, if not even more, than every other citizen. It was them, the poor, for which Enjolras decided that something must be done. Curious what progress it thus may be, he continues reading. As he finds out it is all about Prague, not about Paris, not about his beloved Patria. But do they have made so much progress in Prague? He does not think so. At least he didn’t hear about any improvement of that kind in any European state. It was only now that he realised that this isn’t French. That can’t be French. That is Czech. But why does he understand it then? Until yesterday he didn’t speak a word in Czech... That makes the whole thing even stranger. So maybe he is in Prague. And the people he saw were Czechs. But how did he get here? And why are they writing about Czechoslovakia? He never heard that term. Is that a nation? He does not think so. Prague and the Czech lands belong to the Austrian Empire, don’t they? Have they started a revolution? Maybe they don’t want only the people to be allowed to participate in what affects their daily live but declared independence from Austria. At least he is sure that he should find out more about that. If this really is like that and he somehow got here, he should help to retain those ideas. Probably the others were just talking about these concepts, maybe he should go there and join their discussion.
He closes the newspaper to do so. Just in this moment something even more alarming catches his eye. It is the date on which this journal was published: 7th of June 1968...