Der Kampf: The Rise and Fall of the Austrian Führer

[Tanner151]

Chapter Nineteen
In the Presence of a Führer
Vienna, Austria
German-Austria
January 1919​

“What is this?!” demanded Ludwig von Hoffenberg, gesturing angrily at the copy of the Wiener Zeitung before him. The Deputy Chairman of the Nationalliberale Front was a short man, with thick shoulders and an impressive mustache sprinkled with hints of gray. He matched most of the NLF Central Committee in appearance. A group of men past their prime with a shortsighted vision, so akin to dinosaurs.

How does Gustav not see this? Hitler pondered. How does he tolerate it?

Why should a fossil berate him for the fossil was already dead, merely living on borrowed time.

“A newspaper,” Hitler calmly replied, sitting at ease under the glares of the six Committee members.

“How dare you, you pe-” von Hoffenberg reddened and stood from his chair in anger, raising a stubby finger but before he could say anything that would have escalated matters, Gustav Gross laid a hand on the man’s arm and a glare from the Party Chairman made von Hoffenberg sit. Hitler eyed him without blinking until the man sat and only then did he turn his attention to Gross.

Though older than von Hoffenberg, his beard gray with wisps of white, Gross’ gaze was more collected and controlled. Gross was a visionary, shackled down by the lackeys he surrounded himself with. Such a shame, Hitler thought.

“Adi, please, explain yourself,” Gross began, “Because this,” Gross tapped the newspaper on the table separating Hitler from the Committee, “is potentially a step too far.”
Hitler rose from his own chair facing them and leaned forward on the table, in an almost conspirationaly manner.

“I used all the money I had earned from my time in the Landwehr and from my speeches these past weeks to purchase a sectional in the Wiener Zeitung and a half dozen other newspapers across Austria. It was to be released days after the Battle of Leutschach but was delayed due to the paper’s hesitance to incite militancy or chaos but after the January 27th massacre in Marburg they decided to publish it. They all call for action against the South Slavs in the Carinthia. It is Austrian land, has been for centuries and will be for centuries hence but only if something is done.”

“Inciting violence is never the answer,” said Propaganda Chief Jakob Lutschounig.

Hitler slammed his fists on the table, causing some to jump from the unexpected act. “Violence is and has always been the answer! The wheel of history is turned by the blood of the fallen and by those daring enough to seize the moment. If we do nothing, Carinthia may very well be lost to us. Austria has already been carved up, we as a nation lack the resources once available to us as an empire. Dare we risk losing more?”

The men eyed one another hesitantly. Hitler straightened. “We are at a crossroads, both as a nation and as a party. If we do not seize this opportunity to remind the jackals that hunger after our land that Austria is not to be trifled with then within a generation our Fatherland shall be at the mercy of its enemies.”

Gross leaned back in his chair and after a moment asked, “What has this to do with the Front?”

“The Front can provide money, contacts, and even volunteers. We are a young movement but virile, eager to flex its muscles. Many within our ranks clamor for something to be done. The murder of law abiding Austrians by Slovene radicals cannot be tolerated.”

Hitler saw Gross give a slight nod, as did the bespectacled Party Secretary Arthur Seyss-Inquart but the other four were stone faced.

“Would you excuse us a moment, Adi?”

“Of course.” Hitler left the room to wait in the annex, surprised to see an elderly man reading the Wiener Zeitung in the room. A couple of female secretaries worked away on typewriters, the click-clacking providing a comfortable background noise to lose oneself in.

Hitler contemplated the past few weeks. The skirmishes between Austrian and Slovenian forces in Carinthia had escalated with the Slovenes holding the advantage, but if Hitler could amass five hundred or even six hundred men then he had no doubt that the Slovenes and the forces of the abominable State of Slovenes, Croats and Serbs, what some were dubbing Yugoslavia, would be ousted from their occupation. This would not only secure Carinthia but make the name of Adolf Hitler a household name, a hero of the people, of the Aryan Race, and of the nation…

The door opened and Gross stepped out. Hitler stood and waited, hands behind his back, sweating and clenched together.

“Well?” he asked.

Gross gestured him to sit and Hitler did so, apprehension rising as his friend sat next to him, face seemingly troubled.

“Well?” he asked again.

“The Central Committee has denied your request for funding and other resources, in a 5-1 vote.”

Hitler clenched his teeth before relaxing them. It had been expected. “Thank you for the vote, Gustav, I-”

“I didn’t vote in your favor, Adi,” Gross said, the words akin to a gunshot, a knife to the back. “While I agree with your ideals and principles, this is not the way to move forward. This involvement with Carinthia, it won’t end well. It will blacken the NLF and make us appear more militant and aggressive than we would like. It would damage our reputation and that we cannot risk, not with the Assembly elections only a couple of weeks away.”

Hitler closed his eyes, disappointed. He had expected this but he had hoped his friend and mentor would have been able to swing enough support to secure the vote or at least some of Hitler’s requests. But alas, the very democratic system that the NLF used to decide matters of import had turned against him, making the whole system seem tainted. Sometimes plurality did not always mean the correct path, and this was one of those times.

“Von Hoffenberg called for your removal from the party. He was very insistent on this,” commented Gross, almost nonchalantly.

Hitler’s eyes snapped open and he glared at the Party Chairman who threw up his hands in a defensive shrug.

“There was a vote, 3-3. Since a majority could not be secured, you will remain part of the National Liberal Front. I voted for you to remain, if you wish to know. I am on your side, my friend. You are hot headed, impulsive, and simmering with anger but you have a way with words and emotions. You could prove very useful to this movement, Adi, I know that. I think you can accomplish many things for National Liberalism, great things even, if your, uhh, rough edges are filed down.”

Gross sighed and rubbed his face with his hands.

“You may not have been removed from the party but you are forbidden from speaking on behalf of the Front until such a time the Committee lifts the ban. I’m sorry, Adi, it was a necessary compromise to keep you in the Front.”

Hitler felt numb with betrayal. They had defanged him like the Allies had defanged Austria. His speeches had been his only income and gained the Front new members, enlarging a potential power base of his own to eventually support his appointment to chief propagandist. And now that was taken from him, as so many other things had been.

He rubbed his mustache furiously, mind racing.

Life was nothing but a constant struggle. If he withered now, he would collapse but if he remained strong… well then he would have his pride and strength of will. From that, he could rebuild...

“I am going to Carinthia,” he stated. “Volunteers or no volunteers, I will not leave Austrian brothers and sisters behind to fend off the assault of murderous savages by themselves. If you cannot or will not help, then I must.”

“I applaud your patriotism, Adi, but only as a friend. As Chairman of the Front, I give no comment. I’m sorry it has to be this way.” Gross left Hitler there in the annex, furious and distraught. He had spent all his money on the newspaper article. He was penniless, or just about, and the only thing that filled his stomach was a fiery resolve.

“That was difficult to watch,” said the seated man from across the room. Hitler looked up, surprised to see the man there.

“And you are?” His tone was harsh, partially deflated and exasperated.

The older man put down the paper in an adjacent seat. “Georg Ritter von Schönerer.”

The name was immediately familiar to Hitler. He was practically a legend amongst Austrian far-right and national liberal organizations. His racial theories and ideology ran parallel to Hitler’s own. Hitler rose and came to attention. “Mein Führer,” he said.

Von Schönerer chuckled. “Führer,” he said then shook his head in remembrance. “Not for a long time I’m afraid.” The man shifted in his seat. “Please sit, young man.”

Hitler did so.

“You are Adolf Hitler, am I correct?”

“Jawohl, mein Herr.”

“Ah, good. I was hoping to meet you. I want to fund your little expedition to Carinthia.”
Hitler was stunned. “Why?” he asked.

Von Schönerer sighed and looked at Hitler. “I am an old man. I’ll be dead within five years most likely. God willing I’ll live longer but I am a realist. I am a man of not inconsiderable wealth and am going to donate a respectful amount to the National Liberal Front. However I will donate a large sum to you to pay for the price of travel from Vienna to Carinthia and enough supplies for a hundred men to last several weeks.”

“Thank you, mein Führer!” Hitler felt relief. “But why do this? Why donate to me?” Hitler privately cursed voicing the question but he had to know.

Von Schönerer offered a wry smile. “Did I not mention a certain Franz Olbrecht wrote to me several days ago when your call-to-arms was published and asked me to do so. His father and I were associates once back when I was at the forefront of politics, whom I owed a favor. His son called it in and I answered. Did I not, truly?”

“No, you did not,” Hitler said drily.

“I’m so forgetful these days. Cursed age. Then I should also mention he is not only here in Vienna but he has brought some friends as well and that they are outside this very moment.”

Hitler eyes widened and he rushed out of the modest single story office building that comprised NLF headquarters.

In front of the building stood nearly a hundred men, all from the 87th Infantry Brigade, all veterans, all comrades. They raised their fists and cheered as Hitler approached. Olbrecht stood at the forefront in a sharp suit. Though he wasn’t wearing military clothes, he still commanded an air of command yet when Hitler approached it was Olbrecht who made the first move.

Hand extended, Olbrecht said, “It is good to see you again, Adi.”

“Ja, you too, sir- I mean, Franz.”

Olbrecht chuckled. From behind approached von Schönerer.

“It seems, Herr Hitler, that you have your army or at least the beginning of one.”

Hitler looked out over the faces of the men assembled. They were soldiers, Aryan warriors of Austria, defenders of the Vaterland. The origin of a movement that would sweep through the nation.

“A beginning is all I need.”

Vienna, Austria
German-Austria
February 1919
​

It took another week for more to arrive. Some days would see only a handful arrive, other days would see scores. But on February 5th, a mere day after the Battle of Bad Radkersburg in Carinthia, a little under four hundred men stood on the train platform to head towards Klagenfurt to join the amassed local militia and Volkswehr elements ready to surge southward to reclaim what had been lost to the Slovene-led Yugoslav forces.

Hitler stood next to von Schönerer and Olbrecht. Though both men were older and holding a higher social rank, it was clear to all that it was the former First Sergeant who was to lead. It had been his call for crusade that caused these men to gather in righteous defense of the Fatherland.

The train was about to pull in, Hitler could see it in the distance, slowing itself down, smoke pluming from its smokestack into the clear morning air. The squeal of its brakes upon metal a sharp and piercing noise, accompanied by the murmur of men and women who watched on, some with wariness and some with intrigue, as hundreds of men, most of whom had been soldiers during the Great War stood in loose formation, rifles, pistols, cudgels and knives clear to any observer. Many had arrived with nothing more than the clothes on their back, a wad of increasingly useless banknotes in their pockets, and perhaps a knapsack of food. It had forced Hitler, Olbrecht and von Schönerer to pool their financial resources together to buy more food and train tickets. Thankfully most of the men had brought their own weapons but the lack of standardization would cause logistical issues once ammunition began to run low but that was a later concern for another day.

Nearby stood a handful of policemen but they did nothing to stop them, Hitler noted. Some even cheered them on with encouragement and clapping. The train whistled as it neared. It was almost time. Hitler stood atop of a box to gain a better view of the men.

“Comrades,” he called out, voice clear and strong. “Today is a momentous day for our beloved Austria. Today is the day we show the world the strength of our resolve. Though we go to fight the Yugoslavian menace and protect our people in Carinthia, we do so under the watchful eye of the Allies.”

Some jeered at the mention of the Yugoslavians, others at the reference to the war’s victors. Even bystanders who had little to any idea of who the armed men on the platform were watched on with interest, some of them joining in the jeering.

“I am asking a lot from you, my friends. What we are about to embark on will see some of us die. I will not hide this fact from you. Victory and defiance are costly but I am willing to pay the price for this great nation. Are you?”

The men cheered, yelling their affirmation. Hitler raised his hand and after a moment they quietened down.

“We shall be the shield of the Austrian Volk, the sword of the Germanic Race laid against the parasites and vultures that wish to feed off our weakened nation. Little do they know the righteous fire that burns in our hearts! The triumphant will of the Austrian Germans has never been vanquished and never shall be!”

More cheering, which quietened down faster when Hitler raised his hand again.

“Before we embark on this crusade, my friends, my comrades, I give one last opportunity for any who do not wish to sacrifice everything for our nation and Volk to leave.” Hitler’s tone here turned sneerful, eyes watching for any who would leave this almost holy endeavor. None did. Not a single man stepped away or turned their backs. Hitler’s face split into a smile.

“Men of Austria! You have hailed from all corners of the nation, from Salzburg, to Linz, to Bruneck to Vienna itself and many more. You are men with a mission, a reclamation of land lost to southern savages and reminder to those who watch us that the Austrian soldier must not be trifled with for he is a defiant one, brave and resolute in the face of adversity. As Leopold led warriors to Jerusalem, I shall lead you to Klagenfurt. And as we approach Carinthia, let us remind the world that we are not the sheep so many think us to be, nor the lamb to be led to slaughter. We are not the flock but rather the wolves who hunger after it! We are the Kampfgruppe Wolf and the Slovene traitors and usurpers will learn to fear our approach. Onwards to Carinthia, comrades, onwards to victory!”

The men shouted and cheered, their emotions high, their nationalism strong. Their blood ran hot, their dedication to the cause cemented by his words. The train pulled in, blowing its whistle as if in salute.

Olbrecht stepped forward and shouted. “Vorwärts zum Sieg!” which the men of Kampfgruppe Wolf shouted in unison:

“Vorwärts zum Sieg!”

“Vorwärts zum Sieg!”

“Vorwärts zum Sieg!”

Vienna, Austria
Austrian State
May 1936
​

Annika Consbruch stood excitedly in front of mural titled 'Proclamation of the Wolf.' It showed the Führer when he had been a younger man. Even then when he had been penniless and without political stature or rank, he had rallied hundreds of Austrian patriots to come together and defend Carinthia against the Yugoslav hordes. It filled her with pride to know that the leader of Austria these past years was not some spineless Chancellor or weak-willed President. He was the Führer, the epitome of the Austrian State, its founder and the bearer of the torch that was Social Nationalism, a flame of civilization and order in a world rapidly filled with Jewish parasites and Communist devils. Though only fourteen, she was old enough to remember the chaos preceding the establishment of the Austrian State. The fighting in the streets, the terribly economy, the lean hunger that had plagued many within the Fatherland. All were vivid in her mind. Yet the ascension of the ÖSNVP to power had seen these concerns lessen and in time fade altogether. Her father was once again employed in construction, working alongside tens of thousands of others in Festungsmauerprojekt, one of the many large scale projects being carried out in Austria, strengthening the State.

The other girls of the Bund österreichischer Jungfrauen (BOJF) whispered excitedly, their whitish gray dresses similar in color to the uniforms of the Hitler Youth that stood close to them but different in attire, eyeing the mural when not eyeing the Maidens, likely imagining themselves standing there before the future leader of Austria as part of the famous Kampfgruppe Wolf.

Overhead the public announcement blared, "08:30 departure from Vienna to Linz set to commence in ten minutes. Repeat, 08:30 departure from Vienna to Linz set to commence in ten minutes."

As on cue the BOJF and HJ leaders turned to their detachments, forming them up in lines on the platform where seventeen years ago Hitler had once stood. The train pulled in. The doors slid open and out stepped a man in the blue-gray uniform of the Sturmwache. His Kruckenkreuz armband standing out. The man smiled at the Austrian youth before him.

"Good morning, future soldiers and mothers of the State!" he said cheerfully, the boys and girls coming to attention.

"I am Sturmbannführer Andreas Bolek. I will be your guide when in Linz. You will be housed in a hotel near the colosseum. While in Linz, you must conduct yourself with exception. The leaders of the military, government and the Party will be there. After all, we are celebrating the recent Verschmelzung. It is a great day for our race and nation." He looked around with exaggeration and leaned in, hand cupped to his mouth. Annika and everyone else leaned forward to hear. "If you're lucky, maybe you'll see the Führer himself."

This created a storm of excited whispering and faces of glee amongst the young boys and girls before their respective handlers shushed them.

Sturmbannführer Bolek smiled before coming to attention. "Heil Hitler!"

As one, the boys of the Hitler Youth and the girls of the League of Austrian Maidens shot out their arms in salute. "Heil Hitler!"
​

+ + +​

​

“If the origin of Hitler the tyrant can be traced anywhere in history, it is the speech he made on February 5th, 1919, on that platform in Wien Südbahnhof. He had transitioned from soldier and follower to leader and this would stoke the flames that would in time birth the ideologue who would haunt Europe in the coming decades. Millions would die in the war he would create whilst millions more suffered hardship and loss. An ocean of tears have been wept by the rise of that monster and all that followed.”

-excerpt from ‘We Were Young Once’ by Dutch-German journalist Anne Frank, published 1953.​

 

[Tanner151]

Chapter Twenty
Growing Pains
Moscow, Russia
Soviet Russia
February 1919​

Varlam Aleksandrovich Avanesov was a busy man. Being the secretary to one of the most powerful men within Soviet Russia had a habit of filling one’s days with endless assignments and errands, all in the name of the workers’ and peasants’ of the newborn Soviet state of course. He slaved away at the typewriter before him, the click-clack of the keys loud and consistent in the spacious Kremlin office that over a year ago would have belonged to some Tsarist or Conservative reactionary.

He was so busy with the workload that never seemed to end, that he did not realize someone had knocked and opened the door.

Avanesov jumped in his seat from surprise, eliciting a dry chuckle from the newly arrived man who stood next to Avanesov’s desk.

“Good God, comrade, you nearly gave me a heart attack.” The man, a messenger within the vast Kremlin complex, smiled toothily as he walked to Avanesov’s desk in the room.

“Comrade,” the messenger began, “You are needed in the infirmary. Comrade Sverdlov is being, umm, difficult.”

Avanesov sighed as he rose, at first grabbing a handful of papers he knew his boss would want to look over but dropped them as they wouldn’t help matters. He left the office, locking it behind him, and walked to the Kremlin’s infirmary. Only a few months ago Lenin had been there following Fanny Kaplan’s failed assassination attempt. Now it held the man who was one of the most powerful men in Russia, the one who held Lenin’s trust and confidence.

Walking in past the guards set to protect the man inside, he heard disgruntled shouting and calls of alarm from the infirmary staff.

“Comrade Sverdlov, you are in no shape to leave your bed right now,” a pale looking, thin doctor said exasperatedly, three nurses standing behind him, all looking overworked. All four worse masks to protect them from Spanish Flu that had infected their patient some one week ago. Avanesov put one on as well as he neared them.

The man they were all looking at was a thin, short statured Jewish man with glasses. His unassuming look was one of his greatest strengths. Underneath the scholarly look his boss presented to the world was a man whose mind was a sharp as a knife and as ruthless as a Chekist execution squad.

Yakov Sverdlov muttered in Yiddish, attempting to get out of his bed. If the doctor was pale and thin, then Sverdlov was far worse. His features were gaunt, eyes dark from fitful sleep, and he appeared to have lost a significant amount of weight which was worrying since he had so little beforehand.

Sverdlov saw him approach and a flicker of hope crossed his face.

“Ah, Varlam Aleksandrovich, please tell these esteemed comrades that I am fine to leave and return home to my wife.”

“Comrade Sverdlov,” Avanesov had to appear formal here to hone in his point. “You are supposed to be in that bed resting, not trying to leave it and begin working. These are orders from Comrade Lenin himself, and you know that, comrade.” Sverdlov frowned and Avanesov swallowed. They might have an excellent working relationship and a tentative friendship but he just reminded the man who ordered the deaths of the Romanovs to follow orders.

“The Revolution needs me,” he stated to them all. “We are surrounded by Tsarist and counter-revolutionary elements. Our enemies surround us. I am needed to cleanse the nation of their presence. If even one reactionary still breathes then the workers’ and peasants’ paradise we are building will be threatened.”

Sverdlov, wincing from pain and exhaustion settled back in the infirmary bed, “There is much work to be done. The proletariat have put into us their trust and loyalty. How can I repay that confidence by resting?” Though his question was to all, Avanesov answered it.

“It would do the revolution no good if such a key member of its governance died because they worked themselves into an early grave.”

Sverdlov frowned but said nothing. Avanesov, more than anyone, knew just how much work the man sitting next to him did for the Soviet government and the Party that ran it, but he also knew his friend and comrade was physically weak due to the deadly flu that was sweeping the world and leaving millions dead in its wake. Sverdlov was visibly pale, sweat beading his brow. He appeared drained of the energy and vitality that had helped organize and initiate the October Revolution, a far cry of the man who only a few weeks ago was readying a journey to the Ukraine to oversee the election of Communist officials there but due to be stricken with the infuenza that responsibility had been given to another.

This man was the one who had so fervently pushed for decossackization and the retaliation of poor peasant farmers against their richer kulak cousins. By his orders, ten of thousands had died and hundreds of thousands arrested or sent to camps to work until they died, all in the name of bettering Russia and enriching Communism with the fertile soil of dead reactionaries.

“Yakov Mikhailovich, as your friend and secretary, please abide by the doctor’s wishes. You are no good to anyone if you die.”

Sverdlov pursed his lips and furrowed his brow in thought. After a moment, he shrugged. “You’re right as always, Varlam Aleksandrovich. I will abide by the doctor’s orders until I properly recover.”

Avanesov breathed a sigh of relief.

“But,” Yakov Sverdlov, the Chairman of both the Party Secretariat and the Central Executive Committee of the All-Russian Congress, said, “you will keep me apprised of any developments. Is that understood?” The menacing undertones that resided there unnerved Avanesov.

“Of course, Comrade Chairman,” he said deferentially. Appeased, Sverdlov relaxed and closed his eyes.

Leaving the infirmary, the doctor couldn’t stop thank Avanesov enough.

“Make sure he survives this influenza,” Avanesov said, “Or an accident may befall you and your staff.” Avanesov patted the doctor’s arm in a false affectionate way, his gaze unflinchingly and terrible. The doctor cowed, sweating profusely despite the winter weather outside the Kremlin.

“Of course, sir- comrade.”

Avanesov left, returning to the work that awaited him, content to know Sverdlov had a fighting chance at surviving now that he would actually rest and recuperate.
As he walked through the corridors of the Kremlin, he paused and stared upward, as if feeling the eyes of history upon him, followed by the anguished cries of millions that seemingly echoed in his mind. He shook his head. Tired, that was what it was, he was so tired but there was always something to do. If the Soviet state in Russia was to survive the Civil War and defy the foreign powers who saw Communism as a threat, then it required leaders of iron will and conviction with the skills and drive necessary to see Soviet Russia not only endure but thrive.

Sacrifices were necessary upon the path of revolution.

Budapest, Hungary
Hungarian Democratic Republic
February 1919​

Everything was shit. Lying in bed, listening to the slight snoring of the woman beside him, Tamás Horváth couldn't sleep. He didn’t know if it was anxiety, excitement, or fear. All of it was mingled together.

Hungary, his motherland, was in the midst of dying. Only a few months had passed since the war ended and Hungary had lost around two-thirds of its territory, under occupation by foreign powers. Czechoslovakia, Romania and Yugoslavia watched hungrily like hyenas over wounded prey, slavering away at the bit. While he had issues with Austro-Hungary, there was at least a semblance of stability, but stability in Michael Károlyi’s government was practically unheard of.

Pacifists, the lot of them. He despised them.

He leaned over to the table beside the bed, grabbed a cigarette and a match, lighting it. He took a deep drag of the cigarette, blowing it out through his nose.

Hours passed, the escort continued to sleep but he just laid there, staring at the ceiling. His apartment was in a once well-to-do area of the capital city, but as of late it had become increasingly more dangerous. Agitators, both pro-monarchists, Communists, anarchists and pro-democratic groups clashed in the streets. Some in support of Károlyi whilst many others against. He had been called to detain and even fire upon his own people whose only crime was demanding food in their belly and warmth in their home.

Shit, shit, shit.

When the alarm rang, the escort collected her payment on the apartment kitchen table. It was in specie and foodstuffs as paper banknotes were more useful as toilet paper than currency nowadays.

He dressed in his uniform. He was still a member of the military though Hungary’s Armed Forces were much reduced than the days of the Imperial Common Army, both in manpower and equipment. And he was no longer a captain. The pin markings of a major decorated his collar. Exiting the apartment, a car awaited him. The soldier in front came to attention and opened the door for him. Another officer, a lieutenant colonel, sat in the car and beckoned him in.

“Sir,” Horváth said.

Lieutenant Colonel Henrik Werth handed him a paper. “Have you seen this?”

Horváth read it and grimaced. “First I’ve heard of it.”

The newspaper headline read: ‘Béla Kun Arrested!’

Horváth frowned. “This will cause problems.”

Werth nodded, looking out the window as the driver put the car in gear and drove off to Army headquarters. He sighed. “A storm is coming, major, and we best be ready to face it.”

“Should I prepare the men to resist Communist elements in the face of a coup? I can have an operational outline ready within the day.”

Werth shook his head. “Nothing so drastic. If the Communists initiate an uprising, we will crush them with what we have, paltry as it may be. But if the Reds somehow gain political power then we need to swallow our pride and beliefs and follow orders. As soldiers, we have to be apolitical. The moment politics enters the Armed Forces then we become nothing but the instrument of terror. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.” Understanding did not equal agreement but Horváth would do what he had to do, he would follow orders. Just like he always had during the war.

The actions he committed still haunted him, a child’s cry before the gunfire echoed in his mind, drowned out by the crowds outside and the vehicle’s engine as it drove through the streets of Budapest.

Moscow, Russia
Soviet Russia
March 1919​

Ten thousand men of the Red Army marched in front of the Kremlin. The city citizenry cheered them on. Few dared to not cheer or appear patriotic, lest they be labeled as counter-revolutionary. And once you were labeled as such, a target was on your back with the Cheka ever eager to rid the country of dissidents.

Andrei Fyodorrovich Kolganov stood amongst the exalted and elite of the Soviet state overseeing the soldiers below. He was not high in the ranks of the Cheka, but he was trusted. Ironic then, that such a trusted agent of Soviet Russia lived under a false name. He had a suspicion that the Cheka Director, Felix Dzerzhinsky, knew his true origins but Dzerzhinsky cared more about results and loyalty than his agents’ pasts. Fyodor had, in the past fifteen months, proven his worth to the Soviet secret police. He was educated, committed, and after the torture he suffered in the Petrograd Prison of Solitary Confinement he had become ruthless to those who threatened the Revolution. Fifteen months and hundreds were dead by his orders or hands, as well as those of his comrade Sergei Davydov, his former jailer and now fellow Chekist who stood next to him.

They watched the men walk by, but Fyodor couldn’t keep his eyes off of the five men who stood at the forefront of the assembled men. Premier Vladimir Lenin drew the eye, a strong and confident man whose dreams and ambitions had created a revolution, initiated a civil war, and saw the radical overhaul of the Russian government and its people. Leon Trotsky, Chairman of the Military Revolutionary Committee, the de facto leader of military strategy, stood to Lenin’s left, dressed in an Army uniform. To Lenin’s right was Yakov Sverdlov, still looking pale and weak from being stricken by the influenza but was recovering well according to Chekist intelligence dossiers. The right hand of Lenin might have appeared weak physically but none questioned his importance to the Soviet government. To Trotsky’s left was Fyodor’s boss, Dzerzhinsky, who represented the Soviet state intelligence and secret police apparatus. To Sverdlov’s right stood a man that Fyodor recognized from over a year ago. He was the Pravda editor, one of the Bull’s associates during the July Riots in Petrograd. The Savior of Tsaritsyn and a man whose name meant ‘Man of Steel.’ Joseph Stalin was not physically impressive, he was below middling height and had several pockmark scars on his face. But how he carried himself… one would think he was the only man in the room.

Director Dzerzhinsky had once referred to Stalin as ‘Lenin’s Henchman’ due to his criminal origins. While many of the men who surrounded Lenin were intellectuals or party ideologues and political theorists, Stalin alone was a brute, effectively a bully given vast power. A dangerous man if there ever was one.

Yet he provided results in the Southern Front, though it came at mistrust and suspicion between Trotsky and Stalin following the latter’s murder of hundreds who had been vetted into the Red Army by Trotsky and his conciliatory policies towards men with military and logistical experience that the Red Army needed so desperately.

Nevertheless he held Lenin’s favor, the Henchman’s determination and unflinching resolve firming up the fighting spirit of the common man and woman of the Soviet military forces and populace.

How did Bull and Stalin meet, Fyodor wondered. Was it during their criminal youth in the Caucasus? He may never know.

The military parade ended and there was much handshaking, back patting and saluting. He and Sergei smoked a cigarette away from the others, both wishing for a flask of vodka to warm them up.

Dzerzhinsky walked over.

“Kolganov, Davydov, you have a new assignment in the coming weeks.”

“Where to, Comrade Director?” Davydov asked. Fyodor privately guessed it would be to the Eastern Front where Red Army forces were trying to slow down Kolchak’s most recent offensive. Results were… mixed and required a hefty Chekist presence to remind Red Army soldiery the price of failure.

“To the west, to Petrograd.”

“And what are we to do there, comrade?” Fyodor asked.

Stalin walked up from behind, his presence like a shark in blood infested waters. The Man of Steel spoke.

“Deny the city of Petrograd to White forces and purge any traitors or cowards within our ranks.”

 

[Tanner151]

Chapter Twenty-One
Separate Paths
Berlin, Germany
Weimar Republic (German Reich)
February 1919​

Hitler’s fierce blue eyes locked on him. “We need you, Paul. I need you.”

“I’m so tired of war, Adi. All the death, all the sorrow. When does it ever end?”

Paul remembered Hitler straightening, a disappointed look on his mustached face as they sat in a Viennese cafe the day before he left. “The Struggle is ever ongoing. It tests us and tempers us, making us stronger and more pure.”

“Perhaps,” he replied, unbelieving of such drivol “All I want is peace, Adi. Peace and family.”

Paul shook awake, the afterimage of a disapproving Hitler was the last thing in his mind as he rubbed his eyes.

It had been nearly three days since he left Vienna and Hitler, heading north towards Berlin where his sister and her family lived. She had written to him in the final weeks of the war, asking for his help. Her husband had died in France and with the chaos and anarchy in Germany she felt threatened and had written to him. Anya was the last family he had, their parents long dead, so his responsibility was clear.

He had explained to Hitler of his intentions and though his friend had disapproved at first, Hitler understood the reasons and they had left on… lukewarm terms.

“If you ever return, I shall embrace you like a lost brother, my friend. Come back to Austria one day, Paul. It requires men like us to lead it back from the brink.” Those had been Hitler’s last words to him as he set off to Berlin the day before Hitler and Kampfgruppe Wolf was set to head to Carinthia.

Now his friends and brothers-in-arms were on their way to another war. While Lutjens had enjoyed the Army, its camaraderie and the brotherhood war brought, he did not miss the boys screaming for mothers on their deathbed or the sound of artillery thudding into the ground, and the putrid smell of shit, blood, and gunpowder permeating everything.

He awoke as the train pulled into the Potsdamer Bahnhof. The whistle blew and the doors opened, the conductor ushering everyone off and wishing them a fine day in the capital. Lutjens stepped off and immediately noticed the armed guards everywhere. He had heard of leftist discontent in Berlin, but it seemed things were more serious than he realized.

“Papieren,” barked one of the guards, a man dressed in feldgrau and shouldering a Gewehr-98 rifle. Several of the men in the train station wore black armbands, whilst other guards did not. Intrigued as he handed the man his travel papers, Lutjens asked, “What does that mean?” he asked, gesturing at the black armband.

The soldier arched an eyebrow. “Your accent… Are you from Bavaria?”

“No, Austria.”

The man’s face hardened. “Why are you here?”

“To visit my sister and her children.”

“Likely story.” The soldier read over his papers. “Very convincing even,” he bunched them up and reached out. “You’re coming with me.”

“What? Why?” Lutjens demanded, shrugging off the man’s hand, causing a commotion. Lutjens saw two other guards, these without the armbands, rush over.
“Suspected Communist.”

“That’s ridiculous!” Lutjens exclaimed.

The two other men in feldgrau had arrived. “What is going on here?” demanded one, Lutjens saw he wore captain pins, though he did not wear an officers cap but rather a stahlhelm. A pistol was holstered at his side and he was on the short side stature wise.

“Sir, this man claims to be from Austria yet he speaks with a Bavarian accent.”

“Did he come from Bavaria?”

“No, sir, he came from Vienna, but he could have easily have journeyed to Vienna to then come here, thinking to slip past security. Can’t be too careful of the Communists. Sneaky and parasitic, like Jews.”

The captain eyed the black armband soldier with a stone faced look that Lutjens had come to associate as professional irritation. The officer looked at Lutjens.

“Speak your case.”

“My name is Paul Lutjens. I was a soldier in the Austrian Landwehr. Recently discharged, I’m heading to my sister’s house. Her husband, a German, died on the Western Front and she says the city is dangerous and full of violent thugs and asked for me to come help.” Lutjens eyed the black armband soldier. “I see that she was right about it being full of thugs.”

The soldier snarled and raised his rifle to hit Lutjens with the butt of the rifle but a raised hand from the captain gave him pause.

“He’s not Bavarian. And I doubt he’s a Communist.” The officer looked at him for a moment. “Let him go.”

“But, captain-” the soldier began.

“I said let him go. It was not a request, it was not a suggestion, it was an order. You Freikorps still follow those from the proper chain of command or am I wrong?” The captain stared at the soldier, who Lutjens realized was a paramilitary man rather than belonging to the official Army.

“Yes, Captain Rommel,” the Freikorps man said through clenched teeth. The man turned about smartly, showing that he was indeed a veteran, and marched away.

The officer, Rommel, turned to him. “Apologies for that, Herr Lutjens. With events in Bavaria such as they are, we have had to be careful of any Socialist or Communist elements trying to sneak into Berlin to cause sedition or anarchy.”

Lutjens nodding, thinking of the newspaper he had read in the train detailing the chaotic fallout of Kurt Eisner’s assassination and the rise of militant Communism amidst a collapsing government down south in Bavaria as the central German government retook Bavaria meter by bloody meter. In Austria anti-Communism was on the rise, for good reason, but here in Germany it had reached a fever pitch. Understandable with the amount of revolutionary leftist revolts, inspired by the Soviet Russians.

Still, the atmosphere in Berlin was… more tense than he had predicted.

“Farewell, Herr Lutjens,” Captain Rommel said before turning and keeping an eye on another incoming train.

Lutjens left the train station. Out front, clutching three children was his sister, Anya Vogel. He moved to her, noting her pale complexion, tired eyes and weary expression.

“Paul,” she said, hugging him with one arm, the other holding the hand of a child no more than three whose other hand was in his mouth.

“Anya,” he said, returning it. “And who are these three?”

Anya gestured at the three children, starting with the eldest.

“This is Mila, Arnold and Horst, named after his father.” At the mention of the now deceased Horst Vogel, Mila scrunched her face while Arnold looked sad and Horst Jr. just looked confused.

Anya straightened, swallowing her sorrow.

“Come, Paul, I’ll take you home.”

​

Marburg an der Drau, German-Austria
Republic of German-Austria
February 1919​

Adolf Hitler had envisioned many things when he had rallied hundreds of men to Carinthia. Glory, proof of his worth to the National Liberal Front, and a declaration to the world that Austria was not to be trifled with.

Yet when Kampfgruppe Wolf arrived in Carinthia, it had come too late. A plebiscite had been called whilst they were en route from Vienna, officially ceasing hostilities. The men had been disheartened, they had wanted to take the fight to the Yugoslavs but, Hitler grimaced in disgust, were unable too due to American interference. As a result, some went back to Austria, disheartened and disillusioned. But out of the near four hundred men he had brought to Klagenfurt, still three hundred had remained. The ones whose wills were weak, whose conviction was not strong enough to see them through the conflict had melted away, but those who had remained were true patriots all. He was proud of them, of their conviction, of their defiance of a world hell bent on destroying Austria.

Still… Hitler had expected war and instead he faced peace.

It made him want to puke and curse at the same time. He, and several members of the Kampfgruppe he had chosen as section leaders, including Franz Olbrecht who acted as his second, sat in the assembly room of the Marburg City Hall. Uniformed officers of the German-Austrian Volkswehr, the City’s disbanded Schutzwehr, and the Kampfgruppe Wolf sat with one another, showcasing a sense of unity that had been lacking prior to the Kampfgruppe’s arrival. Facing them were Yugoslavs citizens of note and Yugoslav officers, both made up largely of Slovenians. Between the two sides were some city officials of a more neutral stance and the foreign delegations.

Lieutenant Colonel Sherman Miles of the United States Army was the leading military officer of the Coolidge Mission in the Balkans, and led the American investigation in Carinthia to settle the divisive territorial dispute involving rival litho-ethnic groups while the French delegation were mere onlookers, there to report any developments of significance to Paris where the Peace Conference to officially end the war via signed treaties would be held later this year.

Miles, who had surveyed the land, seeing the rivers, the towns, the people, had come to announce his decision that had already been conveyed to the Entente and League of Nations for oversight and approval.

The clean shaven Army officer stood in the assembly hall’s center and spoke loudly and clearly, translators whispering his words into the various tongues spoken in the room.
“After viewing the disputed territories in depth these past nine days, this Mission, after much deliberation and consideration, has decided that the territorial division between the Republic of German-Austria and the Kingdom of Serbs, Croats and Slovenes will not be the Drava River as proposed by Yugoslav Kingdom but instead the Karawanks Mountains with the fate of the Klagenfurt Basin to be decided by plebiscite.”

The Yugoslavs booed and derided the American officer, while the Austrians shuffled uncomfortably. Though many cities in Carinthia were German-speaking, much of the countryside, especially in south-eastern Carinthia, was ethnic Slovene. A plebiscite would be close. Too risky, perhaps.

The meeting of the various leaders and factions concerned about Carinthia’s fate left, none too pleased with the verdict though the Yugoslavs were more vocal about their displeasure as they felt that their so-called “crusade for self-determination” was being punished. And so it should, Hitler mused. The Slovenes were vultures, biting away at Austria in its weakened form, something they would never have done even a year prior when Austro-Hungary had been one of the largest and most powerful empires in Europe.

Hitler swore to himself that though the Empire had fallen, and with it the aristocratic fools who had led it, Austria would rise once again from the ash heap of defeat and reclaim its throne as a Great Power of Europe, the bastion of civilization and order for the world.

Franz Olbrecht walked beside Hitler, the other section leaders following behind. It was cloudy overhead, likely soon to snow.

“Now that things are settled, what are we going to do, Adi?”

“We’ll keep training the men, we cannot afford for them to become lazy or lose sight of why we are here. We also need to be seen helping German-speaking families in the city, and make sure photos and reports of such things reach far and wide in Carinthia and disseminate elsewhere in Austria. If there is not to be war, then we must show the Front that we have aided our brothers and sisters while they sat on their asses. I will not return to Vienna a man who accomplished nothing.”

Olbrecht was silent.

“Don’t worry, Franz. This peace, this plebiscite, is temporary, a rag to stem the bleeding. There will be fighting soon enough, and there we will prove ourselves to the Front and to these South Slav barbarians feigning nationhood. There will come a time when people will hear the name Kampfgruppe Wolf and will either cheer on in triumph as patriots or tremble in dreadful fear for the traitors and backstabbers that they are.”

“Forward to Victory, Franz,” Hitler said.

“Forward to Victory,” Olbrecht, replied, the men behind them repeating the mantra.


​

Marburg an der Drau, German-Austria
Republic of German-Austria
April 1919​

Franz Olbrecht heaved dirt onto the road, padding it down with his shovel. After doing so several more times, he paused to wipe the sweat off his brow and take a deep swig of water from a canteen nearby. Other men of Kampfgruppe Wolf had done the same once or twice in the several hours since they had started their ad hoc repair to one of the minor roads leading into Marburg an der Drau.

Hitler, or the Commander as most in the Kampfgruppe had begun to address him, had called such menial tasks as beneficial labor and a test of “spirit and commitment to the Austrian Volk.” Olbrecht was unaccustomed to doing such base tasks since the war but he had returned to it with ease. He had even convinced Hitler to partake in such things several times to inspire the men.

“They don’t want a commander, Adi, they want a leader,” he had remarked several days after the Kampfgruppe began its new initiative, the plebiscite itself scheduled to take place next year. And Hitler, inspired by his friend and former superior, had dug ditches, repaired roads, and travelled to a dozen small villages in the area to offer assistance, all the while calling for Austrian unity, detailing the importance of the plebiscite’s outcome, and the ethnic and economic repercussions that will follow if southeastern Carinthia voted to join Yugoslavia.

Olbrecht looked around, seeing nearly sixty men of Kampfgruppe Wolf working on the road, with a dozen others were on the lookout. Slovene partisans were rare but not unheard of. Thankfully no Wolf member had been killed or kidnapped, but Hitler and Olbrecht did not want a single one so ensured every work detail had ample security. Even those doing the work had rifles, pistols and knives within easy reach if need be.

A little over two months of this community outreach had done wonders. The locals had helped front up the cost of the Kampfgruppe functioning, donating food, drink, clothing and lodging to the near-penniless group thanks to their work and Hitler’s charisma. The money Olbrecht and von Schönerer had supplied had dried up, with nothing more coming from Vienna or Linz. Olbrecht had written to his sisters, asking for more but they had replied there was nothing more to give, the family finances nearly depleted in their entirety.

Olbrecht had expected many of the Kampfgruppe men to leave and return home, but many were unemployed veterans, yearning for purpose. And Hitler had promised purpose and delivered upon it though admittedly it wasn’t in the form many envisioned, as they had pictured a rifle in hand rather than a shovel or spade. Yet it was a purpose and they received food and lodging in return. For many, that was enough... for now.

Wiping his brow once more, Olbrecht went back to work. Once the shift was done, he would bathe and join Hitler at city hall to discuss with the mayor and his councilors about reforming the Schutzwehr to protect Marburg. If that failed, either due to lack of funds or fear of Yugoslav intervention, Hitler would offer Wolf membership to any local men who desired to be a part of something greater than themselves.

Olbrecht had just begun to dig into the ditch for more dirt when he heard distant thumps followed by a piercing wail that he had not forgotten.

“Incoming! Get down!” he yelled, throwing himself into the ditch, pleased to see most of the men mirrored the movement. Only three men were standing when the artillery shells impacted, either someone who had not fought in the war or paralyzed by fear. They were torn apart by shrapnel, their blood matting the dirt and turning it into a red mud Olbrecht was overly familiar with.

The barrage lasted only a few minutes but when it ended, Olbrecht could hear in the distance the engine roar of trucks and the screaming bellows of men being sent into battle. One of the Wolf men at the far end of the work line rose and looked further down the smoke-encased road for a better view.

“Yugoslavians!” he yelled, though anything further was cut short by rifle fire, two bullets hitting the man in the chest and he collapsed to the ground, dead.

“The Yugoslavs have breached the peace!” Olbrecht yelled. “Grab your weapons and make your way to the city! We’re too exposed here.”

Olbrecht turned to run into Marburg but then he saw men emerging from the treeline, rifles raised and hate in their eyes.

“Fuck…” Olbrecht said.

The Yugoslavs fired their rifles.​

+ + +​

The Yugoslavs, frustrated by the multinational and lawful decision for plebiscite over territory they believed to be theirs, have launched an offensive into south-eastern Carinthia that had obviously been readied for weeks. Rudolf Maister’s forces, made up largely of Slovenian elements, attacked in the morning hours of April 29th, likely intending to take all Carinthian land the Butcher of Marburg claimed months ago. It is unknown if the League of Nations or Entente will intervene directly, though both organizations had issued diplomatic protests to the South Slav kingdom and as of yet there has been no response from Belgrade. In the offensive’s opening hours, significant stretches of land have come under the Yugoslavian yoke, though there are notable holdouts and resistance against the attackers is high...​

-excerpt from the April 30th, 1919 issue of the Kleine Zeitung in Graz and Klagenfurt​

 

[Tanner151]

Chapter Twenty-Two
Forged in Fire
Marburg an der Drau. German-Austria
Republic of German-Austria
April 1919​

“This is ridiculous,” Hitler declared before the Marburg city council.

“This,” said the mayor, “is politics.”

Hitler shook his head, not in denial, but in frustration. He had come before the council to ascertain their willingness to resist Yugoslav efforts in claiming the Klagenfurt Basin.

They had talked of reestablishing the Green Guard or at the very least allowing locals to join the Kampfgruppe, but one councilor, Fedor von Külger seemed hesitant in allowing their young men to join what he had derisively called ‘a pack of rabid wolves.’

True there had been… incidents, specifically involving one of his men and a local married woman, but by and large the city community of Marburg had welcomed them as protectors and good Austrians.

Hitler was about to speak when he heard a piercing whistle that was overly familiar to him, something he had heard in its many variations during the war.

“Get down!” he shouted, running to the side of the building, placing himself against the stone slab, far from the nearby windows. His men, veterans all, did so the moment he spoke. The city council, however, had been old men since before the war, their knowledge and first-hand experience of battle was either non-existent or long in the past.

The artillery and mortar strikes that began to fall on Marburg shook the city hall, shattering the glass windows, eliciting shouts of fear from the councilmen and a loud shriek from the hall’s secretary outside the chamber. The two policemen situated near the double doors, likely there to watch his Wolves, rushed forward to help the councilmen. By the way they moved, half-crouched, pistols ready to aim and fire showed they too were veterans.

When the artillery subsided, Hitler left the safety of the wall, as did the three men with him. He moved to the mayor, who had a gash on his forehead. An older policeman, a man in his late forties sporting a Kaiser Josef beard, helped lift the mayor to his feet..

“If only there was a city guard to help defend Marburg,” he growled. “Politics,” he spat, before turning away, his Wolves following. Hitler withdrew his pistol, a Steyr-Hahn M1912. He racked the slide as he descended the stairs.

Marburg an der Drau was in a panic. The artillery barrage had not lasted long, yet the city had not seen violence to this scale since Rudolf Maister and his Slovene hounds took the city months ago. And even then, there was little violence aside from Bloody Sunday.

A small girl cowered over the fallen body of a man, tears streaming down her face.

“Papa, papa… please, papa, wake up.”

Hitler knew the man wouldn’t, not with that much blood pooling around him.

A dozen more Wolves moved to his side, having waited in a nearby beerhall. Thankfully none were drunk per his orders.

“Commander, what do we do,” asked one of them, a young man named Jakob from South Tyrol.

“Any word from Olbrecht?” he demanded.

“No, sir,” replied Jakob. “He was outside the city, working near the southern main road.”

Then that meant he faced the Yugoslavs head on... Scheisse!

Hitler’s mind raced, in the background he could hear small arms fire edging closer and closer to the city hall. Smoke was rising from across the city, several fires having broken out.

“Sir,” another Wolf muttered worryingly.

“We evacuate Marburg, make way to our fallback point. There, we assess the situation and act accordingly. You,” he pointed at one Wolf, “you and you,” he pointed to two others. “Find as many Kampfgruppe men as you can, bring them with you to the fallback at Egger’s Farm. And bring any men who are of fighting age and want to defend their city and Carinthia. We’ll regroup there and then can show these Yugoslav bastards the fury of Austrian men.”

The unflinching confidence and certainty in his voice stiffened the men’s wills and the three he had chosen set off, running in different directions of the city to round up any Wolves or volunteers.

“Let’s move,” Hitler said, leading the others towards the western city entrance. As they approached, bypassing screaming crowds and a few dead bodies from the barrage, they arrived, seeing a military car bearing small Slovene flags at the front. Five soldiers stood there, rifles aimed into the dispersing crowd, already three dead men littered the road.

“Their hemming us in like cattle,” muttered Jakob, crouched beside Hitler in an alleyway, daring peeks into the street as three of the Yugoslavs walked down the road, leaving two to stand near the car, ever watchful of stragglers trying to sneak past them..

“Then let's show them that we are not cattle but wolves,” Hitler remarked, taking careful aim with his pistol, waiting for the three guards to walk by their alley. His men spread out in the alleyway, raising rifles and pistols.

The three Yugoslavs marched down in their uniforms, so similar to the pike gray of the Landswehr but dyed a grayish-green color very similar to the German feldgrau he saw on the Eastern Front.

One turned, seeing them and raised his rifle quickly. But not quick enough. Hitler and his men fired until all three men were riddled with bullets and fell down, never to rise. Hitler reloaded quickly, slamming in another eight-round magazine into the pistol. Turning the corner he aimed at one of the other two soldiers. He fired but his aim was just off, instead it clipped the Yugoslav on the shoulder who dropped his rifle and fell onto the hood of the car, blood streaming from the wound. The other soldier was shot by two Wolves, their aim more accurate and the Yugolsav clutched his open belly, dying as the Austrians rushed forward.

“Take their weapons,” Hitler called, his men already gathering the rifles of the five enemy soldiers. The one who Hitler had wounded had crawled into the car, blood staining the interior.

He looked back at Hitler, a ‘man’ who could have been no older than seventeen who gave a hesitant red-toothed smile and raised his good arm.

“Prosim, ne-” Hitler shot him in the head.

“Strip the bodies of anything valuable, not just bullets or rifles.” Hitler looked back into the city, gunfire rising in volume and frequency. He saw dozens of Marburg citizens watching him.

“If you want to live, come with us and fight the invaders. If you want to die, then stay here and accept the consequences of inaction.”

Most of the people, mainly men and women stormed forward, eager to get out of the city. A few, largely the elderly or families with young children stayed, but many came with them. Hitler stopped one of his Wolves.

“Grenade,” he held out a hand. The Wolf took one out of his trenchcoat pocket and handed it to Hitler then backed away, telling others to do the same.

“Leave nothing to the enemy,” he declared to those within earshot.

Priming the grenade, he tossed it into the car on top of the Slovene boy-soldier’s corpse. He quickly backpedaled until he stood behind far enough away. When the grenade went off, it destroyed the car, leaving it a pile of wreckage.

“Forward to Victory!” Hitler called out, his men and many of the Marburg refugees shouting it as well as they fled the city.

+ + +

Carinthia, German-Austria
Republic of German-Austria
April 1919
​

“Another band of refugees,” Jakob Kuhr said to the second line of Wolf members on guard watch, waving through another handful of civilians that had wandered onto the Kampfgruppe’s perimeter several minutes ago. “Don’t worry, we’re Austrian,” he said in German, “Friendly! Come on, let’s go, hurry!” he whispered hurriedly as a dozen men and women ran, one woman carrying a baby that she kept shushing.

Jakob was tired, so very tired. It had been a long day. About ten hours ago everything had gone to hell. The Yugoslavs had attacked Marburg, most of the Kampfgruppe was either dead, captured or scattered across the countryside. It seemed the armistice and the referendum was not enough for the bloodthirsty Maister and his allies. Several thousand enemy combatants, many composed of Slovene militia with a few hundred disciplined and well-equipped Royal Yugoslav Army soldiers at its core, were now taking Carinthia and there was no true force to stop them before they got to Austria proper.

It was luck, or perhaps fate, that the Commander was able to escape to their fallback point, a small farm about ten kilometers away from Marburg. What would have taken only a few hours for the soldiers took nearly double that due to the civilians slowing them down, as well as avoiding a handful of Yugoslav patrols. They had arrived at Theodore Egger’s farm as night approached. Farmer Egger, a man who was sympathetic to the Austrian cause and was a vocal nationalist in the local community, had not only kept Hitler's men supplied with some of his crop but also agreed to become the fallback position in case anything were to force the Kampfgruppe out of Marburg.

The Commander was inside the farmer’s home, talking to Egger and a few other patriotic farmers, some of whom were Slovene, which surprised Kuhr. It seemed that many in the countryside wanted to retain a connection with Austria, if anything for the economic stability and sense of uncertainty surrounding the new South Slav state, even by those the young kingdom had proclaimed to have been created for. Seeing the Austrian refugees safely escorted to the barn where the civilians were being kept, Kuhr turned to go back to his position when he saw six figures emerge from the treeline. Raising his rifle, two nearby Wolf members doing the same, they aimed it at the strangers in the dark.

“Stop! Identify yourself,” he called out.

+ + +​

Hitler listened to the Egger and a Slovene man named Mlakar as they looked over a map of the area, noting good hunting trails away from the main roads that the Yugoslavs would be patrolling.

Hitler eyed the Slovene man. He didn’t trust him, not since the moment he had laid eyes on the man hours ago and the Slovene man knew it too. Mlakar had looked Hitler in the eye and said that while he would help in the fight against the Yugoslavs for he had no love for a Serbian-dominated state, he would not be seen as someone less than an Austrian. Hitler, due to circumstances and that most of the Kampfgruppe was dead or captured, swallowed his pride and thanked him for his aid, though it might have come out through clenched teeth.

A knock on the door had everyone reach for a weapon. Hitler pulled out the Steyr-Hahn from its holster, ready to aim if whatever was on the other side of the door was an enemy.

The door opened and a Wolf, Jakob Kuhr from South Tyrol, poked his head in.

“Excuse me, Commander,” Kuhr said, ignoring everyone in the room but Hitler. “We had six men just arrive. They were with Olbrecht’s detail.”

Hitler left the room without hesitation and walked outside where six men, obviously tired and covered in a mix of dirt, sweat and blood, drank deeply from flasks handed to them.

“Where’s Olbrecht? Report,” Hitler ordered, noting with satisfaction the Wolves came to attention as if he were some General Staff officer.

“Thank God we found you, sir.” One said, the side of head covered in dried blood, appearing black in the darkness.

Another, more composed, filled Hitler in.

“We were outside Marburg, working on the road when the attack began. It was chaos, bullets whisking by and shells slamming to the ground. At least a dozen were killed. Olbrecht was trying to mount a defense, have us withdraw back to the city but was captured by the Yugoslavs.”

Hitler hissed in a breath through his teeth. “How many others were captured?”

“Thirty or so, possibly more. Only reason we weren’t captured was because we hid in the bush, feigning as corpses. Once the Yugoslavs went by us, we made our escape. Took hours longer than we’d hoped to get here as their patrols are everywhere. Sorry, sir.”

Hitler resisted raising his pistol and shooting the man, but a corpse couldn’t serve the cause any longer and he didn’t have the men to spare. Instead he plastered a false smile and patted the man on the shoulder.

“Get some food and rest, comrades, you’ve earned it.” As the men were guided to one of the ad-hoc field kitchens, Hitler returned to the others in the house.

“What happened?” demanded Mlakar.

Hitler eyed the man but reined in a sharp retort. Instead, he said, “Some of my men survived the opening attack and brought news. My second-in-command was captured, as were around thirty of my men, held up in the city somewhere.”

Hitler looked at the men around the room with cold indifference.

“I’m going to rescue them.”

To their credit, no one laughed.

Egger looked dazed, blinking rapidly as he processed that.

Mlakar was unbothered. Setting his hands down on the table, leaning over their maps, he spoke seriously. “It will be difficult.”

“Nothing in life is easy. I know this better than most.”

Mlakar raised an eyebrow yet did not remark. Hitler glared at the farmers.

“We need to create a distraction. Tomorrow we need to scout the area, ascertain their strength and watch their patrols-“

“Hey,” said a young farmer, “who made you leader? We need to choose a committee to lead us.”

Hitler slammed his fist onto the table, startling them. “Now is not the time for politicking or mimicking popular sovereignty. Now is a time for action!” Hitler heard the house door open and saw four of his men enter, Kuhr among them, rifles unslung, eyeing the farmers warily. “I am in charge because I have the men, the guns, and the will to carry out what is necessary for victory. I will not hesitate, I will not shirk, and I will win. Can you say the same?”

The farmer went silent.

Hitler took a deep breath and exhaled, his demeanor changing to more welcoming and warm though still commanding.

“Once we have enough information, we’ll sneak into Marburg at night, and reduce the prisoners, taking anything we can from the Yugoslavs and destroying what we cannot bring with. Once our men are freed, we’ll escape and cause the Yugoslavs all manner of hell while the fools in Vienna get their heads out of their asses. Eventually they’ll do something about Maister’s breaking of the armistice and send in the army.”

Or what was left of it after the mass demobilization, Hitler thought darkly.

“If you wish to question my leadership, to challenge it, then do so now or fall in line.”

No one spoke or left, watching the dark haired man of average stature lean over the table of maps and began to bark orders, explaining what was to happen.
No one shirked or derided the former First Sergeant, instead they listened and complied. He was, for all intents and purposes through this crisis, their leader.

 

[Tanner151]

Chapter Twenty-Three
Battle of Marburg an der Drau
Moscow, Russia
Soviet Russia
April 1919​

Andrei Fyodorrovich Kolganov, if he had learned anything in the weeks since being assigned to Joseph Stalin, was that the man was dangerous. Very dangerous. In fact, the Man of Steel was possibly one of the most dangerous men in the newborn Soviet state that they were trying so hard to construct.

Fyodor was no stranger to death and being its deliverer. His father’s was but the first, but since his release from that Petrograd prison hellhole during the Revolution, he had become used to it. He was an enforcer of the state, an angel of death if you will. Fyodor had lined hundreds of people up against walls or at the lip of an open grave and killed them with his pistol, watching their corpses fall to the ground like so many puppets with strings severed.

As a political commissar of Soviet Russia, he was used to the fearful gaze of its citizens as he searched for counter-revolutionaries and tsarist supporters amongst the civilian populace and the military. Yet the true meaning of fear radiated off Stalin in waves. He could make a grown man weep in terror just with a glance. Where Fyodor had killed hundreds, Stalin had orchestrated the deaths of tens of thousands. Few outside the military, Party and government apparatuses knew of him, but his presence was felt throughout. Fyodor’s own boss, Cheka director Felix Dzerzhinsky, had warned him of Stalin.

“Don’t trust the man,” Dzerzhinsky had said in hushed tones days earlier. “He is necessary for the establishment of the workers’ and peasants’ paradise but do not underestimate him. Stalin is a butcher, a thug. As long as he has Comrade Lenin’s support he can’t be touched.”

Dzerzhinsky had leaned in, Fyodor remembered.

“If Stalin does anything… untoward the goals of Soviet interests, report them to me immediately. Understand?”

“Yes, Comrade Director,” Fyodor had said, ever the loyal Commissar Kolganov.

Now he stood at the doorway, Sergei Davydov opposite him. Hands behind their backs, pistols in their holsters, both Cheka men were imposing. That was the point after all.
They stood behind an elderly man who sat on an uncomfortable wood stool, sweating profusely, dabbing at his bald eggshell of a head frequently. Across the desk facing the elderly man was Stalin. Lenin’s Hangman smoked from a pipe, puffing away as he eyed the man seated before him.

“Are you a true friend to the Revolution, Yuri Antonnovich?” Stalin asked, voice quiet and steady. He sipped vodka from a small glass, despite the early morning.

“O-of course, comrade,” the man stuttered, invisibly scared witless.

“If so, comrade,” Stalin stressed the word, “then why has your construction firm not carried out it’s duty?”

The man coughed and drank from the half empty glass of water offered to him.

“Well, you see, comrade, the funds paid have not been… sufficient.”

Stalin raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Not saying that it isn’t generous,” the construction firm manager quickly said, “but it isn't quite enough to pay all of my workers. There has been some… grumbling.”

“I see.” Stalin set down his pipe. “Tell me Yuri Antonnovich, do you prefer a blindfold and a smoke or hard labor?”

“I- I beg your pardon?”

“Ah, I figured you educated types could read between the lines. Let me make it clear to you then. Would you rather be shot or worked to death?” Stalin’s tone became dark, menacing.

The manager tried to speak but his mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water.

“You were spared from the initial purges of Moscow due to the importance your company holds. We need construction workers. In peace they can build homes and factories. During war they can, and have, built barricades and bunkers.”

Stalin sipped his vodka once more.

“We are in a war for the survival of the Soviet regime against the tyranny of tsarist forces. Even now they threaten the flame of the proletariat. It won’t be long now until the Whites make a move for Moscow. And when they do the city must be ready to meet them. Therefore your firm, and others like it, are needed. Yet instead of serving the interests of the people, you spout capitalist drivel which threatens all that we have built since 1917? You go so far as to deny Comrade Premier Lenin’s simple request to fortify the city? All over ‘insufficient funds?’”

“No, I-”

“You have twenty-four hours to correct your firm’s affairs to our liking or I will be talking to someone else.” The threat was unsaid but clear for all in the office. “You are dismissed, Yuri Antonnovich.” The man all but fled the room, a Cheka guard posted outside the door roughly grabbing his arm and escorted him out.

Stalin took a deep drag of his pipe, exhaled, smoke billowing through his nose. The Hangman tapped his fingers for a moment.

“Andrei Fyodorrovich.”

“Da, comrade?”

“Our friend Yuri has a family. Pick up his children from school, give them a tour of the city, then drop them off at home. Davydov, go with him.”

Fyodor didn’t hesitate in response. “Of course, Comrade Stalin.” He turned to leave, and couldn’t shrug off the foul taste in his mouth. But orders were orders. At least he wouldn’t have to shoot them. Hopefully he wouldn’t have to. As he walked out into the parking garage reserved for Cheka vehicles, Fyodor furiously rubbed his eyes, exhausted at the things he had done for the Revolution. So many bodies, so many widows, and crying children whose parents would never return home.

At the frontlines, the lines were less blurred. Who was the enemy was more clear. Typically they held a gun, and when the shooting started it was far easier to kill someone trying to do the same to you. Fyodor sighed as he got into the car.

“You good, Andrei?”Davydov asked, taking off his commissar’s peaked cap as he sat beside him.

“Yes, yes,” he explained, “Just ready for us to head to Petrograd. I feel I can aid the cause more there.”

Davydov eyed him curiously before closing his own door and settling in the passenger seat.

Careful, Fyodor thought, I’ll have to be careful what I say around him. Comrade and ‘friend’ he may be, but Davydov was a born killer, and true adherent of state terror.

As the car drove off down the streets of Moscow, Fyodor wondered if this was what the Bull had envisioned as a Communist cell leader all those years ago? Was this what the dictatorship of the proletariat produced? Corpses and ruins, where hope and fear were but fuel to lay a foundation of totalitarianism.

The only comfort he took was that the Whites were worse. His hand on the wheel tightened. They were worse and had made the Motherland weak, costing Russia much in its war against Germany and its allies.

Communism… communism was the cure, a vaccine, and like some vaccines there were side effects. The Revolution was painful, it was even inhumane at times, but it was necessary. Russia bled today so it could heal tomorrow, renewed and strong.

That’s what Fyodor believed. He had too, for his own sake.​

Marburg an der Drau, German-Austria
Republic of German-Austria
May 1919​

Mlakar moved quietly in the night. The moon overhead was the only source of light, faintly illuminating the thirty men the Slovene farmer guided down the hunting trail. Thank God the sky was clear of clouds, otherwise it would have been far darker and with a higher chance to twist ankles or stumble. For what was about to happen, they needed everyone able bodied.

Most of the men behind him were Austrian, only a handful were Slovene. Directly behind Mlakar was the Black Wolf, Commander of the Kampfgruppe. He could feel Hitler’s burning stare in his back and was quite aware of the man’s rifle in hand. In the three days since Hitler had assumed power over the Austro-Slovene force the former First Sergeant had put the men to work. Scouting expeditions, a few raids on outlying Yugoslav patrols, and determining the loyalty of isolated villages and farmsteads.

With every village or farm that swore loyalty, more men, guns and foodstuffs became available. For those, as there were always some, who had sworn loyalty to the new Yugoslav state, their homes were burned, their animals taken or slaughtered. None were killed, surprisingly. It seemed Hitler knew the fine line between fearful intimidation and pushing people past the point of no return. If he had shot the farmers, it would have firmed the resolve of undecided Slovenes to align with Rudolf Maister and his dogs, and would have weakened his image as a heroic defender in the eyes of the common Austrian.

Many in the countryside supported remaining a part of German-Austria, largely due to economic ties more so than any sense of patriotism. Though Mlakar did not care for Wolves all that much, he especially detested the Frankenstein cobbling of the nation that was Yugoslavia. Why should a Serb dictate the doings and life of a Slovene? At least the Austrians were generally hands-off, uncaring to meddle in the affairs of a loyal minority. Could the same be said of the Serbs, the people who started the war that slaughtered millions?

Mlakar did not believe so.

As they neared Marburg, he held up a hand.

Hitler crouched next to him, the Black Wolf’s new toothbrush mustache on full display. Earlier that day Hitler had complained he wouldn’t be able to approach the city without someone recognizing him and potentially jeopardizing the mission, so he needed a disguise. Theodore Egger had a framed photograph of his son, killed in some Romanian field during the war, in the farmhouse’s living room and the young man had sported the mustache. Yugoslav soldiers were looking for a bearded man, the Wolf’s spies telling him that posters of his visage were being put up all over the city, so Hitler shaved to imitate the peculiar mustache. It wasn’t much, but it was a disguise of sorts.

“What is it?” Hitler asked, voice gruff and scratchy.

“Patrol,” Mlakar whispered, unsheathing his knife.

Ahead were three flashlight-carrying Yugoslavs, rifles slung and walking down the hunting trail, heads turning side to side to watch the forest and brush.

“Move,” he hissed quietly, waving the men behind him to the side. The Wolves and Slovenes hid themselves in the brush, sliding past trees and avoiding any twigs or fallen leaves.

They waited as the three men moved by.

Mlakar was about to sheath his knife when Hitler barked in German. “Take them.”

From the brush the Austrians surged forward, tackling the soldiers before they could raise their rifles. One man yelped as he was tackled to the ground, hitting the dirt with a painful thud. A single flashlight rolled across the ground to Mlakar, giving him a clear view of Austrian daggers being raised and then plunged downwards into the flesh below.
The sound of pain, escaped air and grunts followed. The Wolves who attacked the Yugoslavs rose, putting away their own knives and daggers. One man had blood covering his trousers which he grimaced at and tried to wipe it off with one of the dead men's coats but proceeded to smear it further across his legs, much to the man’s poorly concealed frustration.

Mlakar turned to Hitler. “That didn’t need to happen!” he snarled. Hitler calmly met his gaze and spoke with cold assuredness.

“They were our enemy. Whether we fight them today, tomorrow or in twenty years, it doesn’t matter. Better they die now then be faced in the future when we may not have the element of surprise.”

Mlakar spat on the ground in anger but he couldn’t fault the logic, though he despised the method that saw it carried out. He moved to one of the dead soldiers and searched the body. Not finding what he was looking for, he went to the next corpse.

“What are you-” Hitler began, stopping when Mlakar raised a flare gun. He was quite aware of Hitler’s hand on his holstered pistol’s hilt.

“Anej,” he called out. The young farmer who had questioned Hitler three days ago stepped forward from behind a tree, casting a hesitant glance at Hitler.

“Yes?” Anej said.

“You are staying behind.”

“What?” the young man seemed enraged, his youthful pride taking its natural hold. “I will not skip the battle. I am fighting for what I believe in.”

“If you believe in victory,” Mlakar carefully said, “then you will stay here.” He thrust the flare gun to Anej. He saw Hitler nod in understanding, hand falling from the Steyh-Hahn. “In one hour I want you to fire this into the air then disappear into the woods.”

“Ummm,” Anej said. “Why?”

“It will draw some of the city’s garrison here, weakening their defenses.” Anej still looked miffed at the idea of staying behind. Mlakar sighed. “You may not fight alongside us, but your action will ensure the success of this endeavor. It is vital if we are to succeed in our mission.”

Anej straightened, the importance of his duty finally coming through the man’s thick skull. He nodded and Mlakar returned it before rising.

“Lets go,” he said. “Quick march.”

As they jogged away, Hitler leaned in. “Good thinking,” he admitted.

Mlakar did not respond, so focused on guiding the men through the forest.

It took nearly forty minutes but eventually they neared the city walls. Mlakar, with the foliage less thick than deeper in the woods, looked towards Pyramid Hill to the northeast of his position. It was a small hill, less than four hundred meters high, but overlooking much of the city. Up there would be another twenty Kampfgruppe men with the heavy weapons. He hoped they were in position by now.

Looking back at the city outskirts, he could see a few soldiers moving back and forth across the main road into northern Marburg. The Yugolsav flag withered in the weak breeze on a flagpole near the gate. A searchlight atop the city wall scanned the clearing between the forest and the city, its light piercing in its attempt to catch sight of anyone getting too close.

The Slovene farmer heard Hitler order his men to take positions. One in particular held a scoped rifle and moved further away from the group. As the hour marker neared, everyone tensed, ready for what was to happen next.

It came and passed.

“Damn it,” Mlakar cursed. He looked at Hitler who seemed more annoyed than furious. “We’ll have to go with the original plan-”

A distant pop could be heard from behind, causing everyone by reflex to hunker down even further for cover, but it was not gunfire. In the air hovered a red flare that painted the land a red-white color for a time before it slowly lowered and dimmed. It had originated near where they had left Anej.

The effect was immediate. Shouts from Marburg’s garrison could be heard, the searchlight beaming towards where the flare had been shot from. Within minutes two trucks belching black smoke from their exhaust ports, packed with soldiers, left the city. They sped down the dirt road towards where the flare had been fired from. Mlakar and the others waited several minutes, the engine noise diminishing until fading entirely in the distance.

Mlakar readied his rifle.

“Now!” Hitler ordered.

Gunfire erupted from the treeline, killing the half-dozen guards on the road outside the city walls. The Austrian sharpshooter killed the man controlling the searchlight with another shot quickly following to shatter the light. It flickered off , spitting sparks.

“Go, go! Follow me!” Hitler yelled, rising and running across the open field, rifle in hand.

Mlakar and the men ran after the Black Wolf, sporadic and confused gunfire coming from the walls and outlying guardhouses. The Yugoslavs knew there was a resistance in the countryside but Mlakar doubted they ever believed their new conquest would be assailed so soon.

A Wolf fell in the clearing, his head a ruined mess by a stray shot, but the rest continued onwards to the gate. It was attempting to close but Mlakar stopped, pulling a grenade from his satchel. Pulling the pin, he threw it. It sailed into the air, right between the closing gate door and the stone wall and exploded. The damage was scant but the gate ceased closing. He resumed running, catching up with Hitler who was already through the entrance, rifle raised. The Wolves and Slovenes were beginning to burst through, spreading out to nearby homes and buildings to use as cover.

“For Carinthia! Forward to Victory!” Hitler loudly declared, the others following suit as they stormed northern Maribor. Mlakar surprised himself by enthusiastically joining in.

“For Carinthia!” he yelled, loud and proud. “Forward to Victory!”​

+ + +​

From Pyramid Hill Jakob Kuhr watched the battle unfolding below. He and almost twenty others had walked up the hill over an hour earlier, taking up positions in the ruins of the church and castle that had once resided there. Farmer Egger had mentioned that there used to be a castle here but that it had been largely torn down to build a pyramid-like obelisk. That had been torn down, replaced with a small chapel nearly a hundred years ago. Egger had already visited the priest, a good Catholic Austrian, and the man of God swore he would remain inside and not alert the ‘bastard Slavs’ as he put it.

The men were breathing heavily, both in exhaustion and anticipation. Kuhr didn’t know how the Kampfgruppe acquired three Schwarzlose MG M.7s, whether it was from Olbrecht, von Schönerer or some other benefactor, but he was thankful for them. He had seen them cut men down with ease during the war. And though he doubted he’d see thousands of men charging trenches again, it was good to have them better than to not.

Looking out over the Marburg, he saw occasional flashes of light, the pop of rifle and pistol fire echoing into the night air. An occasional scream could be heard, but most people were in their homes. They could lock the door and hide there. The Wolves weren’t there to loot and pillage, at least not against good German-speaking folk.

They had been on the hill to cover the Commander’s withdrawal once he had Olbrecht and the others. And though they could have fired into the city, causing chaos and more, they withheld their fire.

‘It would not be,’ Hitler had strongly warned them earlier that day, ‘beneficial to our righteous cause if Austrian bullets were to kill Austrian citizens. Refrain from firing into the city, and do not reveal yourselves until we have departed. Any Yugoslav who dares to follow, riddle them with lead.’

So Kuhr waited. When the trucks of soldiers had left, drawn out by the flare, he thought that the Commander’s tactical decision in weakening the city a bold move. If only Kuhr’s officers on the Alpine Front had only been so forward thinking. Thousands of Austro-Hungarian deaths could have been prevented if the Imperial High Command had been spared from idiocy, their refusal to embrace new tactics for the modern age hamstringing the soldiers’ efforts..

The man leading their contingent, Andreas Bolek, looked out over the city with binoculars. Kuhr heard vehicles approaching from outside the city. Looking south he saw the two trucks that had departed ten minutes ago had returned, alerted by gunfire.

“Sir!” Kuhr called. Bolek looked at the two trucks beginning to emerge from the treeline.

“Eisner, Borodajkewycz,” Bolek said, standing behind the closest machinegun with the best angle to fire onto the road. “I see a problem before me. Remove it on my order.”

“Yes, sir!” the two said. While the Schwarzlose was readied, another machinegun was quickly shifted from overlooking the city towards the road to assist if necessary.

“Aim at the driver. After that, shoot the engine block. Then go onto the next truck. I don’t want to see a single Yugoslav soldier enter Marburg.”

“Copy.”

A few seconds followed, both trucks now in the open.

“Fire.” Hubert Eisner and Taras Borodajkewycz were both veterans of the Great War, as were nearly everyone in the Kampfgruppe, and they handled the machineguns like a well-drilled crew. The Yugoslavs were a few hundred meters away, very much within range and were situated below the Wolves dug-in position, giving the Austrian men the high ground.

The Schwarzlose’s gunfire opened up, ripping into the lead truck, buckling metal and shattering glass. Kuhr saw the driver’s head snap to the side from the first bullet to hit him. The passenger in the front cabin suffered a similar state. The M.7 then hosed down the engine block, shooting thick black smoke into the air. The other truck began to accelerate, attempting to reach the city gates, but then the backup machinegun opened up, putting nearly a hundred rounds into the engine block and front cabin. The second truck stalled and sputtered. Troops from the rear compartment of the two vehicles began to jump out, diving for what cover they could reach but it was too late. The Schwarzlose ‘guns continued to scythe through their ranks whilst a half-dozen rifle-armed Wolves took potshots when targets presented themselves. Kuhr didn’t hit anyone but he kept their heads down at least.

Bullets peppered the ground, shell casings began to pile up at their feet. The first M.7 clicked dry and the reloader went to work. The second one fell silent a moment later, also reloading. By that time the first was ready to fire again but Bolek ordered them to hold.

“Wait for them to make a run for it.”

Three men did so, taking advantage of the temporary pause in the hail of lead, running back to the trees, panic and desperation evident in each step.

“Fire,” Bolek said and the men obliged. The three Yugoslavs were cut down, turned into shredded meat and bullet-strewn cloth. Bolek looked through the binoculars. “I think we got ‘em all. Good work, men.”

The Wolves patted each other on the back as they repositioned back to face the city, awaiting the next phase to begin.
​

+ + +​

“Where are your compatriots?” asked First Lieutenant Franjo Malgaj. The Slovene officer sat on a stool, using a knife to cut off chunks of an apple he then slipped into his mouth. Apple juice dribbled down the younger man’s chin but Malgaj paid no attention to it.

Olbrecht ‘s stomach aches with hunger and thirst. He and his men had been barely fed or watered since their capture five days ago. Today alone they had been given nothing more than a half loaf of black bread and a pitcher of water. Worse still was that their imprisonment was not in a warehouse or other structure but in the midst of Mestni Park. Barbed wire and wooden palisades penned them in, while Yugoslav soldiers armed with Sturmpistole M.18s patrolled the razor wire, smoking cigarettes and casting detested scowls at their Austrian prisoners.

Malgaj’s tent was not far away from the prisoner pens. The Slovene officer had interrogated all of Olbrecht’s men, save Olbrecht himself. He was to be last, and was isolated as a result.

“I received a missive from Belgrade about you.” Malgaj picked up a document from his table. “Franz Olbrecht, Colonel in the Austrian Landwehr. Fought on the Eastern Front. Awarded the-”

“Is there a point to this?” Olbrecht asked, growing increasingly frustrated.

“Why but of course, I’m trying to build a rapport with you. After that is established you will tell me where this Black Wolf and his brigands are.”

“You expect me to tell you just like that?”

“It is either that or go hungry. The blankets we’ve issued you might disappear. The nights do get quite cold.”

Olbrecht smiled humorlessly. “I don’t believe you’ll do that. Your nation only exists because the Entente allowed it. If the French, British or Americans discovered you were abusing prisoners of war they would impose sanctions and rescind your territorial ambitions. Your economy would collapse and your national integrity would break.” Olbrecht leaned forward, forcing one of Malgaj’s guards to pull him back, “You wouldn’t dare.”

To Olbrecht’s great satisfaction, Malgaj paled. A muscle in the officer’s cheek ticked.

“Austrians,” Malgaj muttered it as a curse. “Your empire is gone, now only pride remains.” Another apple slice went into his mouth. “Still, you think of yourselves as soldiers and that’s where you’re wrong.”

Olbrecht’s confident smile weakened.

“You are nothing more than rabble posing as an army. The Geneva Convention protects soldiers, not guerilla rabble. In days you will all be lined up against a wall and shot. You are no better than terrorists, threatening peace and prosperity of rightful Slovene territory. It does not matter that you defy me. I will find the Black-”

An alarm began to ring, an air horn used back during the war when Allied bombers flew overhead. Malgaj stood, dropping the apple and knife.

“Find out what that is,” he ordered, one of the guards leaving, leaving only Malhaj and one other sentry.

The guard returned. “Sir, a flare was spotted in the forest. It seems one of our patrols found something. Two squads have been sent to investigate.” Malgaj stomped his foot in triumph.

“Very good, very good indeed.” Glancing at Olbrecht with arrogant confidence he continued. “Soon enough these partisans will be dealt with then we can turn our full attention to the Volkswehr to the north. This will be a day long remembered for Slovenia and Yugoslavia.”

The sound of gunfire began as Malgaj finished. The lieutenant frowned and looked outside his tent towards the northeast gate. Gunfire could be heard with increasing frequency, followed by what was unmistakably a grenade detonation. Outside the Yugoslav guards seemed to be in a panic, many scurrying about.

“Go to the gate!” Malgaj called out, many of the Yugoslavs complying with the order.

For the next ten minutes the sound of gunfire grew closer and more intense. “Get him up,” the Slovene snarled. As one of the soldiers went to grab him, Olbrecht fell down, his feet entangled in the knotted rope. The guard cursed as he hauled Olbrecht uo. Dragged outside, he could see and smell smoke towards the north and east. Gunfire was more sporadic, the sound of grenades and secondary explosions reaching the park. Looking towards the pens, Olbrecht felt relief that none had been gunned down by a trigger-happy guard. Several looked at him to which Olbrecht gave an assured nod.

From the hill overlooking the city, machineguns began to fire, letting loose their barrage. From his captor’s expression, he did not think those were Yugoslav. He began to laugh.

“What is so funny?” snarled Malgal.

“You wanted the Black Wolf. Well, here he comes.” A guard slammed his rifle butt into his stomach. Olbrecht doubled over, gasping for air in between bouts of laughing. He understood it now. Salvation had come.

Malgaj pulled out his pistol. “You five,” he said, “go reinforce our men. Hold them back until units elsewhere in the city can redeploy.” The five selected left, leaving Malgaj and five guards. Olbrecht noted all of them save the lieutenant hefted M.18 submachine guns.

“By my right as a gentleman and an officer of the Royal Army of the Kingdom of Serbs, Croats and Slovenes, I hereby sentence you and your partisans to death.” Malgaj stepped forward, pistol raised. As the Slovene’s finger tightened on the trigger, a single shot rang out.

The guard standing beside Olbrecht fell, blood pooling out from his chest. He touched the wound, blood covering his palm, before falling face down onto the ground. Olbrecht looked up at Malgaj whose pistol was still in his face but the young officer was looking out to one of the park entrances where a dozen figures were running, none of them in Yugoslav uniform. Seeing he was distracted, Olbrehct, having cut the rope tying his hands together with Malgaj’s dropped knife, tackled forward. Bending his head to the side, the bullet the lieutenant fired on reflex missed.

Feet still tied, Olbrecht nonetheless held the advantage in size. He grabbed and slammed Malgaj’s hand onto the ground, his pistol firing into a nearby pond. With his other hand he jammed the cutting knife into Malgaj’s throat, twisting and swiping. Blood drained from the lieutenant’s face, the light in his eyes fading.

Some may have said something as the man died, but Olbrecht didn’t. A man was dying and he still lived. That was all that mattered. Ascertaining the situation, he noted the four remaining Yugoslav guards figuring their M.18s at the approaching Wolves, two going down from the sheer rate of fire being fired their way. Crawling across the grass, Olbrecht grabbed the fallen guard’s M.18, ignoring the blood acting like glue on the grip.

Raising the twin-barreled submachine gun, he fired two bursts at the nearest Yugoslav. The enemy soldier slumped forward onto the tree he was using for cover, his body riddled with bullet holes. Adjusting his aim, Olbrecht fired at another who repositioned away from his gunfire, but in doing so exposed him to a Wolf sniper.

The other two Yugoslavs were quickly outflanked and shot. Wolves moving through the park, wary of any surprises. A man came up beside Olbrecht, knife in hand.
“Are you okay, Franz?” Hitler asked, working away at the rope around his former colonel’s ankles.

“I’m fine, Adi. You arrived not a moment too soon.”

Olbrecht noted Hitler’s new toothbrush mustache as his bonds were severed. Hauled up, he saw other Wolves and what appeared to be a few farmers with rifles slung over their shoulders, breaking open the prisoner pens, the men inside thanking their rescuers as they were ushered out.

“We need to hurry, Adi. I overhead that bastard,” he motioned towards the dead Malgaj, “mention that other units in town should be redeploying.”

Hitler paused, looking out over his men who were stripping the dead of anything useful. Olbrecht knew that look and leaned in. “We can’t fight them, not in this state, not with the firepower we have. We need to withdraw and take stock of the situation. My men are exhausted and half-starved, and yours are battle-weary. If fresh Yugoslav troops attack us I doubt we would fare well.”

Hitler’s hesitation lasted several seconds before he nodded. “You’re right, Franz. We’ll fight them another day then.”

“Another day,” Olbrecht agreed.

“Move out! Return to the forest!” Hitler called out and within a minute nothing remained in Mestni Park but the dead.​

+ + +​

The Battle of Marburg an der Drau was a defining battle in the Austro-Slovene Conflict. Adolf Hitler’s Kampfgruppe Wolf carried out an attack on the Yugoslav-held city on May 3rd, 1919, five days after the outbreak of hostilities. Not only did the future dictator extract thirty-two of his own imprisoned men but also liberated a score of Austrian citizens who were seen as potentially dangerous by the occupation authorities. Having recovered his men, Hitler led a breakout, successfully withdrawing to the forest where they scattered across a dozen farmsteads so as to avoid detection by vengeful Yugoslav authorities. The unit stationed upon Pyramid Hill provided covering fire until it too withdrew, much to the frustration of the Yugoslavians.

The battle lasted less than an hour and saw nearly seventy men and women die, most of whom were Yugoslav soldiers but there were nineteen Austrian casualties. All but four were Wolves, three being civilian bystanders caught in the crossfire and another was a pro-Austria Slovene farmer by the name of Anej Potočnik. Potočnik had been caught by a Yugoslav patrol as the battle was breaking out in Marburg. He was executed yet his actions helped lead to victory for the Hitlerite forces.

Two decades later, after the Austrian Volkswehr secured Marburg during Fall Eisensturm, local Social Nationalists funded a statue to be built in Potočnik’s honor. It would survive the war, a testament to Sozinat sentiments that would linger in the region for years following the Austrian State’s collapse.

Unbeknownst to Hitler and Kampfgruppe Wolf, their attack commenced the day after German-Austrian Volkswehr and Carinthian militia units launched their counter-attack. The first day’s fighting saw Völkermarkt secured, with Gallizien, Abstall, Sankt Margareten im Rosental following within the week. This rapid advancement in conjunction with guerilla efforts carried out by Kampfgruppe Wolf saw to the complete encirclement and destruction of the Ljubljana 3rd Infantry Battalion. As a result Yugoslav forces withdrew in disarray into Lower Styria while much of the Yugoslavian progress in Carinthia was reversed, returning once more to German-Austrian control.

General Rudolf Maister, overall commander of Yugoslav forces in Carinthia, petitioned Belgrade for reinforcements. This forced the nascent Royal Army to scramble scrounging up enough soldiers to halt the German-Austrian advance. Within weeks, thousands of hastily assembled Yugoslav Serbians were sent northward. German-Austrian advance continued, seizing Unterdrauburg and Gutenstein, delivering a not insignificant defeat to Yugoslav Lt. Colonel Vladimir Uzorinac.

The conflict began to stall out in mid-May, both sides exhausted without the proper supplies or manpower to deliver a knockout blow. An Allied Peace Commission under Lt. Colonel Sherman Miles, the man who had drawn up the original ceasefire lines months earlier, arrived to stop any further escalation. A detachment of the U.S. Army and French Foreign Legion accompanied Miles to stabilize the region, acting as unbiased peacekeepers as they arbitrated a new ceasefire. The Entente Powers, per Miles' previous report, issued a return to the pre-conflict status quo.

This, to put it lightly, aroused great anger amongst German-Austria. Many, ranging from politicians to soldiers to even common citizens, questioned why should German-Austrian forces thus far victorious be forced to withdraw? Many within the Volkswehr argued for a continuation of the conflict, intent on seeing it through to its conclusion which they believed would be favorable. Hitler, speaking in several German-speaking towns across Carinthia, attempted to rouse the locals to arms, achieving middling results.

Yet in the end, Entente economic and military pressure forced the German-Austrians to return to the pre-April 29th ceasefire lines. It would be another year and a half until the Carinthian situation was officially resolved following the Treaty of St. Germain (signed September 1919) and the subsequent Carinthian Plebiscite (carried out October 1920). The border between the Republic of Austria and the Kingdom of Serbs, Croats and Slovenes would be finalized along the Karawanks with the Klagenfurt Basin voting to remain as part of Austria.

After the second ceasefire in late May 1919, Hitler remained in Carinthia alongside his Wolves for several weeks, attempting to rile up support yet as the government's desire for peace, as well as dwindling money and supplies for the Wolves, saw Hitler departing Carinthia in mid-June 1919. Hitler returned to Vienna later that month, heralded as a hero by many who had read of his raid on Marburg and the incessant guerilla activities he oversaw that plagued Yugoslav logistics.

The Black Wolf used this newfound popularity to great effect in securing a powerbase and position within the National Liberal Front. Hitler would rail and protest against the provisions in the St. Germain Treaty, declaring it murder on a national scale. Territorial losses aside, the desired union between Germany and German-Austria was forbidden both in St. Germain and the Treaty of Versailles. With the reason for the state's existence made illegal, the Republic of German-Austria was dissolved on September 10th, 1919. It would be replaced by the Republic of Austria, championed by Chancellor Karl Renner. The newborn republic was politically fragile, economically volatile, rife with government factionalism alongside militant nationalist and communist extremism.

It would be in this political environment where Hitler, Hero of Hill 53 and Defender of Carinthia, would begin to accumulate power, setting the stage for his ascension to political office and dictatorial rule. Doubtless not even Hitler suspected the road he would soon travel on the path to power.​

Excerpt from the Rise and Fall of the Austrian Führer by Jonathan Van Saeders, published 1970​

 

[Tanner151]

Chapter Twenty-Four
This is My Land…
Northern Hungary
Hungarian Soviet Republic
July 1919​

So much had changed in such a short time. The Republic of Hungary was dead, torn asunder by radicals within. Now reigned the Republic of Councils in Hungary, more commonly called the Hungarian Soviet Republic.

It was the second communist state in the world.

And it was on the verge of collapse.

To Major Tamás Horváth, it seemed the world was against Hungary. Czechoslovak, Romanian, French and others clamored at the gates as they had for months but fighting the Romanians and the Czechoslovaks had hampered any stability the various Magyar governments tried to impose since the collapse of the Austro-Hungarian Empire.

Béla Kun, the de facto ruler of Communist Hungary, had inherited the foreign disasters of Károlyi’s government and had further mishandled the situation, throwing coal on the fire. Now Hungary was effectively surrounded on all sides by enemies and were beginning to squeeze the country dry. Recent offensives began with great promise but faltered by the lack of adequate heavy weaponry, low supply of ammunition and fuel, and growing discontent among the soldiery, worsened further by the shaky morale among the populace as a whole.

And now Horváth and nearly two hundred tired and bloodied Hungarian soldiers withdrew down the dirt road, heading towards Budapest in protest of the government’s actions. Though he was a loyal soldier, Horváth would not stomach his beloved homeland being destroyed within like a canker.

By all accounts he was the ranking officer of the column, the others either killed in the battles across Upper Hungary or deserted with their command squads following the fiasco that enveloped the northern front.

Horváth scowled at the thought. The Communists had promised to restore Hungary’s national pride and old borders to garner faith from the nationalists, military and the conservative countryside. They had failed in both regards. Instead of integrating Upper Hungary into the haza, the Communists instead propped up and proclaimed the Slovak Soviet Republic. Alienated, the nationalist elements and veteran career military left the Red Army to its own devices, undermanned and ill-equipped to fend off any potential Entente counterattack.

Even in a clear victory, Béla Kun had led Hungary down a ruinous path, all to appease the Soviet Russians and Lenin. Let Kun reap what he sowed, Horváth thought, each step back to the capital was one of defiance and hope for a better tomorrow.
A man atop a horse came galloping to him, several men halfway raising their rifles until they recognized the uniform.

“Sir,” the scout saluted.

Returning it, Horváth responded. “Report.”

“There’s a small hamlet up ahead, sir, manned by some Lenin Boys. They are refusing us passage.”

“The hell they are,” he muttered. Turning, he looked at a grizzled sergeant by the name of Thuloc. “Tell the men to spread out in a pincer movement. Scattered formation in case they have machine guns. We may have to advance past this hamlet with force.”

“Sir,” the sergeant affirmed before turning and bellowing orders and curses to get the men moving. Almost all had been soldiers during the Great War and responded to Thuloc’s bellows like the battle-hardened veterans they were. Horváth issued more orders to a handful of lieutenants, one to hold five squads as a reserve while the other commanded the cavalry. If need be they would swoop in and cut down the enemy if they retreated. The land here was flat, void of many trees and hills. Perfect for the armed riders.

Horváth then hoisted himself on his own horse, securing his rifle in its holder and buckling the strap on his officer’s pistol.

“Let’s go.”

The scout and Horváth proceeded further south, moving carefully down an inclined road that had turned to a suckling mud following recent rains.

Within a few minutes the hamlet became clear. It had but one tree in front of it, including a small stone well off to the side. The small fields around it were wild with weed and insect-ridden crops. Another farmland abandoned, it’s previous owner either dead, having fled, or fighting somewhere.

Horváth’s column had seen some of these on the march north to Slovakia but following Kun’s idiocy and the disintegration of the Army as a cohesive fighting force the sight had become more and more common. Lawlessness and banditry were on the rise across both city and countryside, with food reserves running low and the cost of everything increasing by the day.

Horváth didn’t know where Hungary would end up once things stabilized but he knew that with a gun in hand and loyal men beside him he would end up surviving. Anything else was secondary.

The hamlet itself was small, with a low set roof. It didn’t look any different than a thousand others in this part of the country. The only difference was the blood red flag flying over it and the men with matching crimson armbands standing about in a haphazard, almost lazy way.

What caught Horváth’s attention was that two of the men standing near the large tree beside the building hefted French-made Chauchat machine rifles. Where they had gotten those, he had no idea but nonetheless was wary. He had heard of their firepower coupled with dependable handling, though admittedly only second hand, but he knew it’s lethality was only negated by its twenty-round magazine size.

An older man, similar to Thuloc, stood at the crossroads where the country road met the hamlet's smaller and less tread dirt path. It was some three hundred to three hundred and fifty metres away from the hamlet.

Far enough away to appear harmless but well within weapons range.

The scout led Horváth up to the gray haired communist.

“Sir, this is Comrade Sima.”

Horváth nodded to the man.

“Comrade Sima, may I ask why you are refusing my men passage?”

The older man scratched at his salt-and-pepper beard.

“You’re going the wrong way.”

“Pardon?”

“I said, ‘You’re going the wrong way.’ The fighting is that way.” The Lenin Boy pointed back from the direction Horváth had come from and where his men were doubtlessly spreading out per his orders, readying to fight if need be.

Horváth’s voice hardened. “We were fighting and dying that way, and for what? Another Soviet state that won’t outlive the month?” He leaned down on his horse. “Allow us passage and there will be no issue. If you deny this,” Horváth’s hand neared his gun, “there will be consequences.”

Sima’s eyes narrowed. “You dare threaten us? We are servants of the proletariat state.”

“And I am a soldier who will not bow to a failing government or it’s lackeys.”

Sima's mouth firmed into a thin line. “We are no mere ‘lackeys’ as you put it. We are the protective detail of a ranking government official. Attacking us will be considered treason, as will your abandonment of the field. You are ordered to go back to Upper Hungary and engage the Czechoslovaks.”

“Who do you have back there, hmm?” Horváth motioned towards the hamlet, curious. “Cserny or possibly Kun himself? Making an escape before our enemies deliver the killing blow?”

Sima took a step back.

“You were warned,” and raised his hand.
A shot rang out and the scout fell, a hole in his forehead. Blood and brain splattered over the horse’s mane. The horse ran away, the scout’s foot catching on the harness and was dragged away.

Sima raised his rifle but Horváth squeezed his legs, causing the horse to gallop forward. It charged into Sima, knocking him into the dirt. One of the horse’s hooves stepped on his chest. The man screamed as the weight of the horse landed fully on his abdomen, breaking skin.

Two of the Lenin Boys, one with a rifle and the other with a Chauchat, opened fire at Horváth. Ducking down, he used the horse as a shield. It whined as bullets slammed into it, slowing it down until it fell across the dirt pathway leading to the hamlet.

Horváth was thrown off, but he quickly crawled to the horse. The animal still breathed for the moment as it lay there, more and more bullets slammed into it.
Horváth had seen, and done, terrible things during the Great War and the wars he was currently embroiled in but the sight of the horse looking him in the eye, panicked and dying, shook him to his core.

Unholstering his pistol he planted it at the horse’s temple.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, firing three shots, ending its misery. The Communist irregulars continued to fire, more of them opening up. A machine gun began to fire in bursts from the building's sole window, tearing up the ground around him and causing multiple thup sounds from the rounds hitting the horse carcass.

Feeling safe from harm for the moment, the carcass acting as a suitable form of cover, he looked behind him, not seeing any of his men.

For a moment he felt his heart sink, fearing they had left him, deciding to go another route around the hamlet, choosing safety over loyalty to their commander.

He was proved wrong, however, as he saw his men spread out for nearly half a kilometre east to west, beginning to advance on the Communist stronghold.
The gunfire seemed to slacken for a moment but increased in fervor after a brief hesitation. A few men fell, though Horváth couldn’t tell if they were hit or diving for over. Some had their trench shovels in hand and were digging foxholes into the earth.

“Stay in cover!” he yelled. “They’ll run out of ammo eventually.”

Eventually the machine gunfire petered out. For a half hour nothing happened. Horváth motioned to two of his nearest troops to advance. They paled and took a moment to do so, but nonetheless followed orders, rising up cautiously and moving toward the farmer hovel.

For a dozen meters nothing happened. No gunfire, no alarm, nothing.

He was about to order more men forward when the machinegun opened fire, cutting them down with murderous ease. They didn’t even have time to scream, their corpses falling to the ground and blood splattering the grass a crimson shade.

After that they were in a deadlock. The Communists couldn’t emerge without getting shot, their hamlet-turned-stronghold was largely made up of brick and thatched wood. It could resist some gunfire but his men were low on ammunition and if they were to defend themselves once they reached the capital they would need every possible round for the battles to come.

The day ended and night reigned, with the Communists occasionally during bursts at what they figured were men sneaking up on them, but Horváth didn’t risk such a move. The moon and stars were blocked by clouds, and there was a likely chance any firefight would cause friendly fire in the pitch black, further decimating his dwindling force.

Horváth slept fitfully that night, but it wasn’t the first time he had done so in the last half-decade. He woke and nibbled on crackers and some canned meat labeled as beef but judging by its gamy texture and lumpy gray-brown mass he had his doubts. Sipping water from a canteen, he was startled by gunfire.

Dropping the canteen, water spilling onto the dirt, he grabbed his rifle, aiming it at the building.

Gunfire was emerging from within but not directed outside.

Several moments passed before the front door opened and a man bearing a white sock on a stick as a form of flag stepped out. He waved it energetically as if his life depended on it, which it certainly did.

One of his soldiers fired a potshot but it missed the mark, the man ducking as a result.

“Hold your fire!” Horváth yelled, the call picked up and repeated by the two lieutenants and the handful of NCOs in the company.

Eventually more men emerged from the hamlet. Four men with guns and six without. The ones with guns held them above their heads, showing they meant no harm.

Barking orders, Horváth and his men moved forward, securing the prisoners. The four with guns stood separate from the others, joining the one with the sock as a flag. Hungarian soldiers were disarming them, taking their weapons.

“Why did you surrender?” Horváth asked, his curiosity getting the best of him.

The lead man shrugged. “I don’t want to kill my countrymen anymore. That’s not why I volunteered for service.”

“What’s your name?” Horváth asked.

The man, a few years older than himself, responded. “Gregor Barabás.”

Before he could say anything one of his men shouted out. “Major Horváth!”

“What?” He demanded, moving to the soldier who stood next to an older gentleman whose uniform had seen better days.

“I recognize this man,” the soldier said assuredly.
“You do? Who is he then?”

“Jenö Landler, general of the Red Army and People’s Commissar of Internal Affairs.”

“You’re certain?” Horváth asked skeptically.

“Certain as I can be, sir. My old company marched in parade before Kun and Landler a month ago. He,” gesturing at Landler, “made some big speech and everything.”

Horváth looked toward Barabás who nodded

“Good eye, private. Extra rations for you tonight.”

That elicited a victorious grin and the soldier stepped back, the major replacing him.

“And why is a high ranking government official all the way out here in the middle of nowhere?”

“That is none of your concern.” The man sounded defensive.

“Running away already, I presume? You fail the country and have the gall to run while our countrymen bleed and die for you. You should be ashamed with yourself.”

Landler’s face reddened, either from anger at the accusation or embarrassment from the accuracy.

“I-“ Landler began.

“It doesn’t matter what you say.” Horváth looked at three of his men. “Search them for valuables and gather the weapons and ammo from inside.” The men moved to comply, calling out the two dead bodies inside, killed during Barabás’ little coup.

Looking back at Barabás, he noticed the man stared at Landler with hatred.

“Come here,” he called to the Barabás-led prisoners. They did as he commanded. Horváth pulled out his pistol and held it out to Barabás. “I want you to shoot them. Prove your loyalty to Hungary and kill the bastards.”

He expected hesitation or excuse. Instead the turncoat took the offered pistol, cocked it, and killed all six men without pause. The last two bullets went into Landler’s chest. The People’s Commissar slumped back against the house, his blood marking the brick behind him.

Horváth was surprised, and flirted with the idea of having the five Communist turncoats shot, but… he might need them. More manpower was always welcome, they were adept with firearms, and had proven disgusted with Kun’s government or at least parts of it.

They could prove useful, or at the very least be meat shields or prisoners of war.

“What are you going to do to us?” One of the turncoats asked nervously.

Horváth let the moment stretch, reminding them their fate was in his hands.

“You can come with us, for now. You might prove beneficial to have around.”

Barabás eyed him, likely seeing through his half-truth.

“Very well,” Barabás said, resigned, “onwards to Budapest.”​

+ + +

Vienna, Austria
Republic of Austria
July 1919​

“I’m sorry, Herr Felger,” Simon Golmayer said to the irate customer, “we simply cannot empty your account of all funds at this time.”

Mister Felger, who was already scowling, reddened with anger.

“We can do a partial Simon continued, “up to a thousand krone. You can come back to make another withdrawal in,” Simon made a motion to check nonexistent notes on his side of the window, “a month’s time.”

The man clicked his tongue in disgust. “What I have left will be worth even less then,” the man’s country accent sounded alien in Creditanstalt’s marbled halls. Herr Felger was dressed as if he was attending a synagogue, though in the farmer’s stead it would be a church.

“I want it now so it can be worth something today, not useless paper better suited to wipe myself tomorrow.”

Simon plastered on his sincerest front office smile. “I sincerely apologize, sir, but it is bank policy at this time.”

“Damn kikes,” the man muttered. “Rothschild sips his champagne and laughs at hardworking Austrian men.” Felger’s voice rose. “The Jew lords over us all, laughing as we suffer. Where was he and his kind when the war ravaged Europe? I doubt a Jew like him had to ever suffer hardship while good men bled and died and our women and children grew hungry!”

Simon’s face took on a neutral expression, a façade to mask the anger beneath the surface. Several other customers who were standing in the teller line began to nod and offer some agreement and muted support.

The teller Simon stood beside, a young woman who had called for him once Felger had grown irritable and demanded a supervisor, was beginning to sweat and breathe shallowly. Rumors of banks being stormed by angry mobs had reached Creditanstalt’s staff though the legitimacy of such rumors was questionable at best, yet the threat remained. He had to quench this now or risk letting the matter devolve further.

Simon raised his hand, calling forth two security guards from the sides of the chamber. Their revolver pistols were still in their holsters but ready to be drawn if need be.

“How dare you,” Simon said. “How dare you, sir. I will have you know that I served in the Common Army and fought in Romania. I felt the earth shake with artillery, the world screaming and wailing while the air smelled of gunpowder, blood and other less savory things. Two of my sons fought in Italy and only one returned home. So don’t accuse Jews of being those who did not serve their Fatherland, the same country you accuse us of having taken advantage of. It is not the goal of Austrian Jews to grow fat off the suffering of Austrian Catholics. We are both men and sons of Austria, Herr Felger. It is our home as well.”

Simon knew he should have said nothing but the anger had gotten the better of him.

Felger darkened with anger and opened his mouth to speak. His shoulder was grabbed by one of the security guards, a man whom Simon knew to have fought in Serbia and Romania.

“Either take the withdrawal or leave.”

“I will not-“

The guard’s hand rested on the pistol’s grip. The guard’s demeanor was collected, calm even, as if he were holding the door open for an old woman. But the threat was there and that was all that mattered.

Felger’s mouth clamped shut and he grabbed the thousand krone payment and left, muttering curses but not causing any further trouble. The guard watched him leave with cold indifference.

“Thank you,” Simon said.

“Of course, Herr Golmayer. It is my job after all.”

“Indeed it is,” Simon said quietly but the guard had already resumed his position, his fellow who had watched on also retook his position, casting looks through every time the door opened to check if Felger returned.

The rest of Simon’s shift went by quickly, and as he left for home he watched for any sign of Felger. Frankly the streets of Vienna were growing more and more dangerous, and not just for Jews.

Unemployed veterans, cripples, men whose lives had become meaningless following the war’s disastrous end, and radicals stumbled too and fro, hands held out as beggars.

Few well-to-do citizens gave them any notice, let alone coin or food, yet Simon remained alert. While he did not appear Jewish in the stereotypical sense as he had reddish-brown hair and hazel eyes, that did not stop others from seeing him exit the richest bank in Austria, wearing a suit and tie of fine make that he wore frequently before the war and one which still hung loose off his body in the months since he had returned home.

When he walked into his neighborhood, he breathed a sigh of relief but still kept his awareness. Two police officers were walking by and they tipped their hats to him.

“Good evening, Herr Golmayer,” one said kindly.

“Good evening, officer.”

Minutes later he was walking up the steps of his house and entered. The smell of food was a warm welcome, as was Felix hugging his leg. Now six, Felix proved he would be as tall as the twins… a pang of sadness hit him at the reminder of Abraham’s absence.

And Richard…

“How was your day, dear?” Judith came from the kitchen. Hannah walking unsteadily beside her. His daughter stared up at him, barely recognizing him. She hardly knew him, off at war when she was born and now working nearly every day, long hours that caused him to be away. It pained him, but sacrifices must be made. It was all for her benefit after all.

Simon wanted a prosperous and more peaceful time for his children to grow up in. It was hard now, but hopefully in five, ten or even twenty years time all this would be a bad dream best forgotten and life could move on without the threat of ruin hanging above them.

“Fine, it was quite fine,” he said lightheartedly. “Is Richard home?”

“Yes, he’s in his room with a friend.”

“Oh?” That piqued Simon’s interest. A lady in his son’s life would do him some good.

Judith chuckled, knowing him too well. “It’s not that. An Army friend from during the war I think.”

“Ah.”

Simon walked through the house to his son’s room. He knocked then opened the door. Richard was sitting on his bed, the other bed where Abraham once slept, was occupied by another man.

“Sorry to intrude…”

“Saul, Mister Golmayer,” the other man shook Simon’s offered hand. “I knew Richard and Abraham from the war.”

“I see.” Simon paused. “Did you see Abraham…” he couldn’t finish the sentence but Saul understood.

“It was a closed casket burial. I saw him several hours before he died.”

“Thank you. Richard has difficulty telling me about what happened.”

“Understandable,” Saul said.

“Mhmm. Now, Saul, if you would excuse us a moment.”

“Of course, sir.”

Saul closed the door as he left, leaving Richard and Simon alone.

“Is he part of the JNP?”

Richard nodded.

“You must be careful, son. It will paint a target on your back.”

Richard crossed his arms. “I will not be silenced. I fought for this country, I should damn well be represented in it.”

“I agree, just…” Simon sat down. “Just be careful. The Jewish National Party could do good things, true, but people are angry and us Jews are as ever the scapegoat. Caution is advisable. You must protect yourself.”

“I can assure you this, father, if someone wants to start something I will finish it. I have ways to defend myself.”

Simon leaned forward. “Is that so?” Richard bit his lip, visibly annoyed he let something slip. “Did Saul help you with this?” Richard didn’t say anything but his non-response was answer enough. Simon dug into his pocket and pulled out a wad of krone. “Is this enough for a pistol?”

“Father- I-“ Richard was confused. “Why do you need one?”

Simon smiled without humor. “Protection.”​

+ + +

Vienna, Austria
Republic of Austria
July 1919
​

“Moving on from economic issues, political matters in the Republic are now-“

Insufferable, Hitler boringly thought, eyes heavy as the monotone Jakob Lutschounig continued to drone on. It has been nearly five weeks since his return from Carinthia, greeted with fanfare and aplomb from Austrian nationalists in the streets of Vienna. There had been a parade of sorts, albeit a small one, but it was nonetheless a victory of sorts.

Backed by his Wolves and the fame they had earned in Carinthia, he had all but forced himself into the National Liberal Front’s Central Committee, being its seventh member, officially titled Deputy to the Propaganda Chief.

That said chief was even now speaking to a crowd of some four hundred men in an overpacked beer hall near the city's warehouses and manufactories that were even now empty of goods and production, using the promise of a free beer and slice of black bread to garner interest and hike attendance numbers. It was not much but it filled seats.

The Central Committee watched on as Lutschounig attempted to appeal to the men before them. National Liberalism was an up and coming ideology. The Constituent Assembly election held in February earlier in the year year had established the NLF as a political power of middling success. Though it did not win enough seats to tackle head on the Social Democrats or the Christian Social Party, it’s fourteen seats would make others take notice of it and treat it with wariness or try to woo them to their side.

As the third largest political party in the nascent Austrian Republic, it was trying to win new voters to its side to form a large enough political bloc to force either the Social Democrats or, preferably, the Christian Social Party into a coalition. This would give National Liberalism a much needed legitimacy to appeal to more and more voters and therefore continue growing but at a faster scale.

In time, it was believed, the Front would be able to not only form a coalition government but dictate policy, setting the Fatherland upon the path of renewal and rejuvenation. It had been seven months since the Great War ended and already the Allied Powers had crippled Austria.

Hungary, the breadbasket of the Empire, was in disarray, fighting enemies to the north, south, and east, yet faced unrest within itself. Hitler had no love for the Communists ruling Budapest, or even Hungarians as a whole, but for the future he envisioned for Austria it would require Hungary’s farmlands and manpower.

Bohemia and Moravia, now bastardized as Czechoslovakia, had been the Empire’s industrial heartland and with it severed from Vienna’s rule the economy of the newborn Austrian Republic stalled while its former land grew stronger with each passing day.

Austria’s stores were scarce of foodstuffs and goods, its factories had little in the ways of raw materials to create finished goods. Throughout the country, unemployment steadily grew as the new currency proved itself weak and increasingly worthless.

And this was all before an official treaty had been signed between the former Empire and the victorious Entente. Hitler knew that once the ink on the treaty dried, Austria would be burdened with reparations it would have to pay, throwing it into economic ruin.

He knew it would happen because he would have done the same to cripple his enemies. He despised the Entente, especially the Russians and Serbians, but he could not fault their stance. It was the conqueror’s right and the price of defeat.

Yet Austria would weather through the storm to come and emerge stronger than before, ready to right the wrongs cast upon it.

It had to.

If it did not… then the Austro-German Race did not deserve the earth.

“If he keeps this up, he’ll bore the crowd and they’ll leave, don’t you think, sir,” whispered Arthur Seyss-Inquart. The Party Secretary sat next to Hitler, away from the others and could whisper without being overheard from the other four seat men to Hitler’s left.

Hitler looked at the bespectacled lawyer for a moment, thankful he had a strong ally on the Committee. He needed men with ambition and intelligence, and Seyss-Inquart had that in droves. Despite his mixed breeding, the man would prove useful to Hitler, of that he was sure. Nodding in agreement, he then turned his attention back to Lutschounig.

“The Nationalliberale Front has a robust economic agenda that, if we secure enough Assembly seats in the next general election, we can propose to whomever we form a coalition government with that our economic proposals have merit. The interests of the Front is of course economic stability through the growth of profitable business via the protection of Austrian industry-“

“What industry?!” yelled a voice from the midst of the seated crowd. Hitler could not see who said it, but a murmuring of agreement spread through the crowd as heads turned back and forth.

Then came the shouts, the crowd’s frustrations boiling out of control.

“How will I work when factory owners are hiring cheap foreign labor? They are stealing our jobs. All in the name of ‘profitable business,’” came one hateful tirade.

“I cannot support my family-”

“We starve while the rich grow fat-”

“Communists are pouring in from Soviet Hungary, spreading their filth-”

“What of the Jews who control the banks-”

Men were standing up and beginning to yell more of hardships and, increasingly, obscenities.

“I,” Lutschounig patted his sweat-riddled forehead with a handkerchief.” I ask for you to take your seats. Gentleman, I- I call you to order.”

Gustav Gross stood, arms raised to calm matters but he did little more than redirect anger towards him. Several threw balled up pieces of black bread at the Chairman, pelting the man’s fine suit and landing at his feet. The angry crowd which threatened to turn into a mob wanted answers, they wanted their fears to be acknowledged and a promise of a better future.

Hitler stood and walked calmly up to stand between the two men. He noted Seyss-Inquart intercepting Ludwig von Hoffenberg, the Front’s Deputy Chairman, stopping him from preventing Hitler this oppurtunity.

Seeing the Hero of Hill 53, the Defender of Carinthia, the Black Wolf himself take the stage, many in the crowd quietened down, some returning to their seats.

A dozen Viennese policemen, Johannes Schober’s dutiful hounds, watched warily from the beer hall’s doorway with batons in hand, ready to end the gathering if things became too rowdy once more. Ever since the Communist riots and protests in April, Vienna’s Chief of Police was taking zero chances with potential civil insurrection.

Hitler stood there, feeling a nervous fluttering in his stomach seeing four hundred pairs of eyes staring at him while from behind he felt the daggered glares from the Central Committee members who despised him. He quickly steeled himself.

This was it, this was the moment. He dare not let it slip through his fingers.

“My friends!” His voice silenced the few who had not noticed him. “I know your anger, my friends.”

Hitler scanned the crowd, seeing a handful of Wolves out among them, loyal and dedicated to him and the Austria that could one day be reality.

“I know your anger because I share it!” he shouted, startling some but causing others to lean in, intrigued.

He began to walk up and down the stage, hand up to gesture with strong conviction at the points he was to make.

“I feel your anger at all that has befallen us, comrades,” he repeated. “It seems the world is our enemy.” He leaned forward, almost conspiratorially, and said in quieter tones, “Because they are. The world is afraid of us, of you.” His outstretched hand pointed at the crowd.

That caused some frowns but more to perk up, pondering his words.

“The Entente fears us. For centuries they have feared the guiding light that emanated from Vienna. This city and the nation it represents was a beacon of civilization, of order and security in a world falling ever more into chaos.

“The war was hard, but the peace,” he stressed the word to let all who heard it let them know what he thought of such a thing, “The peace,” he repeated, “they will force upon us will be even harder.”

Hitler balled one hand into a fist and slammed it into the open palm of the other.

“They fear us and even now try to strangle us while we are weakened. When our so called ‘esteemed politicians’ grovel into the dirt to appease the Allies and the treaty is finished, the terms put into effect, our nation will be crippled, made a slave to Jewish bankers and Communist tyrants.”

Hitler could feel a fire stirring in his chest, spreading throughout him as the crowd embraced his words, an intoxicating feeling taking over, his words spilling out even faster and more insistently.

“The only reason we lost the war at all was because we were stabbed in the back! The soldiers and officers in the field, those who fought in the mud and rain, who felt the earth tremble with artillery and the air smell of smoke and gunpowder, they are the heroes who stared into hell itself and emerged the better for it. Austria was not failed by its soldiers or workers, but by its leadership and a Judeo-Bolshevik conspiracy that poisoned everything it corrupted.

“Our monarchy was ineffective, our political leadership lethargic and complacent. Our generals were stuck in the past, waging an archaic war in the modern age. And we saw the fruits of their efforts, did we not? Trenches full of the dead, brave and loyal sons who were cut down by gunfire because our generals thought throwing men at the enemy was the only way to win. Shame, I say! For shame!”

Agreement from the listeners met his words. Hitler’s gaze turned hungry, not for food but for the anger he could feel in the room. Time to tap into it, direct it. His speech was infectious, the crowd hanging on his every word.

It did not matter the accuracy of his words. The truth was what he wanted. A lie told often enough will be believed by the masses.

“They will take your land, my friends, as well as your honor and your faith from you. Our enemies will rape our virtuous women and enslave our children, leaving the Fatherland a shadow of its former glory, one riddled with sub-human mongrels and bastard ideals.”

Several crossed themselves while others scowled in anger, not at Hitler but at what would come to pass if his words proved prophetic.

“The Social Democrats are weak willed and flirt with Communism too much for comfort. The Christian Socials are not much better, their legacy tainted by its aristocratic leanings, who wish to keep Austria in the past to become a stagnant country surviving by the skin of its teeth. And that would sign the death knell of our Fatherland!”

Hitler jumped down from the stage, moving toward the crowd.

“We must become an autarky, free of being dependent on foreign sources for mere national survival. Austria is not blessed with abundant resources, therefore we must take what is ours, wherever it may reside. Are we not the sons of conquerors, or mighty warriors of noble blood who took this land from the Roman and the barbarians thousands of years ago? Are we not the Aryan Race, masters of Europe and inheritors of the world?”

That elicited some cheers from the more militant onlookers.

“It is my promise that when the National Liberal Front takes power, for it as inevitable as the sun rising and setting each day, my comrades, then it’s focus will be casting off foreign shackles, growing Austrian industry and promoting self-sufficiency through economic and military ways, and ensure that every Austrian man has a job with fair pay and fair hours.

“As a man of my word, I swear this: Austria will rise once more and take back what was stolen from us. Austria will become stronger than ever before and no one can stop us.”

Hitler raised his hands into the air, akin to a priest during a sermon.

“Austria shall not be a tertiary power beholden to the will of enemies foreign or domestic.” Hitler was shouting now. “We shall rise, seizing our rightful place as a Great Power and Europe will be made to acknowledge our supremacy and be made to bow to our dominance.”

The crowd was on their feet, cheering, shouts of approval and thunderous applause drowned out all else in the beer hall. Hitler stood there, basking in their adoration.
It lasted for several minutes but died down too soon for his taste. Gross stood next to him and spoke aloud, his booming voice carrying with ease.

“If you want to aid the Fatherland on the path to recovery, join the National Liberal Front! Through you will the Front win the next election and begin the long road toward renewal. Sign up now!”

Several Front members sat at a table nearby against the wall, with papers stacked in front of them. Out of the four hundred men who had attended, most had not been a part of the NLF but many of them now lined up to enroll in the party’s membership.

Gross led Hitler to the rest of the Committee. Lutschounig appeared flustered, von Hoffenberg irritated, while the others appeared more at ease.

“Your speech, Adi, it inspired them.” Gross gave him a knowing look. "A bit aggressive, but it seemed that's what they wanted."

Hitler shrugged. “I spoke the truth as I saw it.”

“Indeed.”

Lutschounig stepped forward. “I thank you, Adolf, you salvaged the moment. Any longer and the mob would have gone for me.”

“It was reckless,” von Hoffenberg snarled. “You could have easily riled them up beyond control. Then the police would have shut us down and that would hurt our standings in the polls. You need to be more careful-”

“Quiet, Ludwig,” Gross said after a moment. The older man sputtered, surprised at being told such a thing.

Gross sized Hitler up. “Gentlemen, we as a movement are at a crossroads. The Front has performed well, admirably in fact, yet we nonetheless lag behind the Social Democrats and the Christian Socials. by a wide degree” No one contested that for it was the stark truth.

“If National Liberalism is to spread across Austria then it needs someone to light the fire in the hearts of the people. Jakob,” Gross addressed Lutschounig, “you are an able man, a fair organizer and a loyal party member but you are not a man who inspires others.” Lutschounig’s face fell but didn’t protest, likely agreeing with the Chairman’s assessment.

“Adi, however, is an inspiration. A respected and decorated combat veteran, a man who can whip up the passions of the people, and the only one among us who acted in Carinthia while we remained behind and did nothing.”

Hitler breathed quietly, savoring the moment.

“I recommend that Adi is elevated to Chief of Propaganda effectively immediately. With him as our lead speaker, tens of thousands will flock to the Front and when the next election occurs we will triumph at the polls. I’m sure of it.” Gross looked at the others. “All in favor say ‘Aye.’”

“Aye,” Seyss-Inquart said without hesitation. Hitler would remember such dedicated loyalty.

The others, one by one, affirmed Hitler’s ascension with an ‘Aye,’ even Lutschounig who seemed resigned at the effective end of his political career. Only von Hoffenberg said ‘Nay,’ scowling as he did so.

“Aye,” Gross formally said. “By a vote of five-to-one, Adolf Hitler has officially become the voice of the NLF. May his talents lead us to new heights.”
​

+ + +​

Later that night, Hitler stood on the balcony of his apartment. Behind him on the two sofas were Olbrecht and Kuhr, alongside a dozen other Wolves who were in various stages of being drunk. Only two Wolves did not drink, standing near the door, batons and pistols on hand in case anyone wished to disturb the Commander.

They were celebrating Hitler’s rise in the ranks. With his newfound position, the NLF’s platform would be what he decided upon. True, Gross was still officially in charge but the man spent more time on administration and inner-party politics than seizing the attention of the masses and that is where the power resided.

As Propaganda Chief, Hitler would be the face of the Front. After the beer hall speech and his promotion, he and the Central Committee had hashed out a plan on how to capitalize on their growing popularity, spending much time on the chaos infecting Hungary and the growing dissatisfaction with Chancellor Renner’s government.

Turning from the light-strewn night city, Hitler walked back into the living room. Sitting next to Kuhr, whom he had made the unofficial leader of his unofficial bodyguard drawn from amongst the Wolves as repayment for his loyalty and service in Carinthia, Hitler looked across the table at Olbrecht.

“Good work today. The men did their job ably. Tell them I said that, would you.”

“Of course, Adi,” Olbrecht said, taking a drag of his cigarette, flicking the ash into an ash holder. “Though I must admit having Wolves pose as hecklers was risky. It was a matter of luck none of the Committee knew every man from the Kampfgruppe.”

“Their foolishness will be their undoing,” Kuhr said, his words slurred as he took another shot of schnapps.

“Quite,” Hitler said. He picked up his glass of mineral water.

“To the future, gentlemen.” The men in the apartment grabbed a nearby drink, toasting their commander and new propaganda chief, envisioning the day Hitler became leader of the NLF.

“To the future!”​

 

[Tanner151]

Chapter Twenty-Five
…This is OurLand​

The disintegration of the Austro-Hungarian Empire held repercussions few at the time could have foreseen. Chaos reigned in the former empire as weary eyes from both home and abroad watched on.

The turbulent rise and bloody fall of Communism in 1919 Hungary was but one facet that showed the region’s fragile vulnerability to extremism.

Furthermore the Austro-Slovene Conflict over Carinthia ending in a pre-war status quo did not sit well with the Austrian people. They had felt that victory was at hand, only to be snatched away at the last moment which amplified Austria’s feelings of being targeted by the Entente.

As the victorious Allied Powers became lax with victory, political radicalism quickly entrenched itself across Central Europe. This was clearly demonstrated in the 1920 Austrian Legislative Election for the newly formed National Council (successor to the Constituent Assembly).

The two political parties that emerged from the baptismal 1919 election with widespread support were the Social Democratic Workers’ Party of Austria (SDAPÖ) and the Christian Social Party (CSP). These represented the liberal socialist and conservative traditionalist parties, respectively. While these were the largest parties within the Republic, already firmly established since the second half of the nineteenth century, they would soon find an upstart contestant in the form of the National Liberal Front.

The Front, as was typical for National Liberal ideology, was an amalgamation of ideals from across the political spectrum. It was firmly conservative in matters relating to social issues with a heavy focus on pro-business policies. It held a nationalist stance where foreign policy and race were concerned, simultaneously pro-Austrian in the formation of a “true” Austro-Germanic nation-state yet one that decried the collapse of their hegemony over former imperial territory. The NLF advocated for the return of these territories to Vienna’s rule through whatever means deemed necessary, much to the alarm of neighboring countries like Czechoslovakia and Yugoslavia.

On the other side of the coin it fielded liberal policies concerning national industry, particularly providing substantial government subsidies for industries classified as being of strategic importance to the Fatherland as well as instituting a preferential customs union alongside moderate trade protectionism.

These sometimes contradictory outlooks coalesced into a weak political platform in February 1919 which showed in the election results with the NLF securing a “mere” fourteen Assembly seats despite its seasoned leadership in the form of Gustav Gross. This was no mean feat, as the Nationalliberale Front was a new party amongst a sea of lesser political movements spawned in the chaotic post-war years but still relegated the NLF as a secondary party. As a matter of fact only the SDAPÖ and CSP held any real power in the nascent Republic’s early years. The two parties would go on to form a coalition government under Chancellor Karl Renner, a Social Democrat.

This was no doubt amplified by an inconsistent and weak propaganda apparatus under Jakob Lutschounig whose charisma and magnetism were at best, in place of a more apt word, lukewarm. With a far smaller support base and less party revenue than its two principal competitors, the NLF winning any sort of outright victory through democratic means was considered highly unlikely. Yet in spite of all their missteps, failings and humble origins, the National Liberals still netted a strong foundational showing in the 1919 election with a promise of a stronger showing the following year.

The 1920 National Council Election saw to the Front rising in popularity, shepherded by the party’s new chief of propaganda, Adolf Hitler. Hitler’s speeches in Vienna drew large crowds that grew from hundreds of attendees to the low thousands.

In the year and a half since the February 1919 Election, Hitler had established National Liberal propaganda offices across Austria, all spewing the same lines of rhetoric, and all of it coming from Hitler. The words of the Black Wolf were printed in a half-dozen sympathetic newspaper firms, as was the public endorsement of retired far-right politician Georg Ritter von Schönerer, which greatly swelled the Front’s ranks with veterans, anti-Semites and militant nationalists.

It should be noted that it was at this time that the Front’s unofficial split between Hitler’s ‘radical’ faction and Gross’ ‘moderate’ faction began.

The Front began to experience steady growth throughout the latter half of 1919 leading into October 1920 due to Hitler’s tactics and his nationalist appeal. The Black Wolf’s reputation, earned from Hill 53 and Carinthia, were supplemented by Hitler’s energetic speeches that led to the NLF securing twenty-four votes in the 1920 election. Far short of a majority to be true, but it showed the two parties in the coalition government that the Front was a force to be reckoned with, which began to fray at the coalition government’s seams.

The 1923 Election proved to be substantially different from the 1919 and 1920 elections from the start. At Hitler’s insistence, the Front’s Central Committee hesitantly adopted a more aggressive strategy. Using allied branches of the paramilitary Heimatschutz, opponent political rallies were broken up via wooden cudgels and clenched fists. Leading these rally breakups were Hitler’s private militia, the Kampfgruppe Wolf, which numbered just under two hundred (it was a closed organization that refused any new blood to enter its ranks).

Social Democrats and Christian Socials were taken aback by the National Liberal strategy, yet after several months of broken gatherings and cracked skulls the Social Democrats organized their own paramilitary wing, the Republikanischer Schutzbund, while the CSP fielded other Heimatschutz units loyal to them thought NLF-CSP entanglements were far less frequent. The Heimatblock, the Heimatschutz’s political wing, was similarly split, with a slight majority allied to the CSP but the more radical and militant largely aligning itself with the NLF.

While the fighting in the streets was but one weapon in Hitler’s arsenal. The second was the radio and it proved instrumental in spreading National Liberalism across Austria. Hitler made frequent use of the radio, sending his nonsensical yet popular tirades over the wireless waves, enrapturing the bitter, the disillusioned and the desperate.

Though the SDAPÖ and CSP would both eventually integrate the radio into their strategies, it would never equal Hitler’s implementation or frequency, especially once the Sozinat Party was formed later on during the 1920s.

The 1923 Election was close and the results would hold ramifications for years to come…

-excerpt from Bloodstained Iron - Origin of Austrofascism, written by Lauren MacClintlocke​

Vienna, Austria
Republic of Austria
October 1923​

Adolf Hitler felt a bead of sweat trail down his neck, odd considering the autumn weather, but not overly curious if one were to understand the severity of today’s election. In his hands was a copy of the Kleine Zeitung, the Carinthia regional newspaper. On the cover was a photo of Benito Mussolini, celebrating the upcoming first year anniversary since his March on Rome. Hitler frowned while reading the article.

Mussolini represented a change, an unknown, in an old rival of the Fatherland and could be a threat to Austrian interests in the future. Though the discipline the strong jawed Fascist kept his Blackshirts, their sharp outstretched salutes and dedication to national revival were to be admired. He would not admit so out loud to his passenger as the man who sat near Hitler despised the Italians with a deep hatred few could match.

Jakob Kuhr, his principal bodyguard and closest advisor next to Olbrecht and Seyss-Inquart seemed quiet and relaxed, yet Hitler saw Kuhr’s eyes dart at the blurred crowds outside the window, hand near his M1912/P16 machine pistol.

Ever since the assassination attempt a year ago his Wolves had been very firm about his security detail. A car in front of and behind Hitler’s own vehicle were staffed with Wolves while allied Heimatschutz patrolled the general area.

The three cars were all Austro-Daimler ADM 1923s. Expensive to be sure, but reliable and manufactured in-country. Hitler would be damned if he rode a foreign car to an event to determine the nation’s future.

Not only would his own party criticize him for hypocrisy, let alone his plethora of political opponents, but it was a symbol of pride to him. They may have lacked the ease of production of the American Model Ts or the recognition of German or Italian brand names but by God it felt right.

“Nervous, sir?” Kuhr asked.

“Somewhat, yes. Three years of work are about to pay off tonight.”

Kuhr nodded, never taking his gaze off the crowds outside for long.

“How do you think we’ll do?”

“National Liberalism is an ever growing movement, building upon victory after victory. A government majority is within our grasp.”

“I see,” Kuhr replied dryly. “And the truth, sir?”

Hitler chuckled. He liked Kuhr. Good man, very loyal. The only ones he could trust these days were the Wolves and a handful of Front members. He would need such loyalty for whenever Gross retired from politics.

“Truth is what I make it, Jakob. Repeat a lie long enough and it becomes indistinguishable from fact. Such a philosophy is essential to our inevitable victory, whether we secure it today or years from now.”

“Of course, sir.”

The car was silent for a moment before Hitler repented.

“We’ll get third again, I’m sure. But it will be different from 1919 and 1920. I can feel it.”

“Your intuition hasn’t failed us yet, sir.”

Hitler nodded, looking out at the window. The three cars passed by a protest, a few score men and women with red armbands waving similarly colored banners. They were but a few meters from where doing so would be against city electoral ordinances. Men and women, many wearing worn and stitched clothing, handed out pamphlets to those who walked by. Many threw the papers away or put them in their pockets, likely to be used later as a wipe, but some read it and did so intently. A squad of policemen watched on like falcons, ready to swoop in and break up the Red filth.

Hitler’s lip snarled at the sight of the Communists. The KPÖ had been growing steadily the last two years. Smaller than the Front, but growing enough to become a dagger aimed at the heart of National Liberalism. The Christian Socials rightfully detested them while the Social Democrats weathered them with varying degrees of tolerance, but it seemed that with the rise of the NLF on the far-right, the far-left rose up to challenge its ideological foe and took form in the Communist Party of Austria.

The Communists, it was hoped, wouldn’t win more than a few seats in the National Council, but there was no counting how many desperate fools would vote for the Marxists. Hitler once again concluded that the Achilles’ heel of democracy were the voters themselves. Ignorant, easily misled, simple. All they wanted was a leader to tell them what to do and how to do it, to install pride in them and instill loyalty through every fiber of their being.

The three cars pulled up to the gymnasium. A waiting Wolf opened his door, coming to military-precise attention.

Hitler walked straight towards the building where two policemen waited at the door. A line of people were waiting to vote, many holding small Austrian flags on wooden sticks. When they saw him, some booed but far more cheered. This poll location was in one of the National Liberal-heavy city districts.

Hitler put on his largest smile and waved at the Front supporters. Jakob was forced to wait outside, much to his chagrin. Walking to the officials’ desk, shaking hands with supporters on the way, he gave them his name. Sliding forward a voter sheet, he didn’t even deign to take it to a private booth. He voted National Liberal in every available category. He pushed the finished form to the official who took it solemnly.

“Adolf Hitler has voted,” the bespectacled elderly man intoned as he dropped Hitler’s vote into the sealed box.

Leaving, Hitler quickly returned to the car. The crowd cheered as he left.

“Where to now, sir?” asked the driver, Friedrich-Wilhelm Bock.

“Party headquarters.”

The three cars drove off to the Front’s headquarters near Innere Stadt. It had once been an office building for an insurance company but it had collapsed alongside the economy in the months following the end of the war. Now it was simply called the Hold.

Gross has rented the Hold for cheap, which was good since the Front’s coffers were not as deep as the Social Democrats or the Christian Socials. For the 1920 Election it had been barely half-filled, with few resources available and little staffing. Yet now it was fully staffed and busy with phones ringing, messengers coming to and fro, and the clattering of typewriters. It was a building constantly filled with cigarette smoke and half-empty coffee mugs.

A dozen Heimatschutz bruisers stood sentry, pistols and cudgels in hand, though three sported M1895 rifles. Hitler did not like the idea of a separate organization becoming the Front’s security, yet had a Devil of a time convincing the rest of the Central Committee to use street violence and paramilitary forces to break up and dissuade opponent gatherings.
Hitler had wanted for the Front to create its own military wing directly rather than depend on the fractious Heimatschutz but he had been denied.

Gross had explained that if the Front created and used its own paramilitary it couldn’t use plausible deniability with any degree of effectiveness if a serious enough incident were to occur, such as a government official or police officer getting killed in a confrontation.

Hitler had reluctantly agreed but had caused so much contrition within the party, threatening to use his Wolves and other supporters, that Gross had to make significant concessions. Though Hitler was officially only the Propaganda Chief, he was for all intents and purposes the Front’s second-in-command, having sidelined Deputy Chairman von Hoffenberg and his more moderate backers.

The Vaterland didn’t need moderation, it needed action.

Many in the office stood as he walked through, including a significant number who were not from the Kampfgruppe. They nodded respectfully to him, many former veterans that he had advocated for, to bring on into the Front party structure. After all, he needed a core support base for any… future endeavors.

Hitler was moving to Gross’ office but a call stopped him.

“Adi,” called Franz Olbrecht. Hitler turned and a genuine smile was on his features.

“Franz, it’s good to see you. When did you come back from Linz?”

“Just an hour ago. I brought company.” Olbrecht gave him a mirthful look.

Hitler closed his eyes in exasperation. “Please don’t say-“

“Margarete is here.”

“I’m surprised the building still stands.”

“Here she comes,” the former colonel murmured, gesturing behind Hitler.

Hitler turned and saw a tall thin woman with red-brown hair stalking through the office. She was dressed as a woman of class, sporting a wide brim hat, a handbag, and her heels clicked across the floor.Aides, secretaries and even a few ranking party members moved out of her path lest they be caught in her fury.

The woman’s gaze was fixed on Hitler and it wasn’t kind.

“Ah, Adi, so good to see you,” she lied for the benefit of others nearby, most noting the hollow words. As she leaned in for a brief embrace, she whispered. “Are you an idiot?”

Hitler froze his face with a neutral expression. Margarete Olbrecht was a severe woman, one unaccustomed to not getting her way. And as a significant donator to the Front and sister to one of its ranking members, she held some not insignificant sway.

“Come to my office, please.” Hitler escorted her to his office in the corner facing the main road. He could see von Hoffenberg and Dinghofer in conference with Gross in the Chairman’s office, likely finalizing any new developments or strategies for the day’s election.

After the two Olbrechts followed Hitler in, with trusted Franz closing the door and shutting the blinds, Margarete Olbrecht slammed her hands down on his work-strewn desk. Several papers fell, annoying him further.

“What can I do for you, Ms. Olbrecht.”

“Cut the ‘what can I do for you’ nonsense, Adi. You know why I’m here and you why I’m so damn frustrated.”

Hitler locked gazes with her, his dark blue versus her pale green.

“You lied to me. A week ago you stood there and told me in no uncertain terms that you would not approach Walter Pfrimer.”

“I’m a politician, of course I lied,” Hitler mocked, ignoring the sudden cough from his friend. Margaret was none too pleased and leaned forward, her pale complexion darkening.

“Pfrimer is a thug,” she stated. “It is suspected he ordered the murders of several people in southern Styria.”

“Those ‘people’ you referenced were Yugoslavian spies coming into our country to carry out political espionage. Two of whom were suspected of communist affiliation in that bastard state they call a country.”

“Yugoslavian, yes, but not spies. For God’s sake, Adi, two of them were sixteen. Sixteen!”

Hitler did not stir from his chair.

“If a man develops a tumor, do you wait until it threatens his life to then cut it off?”

“That is not a fair compar-“

“Damn it, Margarete,” Hitler barked, rising from his chair. “Those filth snuck into our country like criminals, undoubtedly intending to leech off the back of the hardworking Austrian. Parasites are to be expunged, not welcomed!”

“Pfrimer will give the Front a bad image. He will hurt us with the Landbund.”

“The Landbund will support us, regardless of Pfrimer. They have zero chance of winning anything without the Front’s sponsorship.”

“Pfrimer’s ties with the Alpine Montangesellschaft are damning to the Landbund! Austrian farmers will not abide being seconded to industrialists.”

“They will abide it because I have arranged it. If they cannot toe the line, then they will be made to do so.” Hitler slowly leaned against his desk, palms flat on its wooden surface.

“I need Pfrimer and his Heimatschutz . They are well armed, nearly all veterans from the war. Some even fought in Carinthia. His association with Alpine Montangesellschaft only reaffirms our support amongst Austrian industrialists. Even if we do not have their open support, their quietly donated funds will do well in securing future electoral victories.”

Hitler’s voice turned flat, dangerous even, a far cry from the loud and energetic propagandist whose message was in the newspaper and on the radio nearly every week.

“You are valuable to the Front, Margarete. Your public support, your money, and your embracing of National Liberalism has done much to aid this movement. But,” the Black Wolf narrowed his eyes. “Don’t you ever presume to speak to me in such a way again. To do so would be unwise.” Those last words were akin to chipped ice, clear in meaning and cold in delivery

Something in Hitler’s tone disturbed her. She moved back a step, her face morphing from flushed to pale. She looked at her brother.

“Franz… you can’t support this, can you? Pfrimer and the others Adi has brought on… they are dangerous. Violently brutal, murderous, and intolerant. The things some have said about Jews and Serbians are unspeakable. Many on the Central Committee are worried where this is leading.”

Franz Olbrecht stood silent for a moment, a flash of sadness overcoming him before he stiffened to a form of attention.

“I stand by my Commander, no matter the cost.”

“Franz-“

“I think it is time for you to go, Marge,” Olbrecht said quietly.

Margarete Olbrecht left without a word, not even looking back. She didn’t even slam the door on her way out.

Hitler looked at his second. “Thank you for your support, Franz.”

“Of course, sir.” Olbrecht looked embarrassed at what he said next. “Don’t take what she says to heart, Adi, she supports the end goal the Front is aiming for, just not the steps along the way.”

“I understand. But if she continues to be problematic I will be forced to take action.”

“Please,” his friend seemed pained to speak. “Please don’t do anything drastic or… permanent. I will speak to her. I’m sure she can be brought around to sharing our vision.”

“Let us hope,” Hitler said, not believing Margarete would for a moment.

“Promise me nothing will happen to her.”

Hitler weighed the question for a moment as if giving it considerable thought. “I promise.”

Olbrecht breathed in relief.

“Thank you.”

Hours later, results started to come in once the polls closed that afternoon. Messengers ran through the doors with the Viennese results, waving new voter-turnout information while the radios spewed how the election was developing across the country.

The main office was filled with cigarette smoke as always. Hitler, Olbrecht and Kuhr sat next to a score of other Wolves near the center of the central room. Front members scrambled to update the chalkboard that held the election results. They had been there, listening intently as more and more poll data filtered through.

Hitler didn’t smoke, detesting the smell and taste, but he had downed a half-dozen cups of coffee and had eaten a plate of Wiener Schnitzel to keep up his energy. The results flooding in were a confusing mass of numbers and information, but after a few hours the truth was cyphered out.

The National Liberal Front, after three long years since the last National Council election, had secured thirty-three seats. While it lagged behind the CSP’s sixty-four seats and the SDAPÖ’s fifty-eight seats, it nonetheless held its strongest position since its inception. And more importantly neither party had formed a majority, thus needing a partner to have a functioning government.

The CSP and SDAPÖ, having been in two coalition governments for the last five and a half years , had been at odds with each other throughout much of it, with their relations deteriorating further in the last year or so. It had become so bitter a working relationship that the federal government devolved into political in-fighting, stalling legislation and accruing the frustration of their constituents.

A wedge had been formed between the two parties, carefully erected by Hitler and sympathetic elements in the Christian Social Party. The CSP had little love for the Front, but its disgruntled acceptance of the Social Democrats had evolved into intense dislike, worsened further by Communist agitators.

And now the SDAPÖ had lost a significant voter base to the point it had to ally with the CSP to remain in power at all. Not even the KPÖ’s eight seats gave the Social Democrats the necessary majority. And due to Austrian parliamentary law, a political party had to attain a certain percentage of the vote to be represented in the Nationalrat.

But the CSP, due to careful negotiations and plans orchestrated in secret with the NLF, would formally dissolve their coalition government with the socialists and create a new government with the Front instead.

As the office erupted into cheer, as all knew the party had done very well, Hitler leaned back in his chair. A smile threatened to reveal itself but he kept it under control lest some take note of its predatory display.

In the weeks to come the CSP-SDAPÖ government under Karl Renner would dissolve and a CSP-NLF coalition government would emerge… and Hitler planned to be there making the decisions that would put Austria on the path of recovery.

And no one would stand in his way.

 

[Tanner151]

Chapter Twenty-Six
New Beginnings

Vienna, Austria
Republic of Austria
November 1923​

Hitler looked up at a knock on his office door in the Hold. Frowning, he set his pen down. The paperwork situated before him could wait.

“Yes?”

The door opened, Kuhr standing there as always.

“Sir, your appointment is here.”

Ah, he had forgotten it was today. So much to do, so little time in which to do it. Readying for a government transition required a lot of back-and-forth, paperwork, false promises and half-hearted political dialogue.

“Let her in.”

Kuhr nodded and ushered in a woman of middling height, with a bare trace of cosmetics on her face which only heightened her natural features rather than cover. She carried a well-used handbag and a paper-laden folder. She was young, barely in her mid-twenties, with reddish hair and pale blue eyes.

Hitler stood, he was a gentleman after all, and bade her to sit.

At a look, Kuhr closed the door leaving the two of them alone.

“Nice to meet you, Frau-” Hitler glanced at her application on the edge of his desk, “-Aigner. You’ve been recommended to me by several members of the party. It seems you have impressed as a general secretary and now wish to be secretary to a senior party official.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, her voice was different than what he expected, almost husky.

“I have a dozen applicants for the position, four of whom I’ve already interviewed. Why should I choose you?”

“Well, sir, I speak three different languages aside from German. French, Spanish and Italian.”

“Quanto è buono il tuo italiano?” Hitler asked, accent thick and rusty. His Hungarian was passable, his Czech barely existent but his Italian was quite awful. Perhaps if he learned the languages while younger he would be a true multilingual man rather than knowing the barebone basics. Alas, he spent an hour or two a night studying several European languages. Austro-Hungary had been a multi-ethnic empire and of Austria was to once again subjugate former imperial lands, it would be best if it’s leader spoke the languages of his people so as to give them a feeling of welcome, to better ease them in into unflinching loyalty and subservience.

Aigner began to speak, snapping Hitler out of his thoughts.

“I learned Italian and French growing up in Bludenz, a city in Vorarlberg. Having lived there for so long, there was a lot of back-and-forth between France, Italy, Switzerland and Bludenz.” Frau Aigner spoke in German, perhaps she could detect by the rough accent his poor understanding of the Italian language and had spared him the embarrassment of her having to translate whatever she would say in the Romance tongue.

Hitler nodded, partly in understanding and partly in thanks.

“How did you learn Spanish?”

“An interest in school, and knowing French and Italian helped with learning and retaining it due to linguistic similarities.”

“Why else should I hire you?”

“I can type just under seventy words per minute, I have no children that I will need to take time off for, I have never missed a day in the eleven months I’ve been here, and,” she hesitated, “I truly believe in the work we are doing here, and appreciate the message you convey to the Austrian people.”

Hitler arched an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Yes,” she seemed embarrassed but carried on. “My father and two older brothers fought in the Great War. None returned home. My mother died from influenza in 1919. I have worked anywhere from two to four jobs at once since, struggling to survive. Even with the general secretary job I’ve been barely scraping an existence, having to work nights at a local warehouse cataloguing and working on their books.”

Frau Aigner took a deep breath.

“Every other political party seems content to ignore that we fought a war, they want to ignore all the sacrifices made and blame the state of our country not on themselves but on others. The NLF seems to be the only one who cares about giving Austrians a sense of pride, of remembrance for the fallen, and that the blood debt spilled by our enemies will one day be repaid. Your words of anger and calls for retribution struck a chord within me. I am not a violent woman, Herr Hitler, but I would gladly see the world burn if it meant an iota of pain I’ve suffered wasn’t all for nothing. That the sacrifices and hardships mean something, that it would lead to a better tomorrow.”

Hitler idly brushed his upper lip, thinking. Taking his contemplation as unfazed, Frau Aigner spoke once more.

“Sir, you should be aware that I sold off all family property but what you see here and what few cases of luggage I could fit into a cab. I have no home, barring another secretary’s sofa that I have lived on for near a year, and no future at this time. I came here with determination and a desire to do what’s right for the Fatherland. I believe you have the potential to see through the Front’s promises and carry them out for the betterment of the Volk. Give me this opportunity and you’ll never regret it.”

“No, I don’t think I would,” he said quietly. “Frau Aigner, you’re hired.” Her face split into a wide, relieved smile and a part of Hitler pondered how pretty she looked just then, her smile radiant and inviting.

“Thank you, sir, thank you so much, Herr Hitler!”
Hitler rose and extended his hand and she reached out to grab it. “In public I’m Herr Hitler. In private, I’m Adi. What’s your given name?”

Aigner nodded, relieved at securing a job. “My name is Lieselotte, but my friends and family call me Liese.”

“Thank you, Liese.” Hitler gave her hand a comfortable squeeze. “Now,” he said more brusquely, “Frau Aigner we are swamped with paperwork and phone calls. Replacing a government through democratic means is a lengthy and bothersome process. Go see my assistant Jakob Kuhr about your duties and he’ll set you up with the Personnel Office to get you a higher salary as well as some housing accommodations more suited for a woman in your position.”

Lieselotte Aigner looked struck by the offer, her eyes tearing but she gathered herself.

He sat back down.

“You are dismissed.”

“Jawohl, mein Herr!” Frau Aigner left, ready to throw herself into the work. Hitler watched her leave. He had gone through five secretaries in three years; the demanding workload and Hitler’s chaotic schedule quickly saw many become burned out as the hours were long and the pay barely sufficient for the time put in.

He hoped Lieselotte would stick around.​

+ + +

Vienna, Austria
Republic of Austria
November 1923​

The motorcade departed NLF offices near the edge of Innere Stadt and left for central Vienna. Hitler rode with Gustav Gross, Ludwig von Hoffenberg, and Franz Dinghofer. The Central Committee had grown over the years, now consisting of a dozen men, but the four individuals in the car were the ones who wielded actual power.

It had been nearly a month since the election and now the transition period between the old government and the new was over. At the executive level the Social Democrats were out, the National Liberals in. As the junior partner in the new coalition government the NLF would receive positions of power equivalent to their seats won in the National Council.

The CS would retain the Chancellorship in the form of Ignaz Seipel as he had since 1922 while Gross would become Vice-Chancellor. Ludwig von Hoffenberg was to become the Minister of Commerce, and Franz Dinghofer would become Second President of the National Council under the newly selected Wilhelm Miklas.

Hitler, as per private discussions with Seipel and Gross over the past several weeks, would ascend to the prestigious Minister of Foreign Affairs, replacing Alfred Grünberger. He had lobbied for Minister of the Army but the CS had flatly refused to give up such a position to the junior NLF, favoring the incumbent Carl Vaugoin.

Nevertheless, becoming Foreign Minister would give Hitler immense power, as well as gifting close proximity to the Chancellor due to the Foreign Minister being housed in the Chancellery as no proper Foreign Office complex had yet been built. There he would be able to at first influence and in time create policy, with the end goal being to organize an effective international response against Judeo-Bolshevism, as well as creating a European alliance to aid in, or at the very least tolerate, the resurgence of a strong Austrian state.

So as the motorcade of National Liberal officials who were to replace the Social Democrats and even a handful of Christian Socials who lost their seats to the Front’s newly elected Councilors, Hitler found himself confident and eager to get to work. He even allowed himself to daydream a bit, envisioning the government playing itself to the beat of his ambition as if he were the conductor and everyone else the orchestra.

Yet if Austria was to be a world leader that others would envy it must first rise above its destitute situation. The Fatherland was crippled by debt, and while the Treaty of Saint-Germain did not dictate the exact amount owed to the Entente, it nonetheless would be in the billions. But not billions of the Austrian krone as that was becoming increasingly worthless as hyperinflation swept the nation, but rather billions in gold and silver bullion.

Billions Austria did not have. The new Republic’s agricultural and industrial output was but a fraction of the imperial era, hampering the country’s ability to pay its debts to such a state as to be impossible, further damning the krone’s buying power.

Seipel’s Grand Coalition with the SDAPÖ in 1922 had secured a substantial loan from the League of Nations to carry out financial and administrative reforms under League oversight. This did put some faith in the currency and put a halt to fiscal instability, at least for a time. Yet now Austria had to follow requests from the League, their ‘suggestions’ becoming more and more like mandates, which caused many in Austria to doubt the necessity of the loan, including many within the Christian Social Party.

If something wasn’t done soon, Austria would fall into an abyss that it would never claw itself out of, or worse, fall to Communism.

The convoy of cars separated as they neared the capital’s beating heart. All but one went to the Austrian Parliament Building while the car ferrying Hitler, Gross, Dinghofer and von Hoffenberg moved to Ballhausplatz, specifically Ballhausplatz 2. While the Parliament Building and the Hofburg Palace were of key importance to the fledging government, it was the residence and governing office of the Chancellor of the Austrian Republic that decisions that shaped the country were decided. Whomever ruled there ruled the Republic.

When the car pulled up, the door was opened by a governmental aide in a dark gray business suit.

“This way, sirs.” The aide led them up the steps of Ballhausplatz 2. Uniformed policemen stood at ease on the main entrance’s flanks, hands near pistols and eyes scanning to ensure none without authorization entered.

It was Hitler’s first time in the Chancellery. Though it lacked the… majesty of the Hofburg Palace, it nonetheless held a certain gravitas of power, its Persian rugs and Bohemian chandeliers giving it a worldly sense of preeminence.

As Hitler walked beside Gross, von Hoffenberg and Dinghofer following behind, he could not help but ponder that if the Hapsburgs had spent more money on a modern military and less on enriching themselves then maybe the country’s fate wouldn’t be in such a desperate state.

The aide led them to the Office of the Chancellor. Ushered in, they found Ignaz Seipel at his desk. The most powerful man in the Republic stood, arms spread wide.

“Ah, welcome, friends, welcome!” Seipel shook hands with all four men, the aide standing in the corner to assist if the need arose.

“It is good to see you all here today.” Seipel sat down, hands on the table with fingers interlocked. “I have a feeling that this new government we have put together will do much to alleviate the nation’s problems. With the Social Democrats sidelined for now, we have a prime opportunity to limit the power of the trade unions, strengthen the krone and limit its rapid hyperinflation, as well as turn our focus to greater matters beyond our borders.

Seipel gestured and the aide poured five glasses of whiskey and handed them to the men in the room. Hitler swirled the drink softly in his hands, not wishing to drink it. The others held no such qualms and downed theirs in a single gulp, smacking lips in appreciation.

“Really sets the belly on fire, that one,” Dinghofer said, stifling a cough.

“Indeed it does. Now,” Seipel’s eyes flicked to Hitler’s. “Down to business.”

Seipel pulled out four documents from the top drawer of his desk.

“As previously stated in previous meetings held at the Hold and elsewhere, you four as senior members of the National Liberal Front will be given positions of power and authority within the Republic.”

All four nodded, expecting this.

“I am to make my Cabinet recommendations to the National Council later this evening. With the Nationalrat in the hands of our coalition there should be little trouble confirming your appointments.”

Again, all four nodded.

“There has however been a slight change of plans.”

Hitler’s eyes narrowed in suspicion.

Seipel leaned forward.

“Herr von Hoffenberg.”

“Yes?”

“I have decided to keep Hans Schürff on as Minister of Commerce. Instead you’ll be the Minister of Labor as I feel this will suit your strengths more so than the Commerce Ministry. Do you accept this change?”

“I do,” von Hoffenberg sounded unsurprised. Likely he was quietly approached about it days ago, this meeting simply making it official.

Hitler began to relax until Seipel looked at him, and he saw something akin to discomfort in the man’s eyes.

“Herr Hitler?”

“Yes?” The word came out slow and cautionary.

“I have, with able counsel from the men present as well as with input from members of my Cabinet, decided to keep Alfred Grünberger as Foreign Minister.”

“Is that so?” Hitler’s voice had gone flat, void of emotion. He sat straighter in his chair and took two deep breaths through the nose, hands clenching one another in his lap, unseen by the others.

“Yes, Herr Hitler. It was decided that your talents would be wasted as Foreign Affairs Minister. You are a man of action, of empassioned speaking and rousing up the crowd. As Foreign Minister you would be limited to ministerial meetings, memos, traveling to and fro at a moment’s notice. It does not supplement your natural skills. Therefore, we as a collective have decided on your new post that would best serve the Vaterland.”

Hitler stared at Seipel, then turned his head slowly to face the other three men. Dinghofer stared straight ahead, ignoring Hitler’s venomous gaze though the man was sweating, droplets dripping from his temples. Von Hoffenberg matched Hitler’s glare and wasn't going to waste gloating in this moment of triumph, smiling a savage grin, teeth bared.

Gustav Gross… Gross was staring at the ground, hands interlocked, before raising his head to look at Hitler. The man seemed honestly regretful, party politicking was not his forte, but he didn’t stop it. He let the other men manipulate him, or he partook in it himself regardless of his relationship with Hitler.

Hitler felt his skin flush hot. He had been betrayed.

The Chairman had betrayed him… Gustav had betrayed him.

“Herr Hitler,” Seipel spoke quietly.

Hitler’s head snapped around, nostrils flaring.

“Would you like to know your new position?”

Hitler gestured, trying to appear nonplussed and knowing he failed.

“Very well. Considering your skills in speaking and negotiating, as well as proving yourself able to work independently and think on your feet, it is my recommendation to the National Council that you become,” Hitler braced himself, “Austria’s newest Ambassador to Japan.”

Hitler blinked. He had expected many things, but that was far from it. Japan, a country on the far side of the world. A country that had fought against Austria’s allies during the Great War. He would be far from the Vaterland, far from the Front, far from his support base.

As Seipel continued saying what an honor this position would be and how important strengthening Austro-Japanese relations would be, Hitler only half-heard him for he saw this ‘honor’ for what it was.

Exile.

He had become such a threat to the Front’s more moderate wing that they had decided he was too dangerous to be in-country. His power base was growing, his ideals radical, and the Front’s ideology was becoming increasingly difficult to separate from Hitler’s own. He had estimated within a year or two he would have accumulated enough power to force Gross to step down as Chairman and take over the Front in full. The others knew this and surprised him with crafting an insidious yet clever plan.m to all but remove him from the party.

He could refuse it, the Ambassadorship, but it would blacken his name for all future offices, and it would show he could not be entrusted with governmental responsibility, no matter how great or small. He could withdraw himself from the Front, but his years of ceaseless work and nearly every krone he had earned had gone into making National Liberalism the topic of discussion across Austria, both in affiliated newspapers and the wireless waves.

To refuse it would be political suicide. To leave the party would set back his rise to the Chancellorship by years, if he was lucky. Despite the bitter taste it left in his mouth, he knew he would have to accept and the others knew that too.

Seipel finished and looked at him. Gross finally spoke to break the silence.

“It will only be temporary, Adi. You’ll still remain Chief of Propaganda and a Committee member. This is merely to show our allies in the CS that we can be flexible.”

“That was it, wasn’t it. That was the price you paid for this coalition. My exile was your weregeld.” They did not deign to respond to that, nor was it needed. Their silence was answer enough.

“Adi, please, if you refuse this, it could have ramifications for your standing in the party.”

“And then you threaten to revoke my membership, and thus ignore all I have done for you.” Hitler gestured at the room.

“Look where you are, Gustav, look. I put you here. Me. I was your enforcer, I was your voice. Because of me, hundreds of thousands voted for the NLF. Now I am your thrall sent to the whipping post.”

“Adi-“

Hitler held up his hand and Gustav clamped his mouth shut.

“I accept the nomination to become Ambassador to Japan. It would be an… an honor.”

+++
Hitler descended the steps of the Chancellery, his stomach soured and mood in an even worse state at the turn of events. By the end of the day his nomination would be finalized and by the end of the week he would be aboard a train to take him to a ship that would then take him to the Land of the Rising Sun. Most of the NLF councilors elected were moderates and unlikely to follow any instruction he gave them, even if he wanted to defy the Committee.

Some would, but it would risk their seat and Hitler knew he would need a support base whenever he returned.

Olbrecht would be the first he contacted when he returned to the Hold, then Kuhr, then…

“Congratulations, Ambassador Hitler.”

He froze in his tracks and turned to the voice from behind.

Von Hoffenberg walked confidently down the steps to him. The man’s hands were stuffed in von Hoffenberg’s greatcoat and a fedora covered his thinning hair. He was every inch the manipulative aristocrat, the very same who cost Austro-Hungary the war, alongside the Judeo-Bolsheviks of course.

“It hasn’t been confirmed yet,” Hitler said, trying to appear unbothered by his ‘promotion.’

Von Hoffenberg laughed. “Oh I think it will pass. I’ve ensured it.” Several reporters rounded the corner and ran to them, cameras and pens and paper ready.

Three nearby policemen moved to intercept. Von Hoffenberg seemed not at all surprised. He wanted Hitler’s exile to be leaked to the press and his reaction recorded.

The conniving bastard.

“Ladies and gentlemen, our new Ambassador to Japan!” Von Hoffenberg declared, moving to stand by Hitler, presenting false camaraderie.

“You’re enjoying this aren’t you,” Hitler whispered.

“It’s better than you deserve. You should have gone back to living on the streets, painting to earn enough money to survive. If I can’t ensure that, having you out of the Fatherland is just as good. In time people will forget all about Adolf Hitler.”

“The people won’t forget me,” Hitler said fervently. “I’m a war hero and Chief Propagandist.”

“For now, perhaps,” von Hoffenberg shrugged. “Things change with time.”

The reporters had gotten close enough to take photos and start barking questions, only held back by the three uniformed officers who urged them to back off.

Hitler faked mirth and held out his hand to von Hoffenberg who couldn’t dare refuse it in front of others. As the other man grasped it, Hitler pulled him in closer and whispered into his nemesis’ ear.

“When I return, for I will come back, know that my reach is far and that I will never forget this. Watch yourself, Ludwig, accidents always happen when you least expect them,” he whispered. Then broke off the handshake and walked to the waiting car. He felt von Hoffenberg’s eyes on him for a moment before the aristocrat turned to answer the reporters’ questions.

As the car drove away from Innere Stadt, Hitler’s mind raced, contemplating how he was going to turn this exile into a victory of sorts. It took hours, going long into the night but as morning dawned and newspapers proclaimed Austria’s newest representative to the Empire of Japan, Hitler set himself to work.

This was only a setback and he would return to Austria and take what was his. After all, he had all but promised to kill someone.

And he never forgot such things.​

 

[Tanner151]

Chapter Twenty-Seven
Fear is the Mind-Killer
Vienna, Austria
Republic of Austria
November 1923​

A knock thudded on the door. Jakob Kuhr opened it, revealing Franz Olbrecht and Walter Pfrimer. In the hall stood two Wolves at parade attention, pistols in their holsters, looking more akin to police officers than paramilitary bodyguards.

Kuhr welcomed them in, gesturing to the couches in the living room of Hitler’s Viennese apartment. The Black Wolf himself was standing on the balcony, looking out over the capital, his back to them as he looked out over the capital. Ever since his return from the Chancellery earlier that day, his mood had been dark but not volcanic, which was a surprise due to the Commander’s infamous temper.

“How is he?” Olbrecht asked, standing at the end of the couch while Pfrimer took a seat.

“He’s… coping well.”

Olbrecht cocked his head. “Dangerous,” muttered the former Landswehr Lieutenant Colonel sat down. Dangerous for whom, Kuhr thought. For them or their enemies?

The three men waited while Hitler looked out over the Republic’s beating heart, brightened with electric lights, a sign of modernity and civilization. Yet enclosing the city was darkness, encroaching into the city, haunting it's alleys, warning its citizens who scurried to and fro that the darkness was always there. Waiting.

The metaphor was not lost on Kuhr, who for the first time in years not only felt but knew that things were going wrong. That Austria’s best chance at restoring its prestige, its might, and its place in the world, was slipping away.

He had known, ever since Carinthia, that Hitler was a man he would follow into hell. A committed patriot, a visionary, a man who could return Austria to its former glory and make those who laid it low to bow before it's reclaimed supremacy.

Yet as Kuhr looked at Hitler’s back, the Commander seemed… resigned. Not defiant or frothing with righteous anger, but an acceptance that surprised Kuhr. He had expected the former Stabsfeldwebel to demand a press conference with the ‘papers, or go onto the wireless waves and thrash the coalition’s opening moves of government as ineffective and insulting… yet he did none of that. Instead, his commander, his leader, merely stood on the balcony and pondered… a plan, or perhaps something more. The Black Wolf did not always share his musings with his officers, not even his inner circle. It was one of his greatest strengths, that confidence, but sometimes it left others in the dark. But at least it seemed he was going to correct that by calling forth Olbrecht and Pfrimer.

Hitler turned around and all three men rose from their seats in respect. The Black Wolf sat down in his favorite chair, gesturing for them to sit and they did so.

“I’m assuming you’ve all heard the news that I, as Austria’s newest Ambassador, will depart for Japan the first week of December.”

The three men nodded, the news announced in government sponsored papers earlier that afternoon which declared Hitler’s appointment as a “bold move” and a “firm welcome and endorsement by the new coalition” but Kuhr could read between the lines, as could any with half a brain.

It was a political exile. They were so afraid of Hitler’s potential and his ideals, they ostracized him from the government he helped put in power and sent him to the far side of the world to waste away.

“So,” Pfrimer leaned forward. “What would you have us do?”

Hitler cocked a dark eyebrow at the comment.

“Do? I intend to follow through with my government appointment.” The room was silent at that. Even Kuhr looked askance at the man he had sworn to protect.

“You can’t be serious, Herr Hitler,” Pfrimer said. “We have the ability, nay the responsibility to act!” Pfrimer interlocked his fingers. The man seemed aghast at Hitler’s… submission.

“Herr Hitler, I have at my back several hundred Heimatschutz under my direct command here in Vienna. I can order another two hundred or more to get here within days from Styria. We have allies in several other Heimatschutz units and some support in the Heimatblock. Add that in with your Wolves and you can have almost one and a half thousand armed men ready to storm the Chancellery, with widespread support from government elements. Not to mention the Army itself. You have the respect of many within the Bundesheer following Carinthia.”

“Are you suggesting a coup?” Olbrecht asked incredulously, eyeing the newcomer of Hitler’s inner circle. Hitler leaned back in his chair in thought, watching his lieutenants bicker.

“I’m suggesting a change of government that favors our views and goals.”

“By God, that’s what a coup is!” Olbrecht ran his hand through his hair in annoyance. “If we marched to the Chancellery to protest the Commander’s ambassadorship, we would come across as children who are unhappy they didn’t get their favorite candy. And if we try to overthrow the government we lose all support in the Council.”

“Storm the Chancellery, Parliament and Rossauer Barracks. Once those are secured we’ll be able to take the rest of the city with ease. Once we-“

“If we try to carry out a putsch we will damn ourselves in the eyes of every man and woman in this country. We will be the black sheep they wouldn’t dare give power to.”

Pfrimer frowned. “I think you overestimate the civilian reaction.”

“And I believe you underestimate it. We shouldn’t do it, it’s too risky.”

“Coward.”

Olbrecht rose and took a step towards Pfrimer.

“Care to say that again?”

Kuhr stood as well. “Gentlemen, please, this will not help matters. We need-“

Pfrimer stood and stared Olbrecht in the face. “Coward.”

The shouting then began in earnest, with Kuhr separating the two men. One of the Wolves poked his head in to see what the commotion was about but quickly withdrew at a heated look from the Commander.

As things began to deteriorate further with both Olbrecht and Pfrimer nearly descending into a physical altercation, a voice snapped across the room.

“Enough.” It wasn’t shouted, yet it snapped their mouths shut and forced them to turn back and face the still-seated Hitler.

“We will not dissolve into in-fighting. If we do that now we might as well shoot ourselves so as to save everyone the trouble.”

The Commander sighed heavily, nostrils flaring before he spoke again,

“I will go to Japan as Ambassador, I’ve already been associated with it due to von Hoffenberg’s little media stunt outside the Chancellery. I cannot risk the damage it will do if I were to turn it down, especially since it was offered by coalition leadership.”

“But, sir, your position will be weak, your influence here will lessen-“ Pfrimer began.

Hitler raised a finger and Pfrimer stopped, biting his words.

“I know, Walter. And for a time, my power in the Fatherland will weaken but it won’t go away entirely. If I were to initiate a putsch, the chance of it succeeding is almost nil. Then I’d be thrown in prison, if I wasn’t shot for treason. And what good could I do there, hmm? Bemoan that power slipped through my fingers, wail at the injustices of the world and not be able to do anything about it? Write a book, perhaps, an autobiography to codify my woes? It doesn’t matter. I’m not launching some sort of revolution through a putsch almost certain to fail.”

Hitler stood and began to walk across the room, deep in thought.

“No. No, what I will do instead is act like the meek humble servant they want me to be… for now. I will go to Japan and I will leave my mark, show that I am not some spineless puppet who toes the line but I will go. I’ve been studying the government dispatches about what is going on over there. It is very tense, very fragile. A most opportune environment for things to happen that will benefit many, if done correctly and with determined vision.”

“Do you have ideas, sir, of what you will do there?” Kuhr asked.

Hitler smiled with utmost confidence yet said nothing, but by the twinkle in his eye and the assurance he all but radiated, Kuhr knew the Black Wolf had a plan.

“Here are my orders to you.” Hitler looked at Olbrecht first. “Franz.”

“Yes, Adi?”

“As one of the Front’s Representatives of Linz in the National Council, I need you to remain here in Vienna and ensure that our movement and our successes do not fade. Remind the people and Parliament it was us who stood with the Austrians of Carinthia, that it was us who fought the Yugoslav hordes. Reiterate it without pause, as well as the threat posed by Communists and Jews. They endlessly attack our labor and bank systems, weakening the Fatherland with their poison. Reiterate until even a dead man could repeat our rhetoric.”

“Yes, Adi,” Olbrecht said confidently, relieved that there would be no hopeless coup attempt.

“Walter, I want your boys and my Wolves to work together to break up political rallies of the Social Democrats, Communists, and other non-coalition parties in outlying cities, especially in Styria and Carinthia. Vienna, for now, is firmly a Social Democrat stronghold but do leave some men here as a reminder to the Socialists that not all within the capital agree with their platform. Ensure their message is distorted and their presence weakened. Also, have your men help at food lines and homeless shelters. Show the people that it is our men that are looking out for them. We’ll need those votes later in another election.” Hitler turned to look at him.

“And Jakob.”

“Sir.”

“I want you to return to South Tyrol.”

Kuhr felt like he had been punched in the stomach. Never in the years since Carinthia had he been sent away. He was the Commander’s shield, his left hand, whereas Olbrecht was his right. And now he was being sent elsewhere, away.

“May I ask why, sir?” Kuhr knew his voice was rough, but he couldn’t help it.

“Because I need someone I trust to stir up enough trouble there with the Italians that their hold over it is weakened. Antagonize them but do not go too far… yet. Reprisals can bolster or kill a movement, so I need you to tread carefully until anti-Italian sentiment runs deep amongst the South Tyrolese.There will be another time for killing. Just ensure that their occupation of Austrian land is not an easy task for them, nor cheap. Perhaps this will force Mussolini’s hand later on to accept any overtures concerning territorial adjustments we make.”

Kuhr nodded, not happy but understanding.

“This is a setback, gentlemen, but we will turn this around and make the most of it. Tomorrow I am going to stand in front of Parliament, shake hands with Seipel and Gross and publicly thank them for this prestigious appointment,” Hitler’s words were thick with sarcasm. “There are many paths to power and rarely is it a straight line. I feel at this time it to be the one with the most success and less wanton risk to this movement.”

The three men nodded.

“Very well. Now, let us go and eat, publicly. I want the newspapers we influence to report in the morning of my commitment to our government and its policies, as well as my readiness to delve into work, no matter how thankless or far away it is, that benefits the Austrian Volk.”

Olbrecht nodded, his contacts in the newspaper industry would readily spread Hitler’s word as if it were gospel. “It will be done, sir.”

“Good.” Hitler moved towards the door, opening it. The two Wolves outside came to attention, “Come, gentlemen, there is much work to be done.”
​

+ + +

December 1923
Vienna, Austria
Republic of Austria ​

Margarete Olbrecht sipped her coffee, her mood much brighter than it had been several days ago. News of Hitler’s acceptance of his ambassadorship in front of Parliament had spread like Greek fire through the country, pleasing moderates and defanging right-wing extremists. As part of the Republic’s upper echelons - due to her aristocratic origins and the fact she had bankrolled political campaigns of several notable NLF and CS politicians - Margarete had known about the appointment a week before Hitler himself learned of it.

Oh how she had relished in it! She had been coy and aloof with her brother, not hinting at what was coming, and her patience had been rewarded. The man his fanatic followers called the Black Wolf had been caught completely by surprise, and Ludwig von Hoffenberg had privately recounted the former First Sergeant’s veiled threat to him. Margarete had hoped Hitler would do something foolish, such as publicly denying the appointment or railing against the coalition, or severing ties with the Front altogether. Perhaps even try to initiate a putsch, only to be crushed by a waiting military and police force loyal to the government.

Yet he did not do that. Instead he had, after his initial shock and not so subtle threat to von Hoffenberg, had not only accepted the nomination to become Ambassador to Japan, but had endorsed it, having said frequently in interviews and overheard in public locations of how proud he was to serve the Volk and Fatherland in such an endeavor.

It was… disconcerting, but as she settled her drink on its saucer, she plastered on a smile at the man across from her.

Gustav Gross seemed perpetually unhappy as of late; his friendship with Hitler had clouded the man’s mind and the past couple of weeks had been draining on the Chairman. It was up to her to resolve this. Seipel could not have his political right arm maimed at the onset and risk the NLF becoming deadweight to their newborn and untested coalition.

“Herr Gross, I-” she coughed, “apologies, sir, I meant Vice Chancellor Gross,” she corrected, stressing the title to remind the man of his own power and that he had matters of greater import to mind now. “I understand your relationship with Herr Hitler. He was, is, a man of strong convictions but as you can see, sir, he has taken to the ambassadorship with gusto. His farewell speech at Südbahnhof yesterday was inspiring.”

The man shrugged, drinking from his own cup.

“I fear that things are not as they seem, Fräulein Olbrecht.”

“Sir?” she queried. “Hitler is out of the country, somewhere on a merchant ship in the Mediterranean heading towards the Suez. Pfrimer has skulked back to Styria, Hitler’s Chief bodyguard and nearly half his ‘Wolves’ have left for South Tyrol. Better they bother the Italians than us. Seyss-Inquart has been isolated politically on the Central Committee. He will toe the party line so as to retain some relevance. As of now, Herr Vice Chancellor, Hitler’s allies have been scattered.”

“And your brother, Fräulein Olbrecht? He is still here in Vienna and will remain as such, being one of Linz’s representatives in the National Council. He has already begun to whip up a small group of Hitlerites in the Nationalrat into some form of sub-bloc. Most are from the Front, but a handful are from the CS. It is small and insignificant now, but I can’t risk alienating them now, not with the political weight their votes will have. Whenever Hitler returns, he will have a base of support to build upon.”

Margarete winced. Her relationship with Franz had been strained for years, but it had been all but ruined following her confrontation with Hitler at the Hold. Yet Franz had chosen the dark haired sergeant over family. What did the bastard have that instilled such loyalty in people? She didn’t understand it, and likely never would, but she knew the danger he presented to not only the Front but to Austria as well. The man practically was calling for rearmament in his speeches as Chief Propagandist! The Austro-Hungarian perished in the Great War. She feared what would happen to her beloved Austria if another were to erupt.

“Nonetheless, sir, no matter what Hitler does, or tries to attempt, he is for all intents and purposes cut off from his allies with a dispersed and disunited movement. The threat he posed to National Liberalism and to this government have been neutered. He’s broken.”

“Broken?” Gross looked out over the streets of Vienna, seeing people move about their business, a young woman pushing a stroller seemed to catch the Vice Chancellor’s attention, a look of sorrow crossing his face. “He’s not broken, Fräulein Olbrecht. Diminished, out-of-position, yes, but not broken.” Gross exhaled. “I fear that all we have done is delay what is to come, and we have done so by painting ourselves his foe. Hitler has a long memory and he never forgets slights, real or imagined.”

Margarete couldn’t help but cough to stifle a laugh that threatened to burst out. “Herr Vice Chancellor, I feel you are jumping at potential shadows.”

Gross smiled then, but it wasn’t kind. In fact, it was almost foreboding.

“You underestimate him, fräulein. The man is power hungry. I knew that when I had him co-create the Front with me. I felt the power he was given would tame that beast, would please him as he helped make the Front into the powerful political party it is now, but if anything I put blood in the water. He wants more. He wants,” Gross sighed, “All of it.” He turned back to Margarete. “And he might very well get it one day. I just pray that we do not find ourselves in his way when he gets there.”

Margarete smiled at the Vice Chancellor to disrupt such thoughts, but deep down she felt something stir in her, something she rarely felt in the increasingly cut-throat theatrics of Austrian politics.

Fear.​

+ + +

Berlin, Germany
German Reich
December 1923​

Paul Lutjens frowned at the prices before him. He stood before a food stall in a once-abandoned warehouse, the owners allowing an ad-box market to spring up for a portion of the revenue collected.

The prices were in the new Rentenmark currency, of which his job as a laborer had not yet switched over to, the construction firm still using the heaps of Papiermark that had been issued by the Reichsbank.

One loaf of bread was two Rentenmark, or two trillion Papiermark. He had twenty-six trillion of the hyperinflated Papiermark in his pocket in a wad of cash. But he had come here to buy more than bread. The man behind the baker’s stall, for this was cheap black bread and not the delicious loaves made in an actual bakery, looked unconcerned whether or not Lutjens purchased something. People needed bread and whether or not they liked the prices, they needed it for survival all the same.

Lutjens opened his mouth to barter and was able to settle on one point eight trillion for the bread rather than two trillion. He then proceeded through the food market, bartering for better prices and doing well on some, not so well on others.

In the end he left with a paper bag of groceries, some only days from spoiling, and with a mere thirty million Papiermark left in his pocket. The buying power of that thirty million was so low, it would almost certainly be used as toilet paper.

He walked to the bus stop and waited, shivering in the freezing temperatures of a northern German winter. Snow littered the ground in heaps, work crews working daily to clear the roads and rail lines of ice and snow. His apartment was across town and he simply had no energy to walk through the white-covered city after a long day working.

He was sweaty, dirty, and simply tired. It had been almost five years since he had arrived in Berlin from Austria. In that time he had worked a half-dozen odd jobs, helping his sister Anya and her three children survive. He had lived with them for three years, sleeping on their couch, and helping them survive everything from the Kapp Putsch to the hyperinflation. Anya was thankful for all he had done, yet once she had properly mourned her husband Horst’s death, she had begun to date once more.

She had met Heinz Yachmann, a Reichsmarine officer, at a local dance. The two quickly became smitten with one another and within a year they had married. They had moved to Wilhelmshaven not long after as Heinz Yachmann was an executive officer aboard one of Germany’s twelve destroyers still permitted by the Treaty of Versailles.

Lutjens often wondered if Anya married Yachmann because she was truly in love with him, or in love with the stability he offered. Either way, it didn’t matter. When Anya had left, she left behind the apartment she had shared with her family since before the Great War. Now, only he lived in it. And as hyperinflation worsened over 1923 he had been forced to put out flyers for a roommate to help pay the bills.

Thus far, none had signed on, for rent was to be delivered in specie, not increasingly worthless paper currency though with the Rentenmarknin circulation and proving stable - for now - he might very well change that requirement.

As the bus approached, he reached in his pocket to pull out the ten pfennig coin. Stepping up, he reached to place the coin in the slot when the driver raised his hand and pointed to the sign above the coin slot he hadn’t taken notice of.

Lutjens sighed. “Twenty pfennig?” he said exasperated. “What if I give you ten pfennig and ten million Papiermark.”

The driver shrugged. “That’s worse than useless. Sorry, but the rates have gone up. Company orders.”

“I understand,” Lutjens said bitterly, before leaving the bus, stepping into a half-melted pile of snow, feeling the slush sliding into his boots. He smothered a curse as he hopped out of the pile. It seemed he would walk home after all.

It took nearly an hour for him to cross the city. Even with the economy in shambles and the threat of violent revolution, both from the left and right, always under the surface, Berlin was still a bustling metropolis. The streets were crowded, the roads packed with vehicles honking and sputtering. The only difference than what it was like now compared to 1919 was that the piles of rubble from fighting between revolutionaries and government forces in March of that year had been swept away, the streets once again largely clean, though the amount of homeless continued to grow with each month. Every day the papers reported another homeless man, usually a veteran or a widow, who had frozen to death overnight. It was a sad state of affairs but the Weimar Republic simply didn’t have the financial reserves to support wide scale social spending.

Deciding to shave off some time from his trek home, he decided to cut through the Tiergarten. As he moved through the park, trying to stay warm as the mind became lost in the worries of life, a hand was brought up before his face and a sharp “Halt!” was uttered.

Looking up, Lutjens saw three policemen in greatcoats, seemingly on edge, stare at him with suspicion. Lutjens frowned.

“Yes?” he asked.

“What purpose do you have here?”

Lutjens gestured the way he was going. “My home is on the other side of the park. Taking a shortcut. Just trying to get there before I freeze to death.”

“What’s in the bag?” the lead officer demanded.

“Food,” he held out the sack of groceries. He had heard rumors of police taking food as a sort of ‘tax.’ Never a lot, but a few apples here, a loaf there. He half feared that was what was about to happen but the lead officer shook his head and voice softened.

“So you’re not here for the rally?”

“Rally?” Lutjens asked, confused, but in the distance he heard a man speaking over a speaker system, but it was just distorted enough he couldn’t hear it well enough to discern the words.

“Yes, some assembly of a bunch of right-wingers. You may proceed, sir. Just be careful out there. Some of the rally’s attendees are a bit… confrontational, shall we say.”

“Of course, officer. Thank you.” The officer nodded and moved aside to let him pass, the other two officers doing the same. Lutjens moved past them and walked down the park’s trail towards home, unsurprised that his feet carried him over to the edge of a large clearing in the Tiergarten. In the center was a solidly built wooden platform where about a score of men stood on, a podium in the middle where an aging man whose hair was all but gone finished up his speech to polite applause from the onlooking crowd of several thousand.

While it held a sizable attendance, especially for such cursed weather, Lutjens was about to move when he noticed men standing between the platform and the crowd. They were clothed in an unflattering brown color, but they appeared sharp looking and former military by their stance.

Lutjens tilted his head in thought. He had thought he had heard, or maybe read, of a Fascist paramilitary group that wore such a uniform, unimaginatively nicknamed the Brownshirts. But Lutjens remembered it being a largely Bavarian movement. Why then were what appeared to be a couple hundred of them doing in Berlin?

Another man took to the podium, dressed as a Brownshirt. He was a somewhat chunky man, powerfully built, with a bruiser’s face. He looked more akin to a brawler than a politician.

The man stepped forward and the Brownshirts, as if on cue, came to attention.

“Ladies and gentlemen, comrades all, I am glad to welcome this evening’s final speaker. Founding leader of the Northern National Alliance and the Kampfbund-Berlin, I present to you… Gregor Strasser!”

Another man raised his arm and waved at the cheering crowd, and began to shake hands with many of the men on the platform stage before moving to the podium. The Strasser fellow shook hands with the Brownshirt, the two even embracing one another for a moment but Lutjens was confident that it was purely for show.

As the two separated, the Brownshirt taking up position near Strasser, the final speaker began to speak.

“Welcome, friends, welcome! And thank you for being here tonight. I know it is cold, and I know it has been a tough year. But it has been a tough and cold year not only for you in Berlin, but for all of Germany. That is why we have gathered here today. For the past hour you have heard leading members of a dozen political parties discuss the need for a strong right-wing populist movement that can counter the aristocratic-conservative DNVP, the Socialist SPD, and above all the detested Communist that even now plague Berlin’s districts.”

The crowd cheered at that, polite applause with some undertone of shared disgust concerning the Communists.

“That is why, my friends, that after months of deliberation, I am proud to announce today that twenty-seven political parties and Völkisch movements have merged to form one United front to fend off the radical left and cast down the old system that has thus far only provided failure after failure to the German people.”

More cheering this time.

“Today you bear witness to the birth of the Free German Workers’ Defence League. And you have my promise as its Chairman that nothing, not the Judeo-Bolsheviks in Russia or the bastard French nor even the stuck-in-the-mud monarchists here at home will stop this movement of the people from seizing the reins of power it so rightfully deserves. There is only one way Germany can go and that is forward! Let us cast off these distractions, these parasites and vultures, and renew Germany with strong and able leadership that unites like-minded individuals from the north and south, east and west. We are one movement, one people, one Germany!”

Strasser looked out over the crowd, who seemed dazed by his words, but not alarmed.

“Sieg!” he yelled, right arm outstretched in the salute popularized by Italian Fascists.

“Heil!” shouted the Brownshirts in front of the platform, their arms shooting forward in sync. Lutjens stared horrified as nearly everyone in the crowd mirrored the motion and joined in on the chant.

“Sieg!”

“Heil!”

“Sieg!”

“Heil!”

“Sieg!”

“Heil!”​

 

[Tanner151]

Chapter Twenty-Eight
A Fresh Start
Aboard the Albanian ship Shans i Dyte
Somewhere in the Indian Ocean
January 1924​

Of all merchant ships the Austrian government could have contracted to carry its newest Ambassador to Japan, an Albanian merchant ship was an awkward choice considering the Austro-Hungarian Empire’s occupation of it during the war.

Yet what made it worse, as Hitler scowled looking out over the horizon of endless blue-gray ocean, was that though the ship was chartered with Albania, it was in fact a former Russian ship by the name of Pride of Crimea (Gordost' Kryma). The ship had fled Russia over three years ago following the collapse of Pyotr Wrangel’s White government in Crimea.

Now it sailed under the Albanian flag, though the crew was a mish-mash of largely Russian and Albanian, with a handful of other nationalities, many of whom had one reason or another to despise him and the nation he represented.

It was a calculated insult by the coalition government. It had to be. Hitler momentarily entertained that it might have been pure happenstance but leaving Vienna with as many high ranking enemies as he did, Hitler knew it was purposeful.

Not only did they not berth him on an ocean liner or private ship, they put him on a half-rusted merchant ship crewed by people that had only several years earlier had fought the Empire.

He would have laughed if it were not such a poignant reminder of what he had been forced to become by outside factors. An Ambassadorship was a great honor, even if it were to some Asian backwater such as Japan.

No. He closed his eyes. Japan was not a ‘backwater’ but it was not Germany, England, France, the United States or even Italy. Not a country of proper civilization at all. Yet Japan was an Asiatic Tiger. It was a country that had been ruthless in its exploits, aligning and breaking agreements on a whim to further its territorial and political expansionism… and one that had humbled Russia two decades ago. He could respect that, at the very least.

Hitler watched the ocean, feeling strange to be on a ship surrounded by water for kilometers in all directions. His thoughts, unsuccessfully, went to the Titanic. Even though circumstances were different, he could not shake the quiet fear of drowning.

He accepted he would die one day, either of old age or by assassination, but to die at sea, with nothing of note having been done for his beloved Austria was anathema to him. As a result he had spent much of the trip in his quarters, mulling over his new status.

Only Lieselotte has lightened his mood. She had brought meals to him, consoled him with vibrant discussion and tutored him over his grasp of Italian which remained, above all, atrocious. To thank her, he taught her some rudimentary Hungarian, using the German-to-Hungarian dictionary he had brought with him. He doubt he would ever be a masterful speaker of the Magyar tongue, but he could make himself understood after the years of study.

On the first night aboard ship the captain, a Russian by the name of Yuri Spestov, had invited him to dine as per common courtesy. Yet Hitler had declined, claiming motion sickness from the uncommonly rough winter waters of the Adriatic Sea.

It was a weak lie but Spestov had accepted it. Hitler scowl morphed into a frown. Spestov had seemed polite, and thankfully many amongst the crew seemed to have left Russia out of spite, and fear, of Lenin and Communism. Of that, Hitler shared with them fervently.

Four years however…for four years he had fought the Ivan during the Great War. He could not simply forget that. He had shed blood against the Russians, and lost friends and comrades to their guns. He could not, he would not, forget. It would take some time to adjust.

A knock on the door leading to the deck where he stood disturbed his thoughts.

“Yes?” he said, turning to look. His secretary opened the hatch door and walked to stand beside him, leaving it half-closed but open enough for Hitler to see a shipmate leaning lazily against the interior bulkhead.

“Your Excellency,” Lieselotte’s near-husky voice was undeniably attractive but her use of his formal address made him raise his eyebrow at her. She gave a small smile. “Captain Spestov would like to formally invite you to dine with him this evening.”

He opened his mouth to refuse but stopped. If he was to be on this rust bucket excuse of a ship, the very least he could do was become friendly with the crew. Besides he needed to do more than brood in his cabin or walk about the deck wishing to set foot on land.

“Very well.” Hitler looked past her to the shipmate. “Tell your captain I will dine with him.”

“He does not speak German, Your Excellency,” his secretary whispered.

“Ah. Then how did you-?”

The man spoke in what Hitler knew to be Italian. Lieselotte responded in his stead, sparing Hitler the attempt that would have only been embarrassing.

When the crewmen left, he glanced at Lieselotte.
“The captain, he speaks German?”

“He speaks with a thick accent but yes, he is fluent enough in German.”

“Good. I will get ready then.”

+ + +​

Lieselotte Aigner tidied up the Ambassador’s cabin while he was away at dinner with Captain Spestov. The man was a visionary, but what he made up for in natural charisma and oratory skill, he clearly lacked in maintaining fastidious quarters.

She did not mind. She had always enjoyed cleaning. Never the mess, but the removal of it. Putting things back to the way they deserved to be… that was a comfort, something she could control. And control over something was a crutch she had leaned on heavily since word of her brothers and father’s deaths had reached her in the final months of the war. It had been a difficult time. The loss had broken her mother, and it wrenched at Lieselotte’s heart to see such a strong and proud woman laid so low in spirit.

Matters only became worse when Martha Aigner became sick with the Spanish Flu not long after. As she wasted away, her daughter had never felt so helpless and hollow. Once she had buried her mother, Lieselotte was determined to survive, one way or another.

Ironically enough after she arrived to Vienna she became a fervent nationalist. The capital was a city rife with political posturing and ideological street battles in which many seemingly ignored, or worse forgot all those lost in the war, yet it was also alive. Alive with purpose, with energy, and beliefs. It did not take long for her to be attracted to National Liberalism. The NLF declared things she wanted to hear. A strong economy, pro-Austrian business, creation of a distinct Austrian identity to rival that of the Germans, and the return of the Fatherland to that of a Great Power. She wanted those things so as to show that her brothers and father did not die for naught. That fighting and dying for Austria had not been a waste, but rather a patriotic duty.

When she joined the Front, her knowledge of language and secretarial skills earned her a spot at the Hold. As she was in the beating heart of of the party, she felt some of her fervent nationalism… dim as she witnessed political in-fighting and men jockeying for personal power rather than setting their sites on the issues at hand.

It was at some Central Committee meeting that things began to change once more. There she finally met someone who matched the ideals so desperately prayed for by thousands in Austria. The woman who typically took the meeting’s minutes was out sick so Lieselotte was brought in to do so that day.

They had been discussing some matter of doubtless import to them. She recalled being in-and-out, paying just enough attention to write the information down but not enough to process it with care as she had concluded much of what they did was pointless drivel.

Then Adolf Hitler began to speak, countering a point another Committee member had made. He was gruff, blunt, filled with a self-righteous anger, and aggressive in stature but also confident, charming in a way with boundless charisma and unrelenting focus.

It had sparked her interest. His drive, persona and faith in Austria stirred something within her, calling her to aid this man onto whatever path God had set out for him.

With her faith in the Front weakened from its in-fighting she turned all her efforts to this dark haired man. He had a magnetism about him that drew her to him like a moth to the light. It had happened to others as well, a small but loyal group forming around the former Stabsfeldwebel.

Hitler, or Adi as he kept telling her to call him when not in the company of others, did not care for this venture to East Asia, seeing it as a waste of time and away from his power base. Lieselotte nonetheless saw it in a more positive light. While he wasn’t in Vienna, he would be largely left to his own devices in Japan. Valuable governmental experience, establishing a relation with foreign officials. Yes there were negatives, but there were also a host of positives.

Finishing, she purviewed the room before nodding in satisfaction. Hitler had been at dinner for over an hour, which showed a successful meeting between him and the Russian captain. Maybe it would help reconcile Hitler towards Russians as a whole, she thought. The Russian people weren’t their enemy, their governments were.

Not knowing when he would return, Lieselotte decided to go to the upper deck and watch the ocean waves. Arriving outside railing she noted the water was rougher than it had been earlier that day, the sky a dark gray of a burgeoning storm. The ocean before was a deadly mistress, a sight to behold for a young woman from Bludenz who had never seen the ocean until she boarded Shans i Dyte a few weeks ago.

She stood there for perhaps an hour, feeling the wind pick up, churning the water. Overhead lightning flashed and thunder roared in the heavens. Rain began to spatter down, first as a few isolated droplets but as the minutes went by it picked up in tempo, the rain beginning to become a torrent.

She was sheltered from much of the rain by an overhead metal sheet but she was starting to get pelted by the cold droplets blown her way by wayward winds. Sighing, she turned to return to the warm, and dry, cabin of hers.

Yet a man stood in her way, blocking the hatch that led inside.

“Oh, um, hello,” she said in German. The man didn’t say anything. She said ‘hello’ in Italian, French and Spanish to no avail.

The man just stood there, smoking a cigarette. The only light coming from it, the nearby light flickering on and off. She swallowed nervously.

The man said something though in a language she did not recognize. Lieselotte began to move slowly towards the next hatch. But the man reached out without hesitation and grabbed her. She cried out but the storm drowned it.

The man hauled her towards him, and she could smell the cigarette smoke on his clothing and the alcohol on his breath. His eyes were dark and hooded, face sallow and grim. He leaned towards her and spoke in heavily accented German.

“Austrian bitch.” He pulled out a knife, the blade catching the flickering light and the blue-white arcs of lightning above. Lieselotte began to cry, tears streaming down her face, but lost in the puddles of rain.

He threw her against the wall, slamming face first into the metal, stunning her, and she cried out in pain. Her head throbbed as he put the knife to her throat with one hand, while with the other occupied itself groping her then hiking up her rain-damped dress.

Lieselotte found herself frozen, unable to act as the knife continued to press against her throat. Was this how she was to die? Raped and killed, her body tossed overboard?


It wasn’t fair. She hadn’t worked this hard and endured so much to suffer such a fate. As she became more and more angry she mentally prepared herself. She would kick him in the groin and try to escape, calling for help and attempt to find Adi.

But she would die. She could already feel a minor cut on her neck, blood dripping down to her breasts. He would kill her before she got too far. But… at least she would die on her own terms. Taking a deep and somewhat calm breath, she felt herself become emotionally still. She controlled her destiny, no one else. If she was to die, better a quick murder than a brutal rape and whatever would follow.

As she made up her mind, a thunderclap seared through the air and she felt wetness hit her from behind. The hand holding the knife went limp and she immediately moved away from it, hand reaching up to touch the gash on her neck.

Panicked and confused, she turned and saw Adi, standing there with a gun in hand with Spestov and the man she knew to be his first mate standing behind Hitler, both appearing concerned and curious.

Hitler moved to her, pulling out a handkerchief and applied it to her neck as if it were a military field dressing. Lieselotte glanced at the man who tried to rape her. He lied on the metal floor, blood gushing out of the hole in his skull. Rainwater carried the blood outwards over the railing to fall into the ocean below.

Spestov moved over to check the dead man. They had flashlights in hand and she could see the Russian captain’s face. He turned and spoke to his first mate.

“Arridhaois.” The first mate spat on the corpse in response. Spestov turned toward Hitler, who Lieselotte noticed had not put away his pistol and was staring accusingly at the two Russians.

“Herr Hitler, I want to stress that this creature,” he gestured at the dead man, the so-named Arridhaois, “acted alone and does not represent myself or this crew. He was hired three months ago, a man with a criminal record from Macedonia. I was going to fire him on our return to Europe.”

Hitler glared. “You knowingly hired a criminal? This is outrageous. He could have killed Liese!”

Spestov raised his hands in calming deference.

“A thousand apologies, Herr Ambassador. You may lodge a complaint with my firm when we next make port. The man was a self-serving parasite and for my failure to keep an eye on him you have my deepest apologies.”

Hitler stiffened but Lieselotte touched his arm. She felt his tension lessen.

“I… accept your apology, Mikhail.” Hitler sighed. “I place no fault on you or your company.” Hitler looked at the corpse. “Sometimes mistakes are made and I won’t hold that against you.”

Lieselotte was thankful for the poor lighting so no one could clearly see her shocked face. Adi was being kind and understanding to a Russian. She had only known Adolf Hitler for a couple of months but his detestment of Russia was well-known within the Front. It seemed dinner had been a very good idea indeed, helping mend any mistrust on Hitler’s part of Spestov being a Russian, after all Lieselotte thought, the man was an ardent anti-Communist which doubtlessly appealed to Hitler.

“How do we explain the body to your crew? It won’t bode well for my diplomatic career to have killed a man on a foreign vessel. Word of it will spread before the reason why it happened will.”

“Killed a man, Herr Hitler?” Spestov adopted a toothy grin. “No such thing happened. Though once we reach port I will have to inform my superiors in Albania that Crewmate Arridhaois was walking the deck drunk during this stormy weather and fell over the railing. Isn’t that right, Ivan?”

The first mate also spoke German and joined in quickly. “Yes, terrible shame. I saw him fall over myself. Being lost in the ocean at night when we wouldn’t be able to find him in such violent weather. A tragedy to be sure.”

Lightning flashed and Lieselotte saw Hitler’s face. It was pleased, relieved, and conspiratorial.

“Thank you, my friends.” Hitler holstered his pistol and shook their hands. “Now, let’s make our fiction a reality. Grab his legs, Mikhail, I’ll get his arms.”

Bruneck, South Tyrol
Kingdom of Italy
January 1924​

The shovel bit deep into the cold-hardened earth. It was followed by two others who mirrored the act into the rich and frozen Tyrolese soil. A dozen men stood there beneath a tree while several more kept watch farther out on any who might witness their activities.

Three were shoveling snow and dirt as three more waited their turn when their comrades grew tired. All were armed with pistols and knives. Laid up against the tree trunk were two score rifles wrapped in waterproof material.

Jakob Kuhr kept watch, eyes scanning over the moon-kissed hillside. Nothing moved but the trees and brush in the wind. If there were Italians out there, they were being very quiet. Or they could be waiting for the guns to be buried and then attack.

Kuhr turned back and looked at the hole his men had been digging for over an hour. It now reached about two meters into the ground, about as wide as man holding out his arms to either side.

“That’s deep enough. Grab the guns and put them down there. Hurry.”

The now wrapped, watertight rifles were placed carefully in the ground alongside several boxes of ammunition, a handful of grenades, and even three FIAT Mod. 1915 submachine guns local sympathizers had been able to get their hands on, alongside a couple of magazine clips for each. They had handed the guns to Kuhr and his men not long after he arrived, feeling he could do the most good with them due to his military background.

Eventually the weapons had been stored and the hole filled with dirt. Rocks and tree branches were laid across the offer more camouflage to better cover the disturbed earth. Kuhr looked in the gray sky and thoroughly hoped it would snow tonight.

He had arrived in South Tyrol only a week ago, moving slowly through the countryside on foot with the men Hitler had assigned him. All were Wolves, most South Tyrolese, and all committed to carrying out Hitler’s orders to the letter. After all, the Commander had earned their trust and loyalty. If South Tyrol was to ever rejoin Austria, it would be Hitler’s doing. And they must aid in that endeavor.

Admittedly, a train would have been far quicker but if twenty armed Austrians, all of whom had been part of a militant paramilitary organization that had partook in armed resistance against a foreign power, had been caught with guns leaving Austria and entering Italian-controlled territory, it would have caused a major diplomatic incident. His beloved Austria could not fight a war, not in its dilapidated state. Especially not against a former Entente nation. Austria’s military actions in Carinthia had been tolerated, barely, but that had more to do with Yugoslavian aggression than anything else.

As they trudged through the snow, Kuhr reflected on matters. It had taken longer than he would have liked to establish contacts with nationalist locals but he was able to eventually, placing his men throughout Bruneck to live with true patriots. As part of their cover, each Wolf was to find employment, make it appear that they were a peaceful and contributing member of society. For now, they waited for the appropriate time.

Many detested Italy’s control over Austrian land and would act friendly towards the Wolves. In time they would join the burgeoning resistance Kuhr was told to make. The weapons they buried were for when local acts of sabotage and boycotting evolved into armed resistance. It would take time but the moment would come. For the Black Wolf had commanded it so.

Berlin, Germany
German Reich
January 1924​

Snow fell in droves outside. Lutjens huddled in his apartment, covered with blankets and wearing several layers of clothes to try and stay warm. He sat close to the heater which was set on low. The end of the month was fast approaching and he barely had enough money to pay the rent, let alone the utilities.

He was desperate. He might have enough money for now, but unless something changed, he would be unable to pay the next month and then he would be evicted. Paul Lutjens would just be one more homeless man with no money, living and dying on the streets. There were many out there. Everyday the police found new frostbitten corpses with nothing to their name but old coats and torn rags.

Lutjens shuddered in the miserable cold, his breath fogging in the air.

“Ah, damn it all to hell.” He turned the heater up a notch. He could afford that. Most likely. “If I die and go to Hell, at least it’ll be warm,” he muttered.

To keep his mind clear, he grabbed the newspaper to read. It was picked up that morning when he walked back from his construction job, who had notified him and thirty others to ‘take the day.’ It was a more polite way of saying ‘not enough work, go home without pay.’ He’d rather be out working in the cold, earning something rather than sitting here freezing his ass off, nothing left but poor quality food and chilled misery.

Reading the paper, Lutjens frowned. Things could be worse, he admitted as he scanned the paper.

The headline was ‘Upheaval in Bavaria!’ Reading through the several page article, Lutjens shook his head.

It seemed the newly formed fascist Free German Workers’ Defense League was flexing its muscles in Bavaria. The FDAS was liberally using its Brownshirts, the SA, in squashing political opponents not only in northern Germany but also in southern Germany, particularly in major cities. The SA, having been founded in Bavaria, were not an unknown sight but the past few weeks had seen an increase in their antagonistic activities. Their propaganda campaigning was noticeably more coherent and, as a result, more effective.

The paper described the most recent attack by the SA on a Bavarian People’s Party rally in Munich. While not uncommon, this one left seven people dead and over sixty wounded. This led to much rioting by far-left and far-right elements, some in protest of the FDAS, others in support.

Gustav Ritter von Kahr, recently elevated to Staatskommissar (State Commissioner) by Minister-President Eugen von Knilling to restore stability to the state, used his dictatorial powers to mobilize the Bavarian State Police. Von Kahr used them ruthlessly to crush the rioters and protect vital infrastructure from any form of vandalism or sabotage.

Elements of the Reichswehr under the command of General von Lossow were aiding the local authorities, much to the chagrin of ranking Reichswehr officials in Berlin, or so stated the writer who authored the article.

The tactics used by the SA reminded Lutjens of what he read about methods the Heimatschutz and Hitler’s Wolves used back home. It shouldn’t have been this way, he concluded. The Great War was supposed to end all wars, but all it seemed to do was lay the foundations for future conflicts.

Lutjens sighed.

He wished his friend well, and was glad that Hitler seemed to be rising up in government, but knew that trying to convince Adolf Hitler to accept the status quo was like trying to wrestle a hungry lion.

According to Hitler’s last letter, he was leaving for Japan and it would be several months until the next one. Lutjens was glad that they still corresponded, that final link to his time in the Landwehr. It felt like a lifetime ago. On occasion he had wished he had gone to Carinthia with Hitler and his paramilitary. But he didn’t. He chose another path.

He had come to Berlin to take care of his sister and her family, and he did so until she remarried and moved away, leaving him a two bedroom apartment he could barely afford. From time to time, Lutjens contemplated returning to the Austrian Vaterland, but the appeal always faded. There was nothing left for him there.

All Lutjens wanted anymore was peace. Four years of hell was enough for him. Peace… and some heat. He hesitantly reached for the heater but stopped when a knock sounded from the door.

Frowning, he stood and moved to the door, blankets still bundled around him. He cracked it open.

“Yes?” he asked, voice hoarse from disuse.

A very short woman with blonde hair and brown eyes looked in at him. “Hallo,” the woman shivered. “Jesus, it’s colder in there than outside.” She shrugged. “Are you Paul Lutjens?”

“Yes,” he said, bemused. “And you are?”

“Ursula Winkler.” The woman handed him a piece of paper. “I saw your notice needing a roommate. If you’ll have me, here I am.”

“A woman?” He glanced at the paper, indeed seeing the flyer he had posted around the neighborhood. “We don’t know each other. It wouldn’t be proper.”

Ursula rolled her eyes. “If you hadn’t noticed, Paul Lutjens, the year is 1924, not 1824. Don’t act like such an old woman about propriety. I cannot stand such nonsense.”

Lutjens raised an eyebrow, surprised by her directness. “Can you pay?”

“Yes. I have a steady job. I’ll never get rich off of it, but it is consistent.”

“Paper or specie?”

“A mix, but usually specie, sometimes food too.”

“What do you do?”

Ursula gave him a look. “That’s for me to know and you to mind your own business”

“Fair enough.” Likely a prostitute or some erotic dancer, he thought. They were common enough in Berlin. “When can you move in?”

“Now.” She pushed open the door with one hand, the other holding a suitcase, Lutjens stepped back to grant her access.

“Which one-“

“There,” he tilted his head at the empty bedroom on the other side. She moved and glanced in.

“This’ll do,” she said, sounding pleased. She went back out into the hall and hauled in two more suitcases and a shoulder bag. “Here,” she handed him an envelope. In it was nearly a half-billion Papiermark.

Lutjens breathed a sigh of relief as he saw it.

Ursula hauled her stuff to her room, Lutjens offered to help but the woman quickly declined. “I’ll pay you at the end of every month. Next time it’ll be half specie, half Papiermark.”

“That’s fine.”

Ursula finished bringing her things to her room, leaving it half-open, and promptly began unpacking. Lutjens sagged with relief as walked back to the heater and turned it up higher than it had been in weeks. Though he now lived with a complete stranger who all but invited herself, at least the apartment would be warm again,

And at the end of the day, that was all that mattered.

 

[Tanner151]

Chapter Twenty-Nine
Herr Ambassador

Port of Funchal, Madeira
Republic of Portugal
January 1924​

Garth Culpepper stepped off the cruise vessel, one man among hundreds. Behind him an American couple oohed and ahed at the sight before them, and Culpepper had to admit it was quite beautiful. The city of Funchal ascended up the gently sloping hill.

Almost as if in spite of winter, the city was void of ice and snow, and had a very fair temperature as if it were a Mediterranean island during spring. It was a far cry from cold and windy England, that was to be sure.

After passing through port security, he moved from the docks towards the city proper. He had a busy day scheduled but he couldn’t very well do it on an empty stomach.

Stopping outside a cafe he chose at random, he sat down at one of the exterior tables and ordered a light breakfast with some tea. The food came out hot, the tea steaming, and the staff was friendly and attentive.

Halfway through his meal a man in a dark suit sat down uninvited. But Culpepper wasn’t alarmed, he had expected such.

“And to think, I was having such a nice day.”

The man in the suit, who sported a pencil thin mustache and had far too much oil in his hair, frowned at him.

“Senhor, what is your business here?” The man’s Portuguese accent was pronounced but his English was quite good.

“And why should I answer that?” Culpepper retorted, cutting up his remaining sausage and taking a bite.

“My government would very much like to know.”

Culpepper took his time finishing his plate. If the man was rude enough to interrupt an Englishman’s breakfast, he could bloody well wait for him to finish.

The Portuguese official waited with growing impatience until Culpepper finally finished. Clearing his throat, he directed his attention back to the man.

“And might I ask your name, sir?”

The Portuguese man was silent for a moment but shrugged and leaned forward. “Tiago Ferreira.”

“And tell me, Mister Ferreira, do you work with your government’s Foreign Ministry or perhaps another, more clandestine group?”

Ferreira’s carefully maintained nonexpression was answer enough. Interesting. Culpepper would report that to his superiors back home.

“I could ask the same of you, Mister…”

“Breckenfield. Alistair Breckenfield.”

It was, technically, not a lie. His passport did bear that name and his photo, carefully made by the SIS, was legitimate with falsified birth and dental records carefully crafted back in England. It was one of a half-dozen aliases Culpepper used.

Quex was nothing if not thorough.

Ferreira's face tightened. Mayhaps he knew that Breckenfield was a cover but less than a dozen people in the whole world knew Culpepper’s real identity.

“And where will you spend your stay on this lovely island?”

“I’ll be gone by nightfall, don’t you worry. I’m just going to go visit an old chap of mine.”

“I see.” Ferreira stood, flicking off non-existent dust on his cuff. “Mister Breckenfield, it would be of paramount importance to my government if yours would notify us that they were sending a spy to one of our islands. It is, after all, a common courtesy. I wouldn’t want our nations’ special relationship to become strained.

“Have no fear, Mister Ferreira! Portugal and the United Kingdom will remain close as ever. I am here merely to keep an eye on…”

“Your old chap?”

He raised his cup of tea in salute. “Precisely.”

Ferreira nodded. “Very well.” He stuck his hand out. “Até mais.”

“Até mais, good sir.” Culpepper grasped it and gave it a firm shake.

The Portuguese man left. Annoyed, Culpepper paid the bill, leaving a nice tip. After all, it wasn’t his money but rather His Majesty’s Exchequer.

Standing, he grabbed his briefcase and made his way to one of the nearby taxi cabs, choosing one at random. The cabby was leaning on his Ford Model T when he walked up to him, handing him a five pound bill.

“You’ll get five more when you drop me off,” Culpepper’s Portuguese was more than passable. His German, Italian, and Arabic were far better.

The man smiled toothily, taking off his cap in respect.

“Thank you, sir! Thank you!”

“Let’s go.”

Culpepper waited with patience as the man opened the door for him. Settling in, he gave his instructions. The Model T merged into traffic, weaving and darting into open spaces with the madness of any other taxi driver from Iberia.

It took a little over a half hour for the American-built car to pull up to the gates of Quinta do Monte. A servant opened the gates, queried them, but once Culpepper told them who he was and who he represented he was quickly whisked inside.

“Sit here, please, Mister Breckenfield,” said the majordomo, offering a cushioned chair in the annex. “Would you like some refreshment, sir?”

“Yea, Earl Grey if you have any.”

“But of course, sir.”

The majordomo withdrew and Culpepper admired the interior of Quinta do Monte. It was well-furnished, comfortable, and obviously had an aristocratic woman’s touch, but compared to where his host had come from it must have seemed absolutely impoverished.

A few moments later Culpepper heard footsteps and the clattering of silverware. He turned to thank the majordomo and froze when he saw the man bearing the tea and pastries.

Karl Franz Josef Ludwig Hubert Georg Otto Maria, Patriarch of the House of Hapsburg-Lorraine, and Emperor of the once mighty Austro-Hungary set the tray on a nearby table and poured tea into two separate cups.

“Sugar?” He asked politely.

“No thank you, Your Majesty.”

Karl I Hapsburg simply nodded and dropped two cubes of sugar into his tea, stirring it softly, before settling down into the chair opposite Culpepper.

“So, you’ve come to make sure I’ve been a good boy?”

“In a manner of speaking, Your Majesty. As per agreement with the Council of Allied Powers, you are to be subject to periodically random interviews and inspection by a representative of His Majesty’s government, with unhindered access to your communications log, both mail and telegraph, as well as unbarred access to your financial ledgers.”

Karl gave a humorless smile. “This is quite insulting, you know. To be reviewed and analyzed like some kind of product.” Karl’s fingers clutched a rosary, fingers running over the beads as the former Emperor-King lamented the state he and his family found themselves in.

“Insulting or not, Your Majesty, you were on the losing side. Many in Austria blames you for the war’s continuation-“

“I tried to end the damn thing in 1917!” Karl interrupted. “The war was a fool’s errand and did nothing but dissolve an already fragile empire.”

“Regardless of the facts, Your Majesty, the people of your country as a whole viewed the monarchy with distaste. Your Majesty, you are not even allowed to set foot in the land of your birth. Your children may, if they were to renounce all claim to the vacant throne.”

“It is their right by God to have those titles. God is with me, Mister Breckenfield. I may have tried twice to resume my rightful place on the Hungarian throne, but failed only due to Allied intervention. My people need me, sir. And as the old adage goes, ‘third time's the charm.’”

Culpepper winced. “Your Majesty, it is the policy of my government to not allow that to happen. You yourself may be a good and godly man, but it cannot be denied that you were in fact head of state of a nation that helped perpetuate the deadliest conflict in human history.”

Culpepper sipped the cooling tea to collect his thoughts.

“Your Majesty, before I go through any and all records you have on this estate, I must first ask you directly: have you had any contact with any pro-monarchist factions within former imperial lands?”

Karl’s face morphed as if he had bitten a sour lemon. “Other than kind condolences from supporters that I survived pneumonia nearly two years ago, I have heard nothing since I arrived in Madeira. This island is such a gilded prison. I wonder if this is what Napoleon experienced on Elba?”

Culpepper leaned forward. “Remember Napoleon’s ultimate fate, Your Majesty. A gilded prison is better than a cold grave. You would do well to keep that in mind.”

Karl Hapsburg tilted his head slightly in what might have been a nod.

“Very well. Now if you would show me your logbooks and ledgers, Your Majesty. The faster I finish the sooner I can be out of your way.”

Moscow, Russia
Union of Soviet Socialist Republics
January 1924​

Andrei Fyodorrovich Kolganov rarely thought of himself as Fyodor Stefannovich Petrovnik anymore. He had lived as his adopted persona for so long that memories of his previous life as a spoiled minor nobleman in southern Russia seemed a dream from another life.

He had killed his father, the Bastard Baron as he thought of him nowadays, and had escaped his home’s destruction. Joining the Communist movement fully under the tutelage of the cell leader known only as the Bull, he had advanced steadily, and his commitment to the Revolution never wavering.

The years since the Bull’s death had been hard but Fyodor’s rise in the Communist Party had taken a near meteoric rise. Now at the age of thirty-one he held much trust and high standing in the Joint State Political Directorate (OGPU), the much reformed and expanded secret police than what had been the Cheka years prior.

Not only was he a powerful commissar, he was also one of two adjutants to the Deputy Director of the OGPU, Josef Stalin, Lenin’s Man of Steel. Whereas Stalin was the enactor of policies decided upon by Director Felix Dzerzhinsky, Kolganov and his fellow commissar Davydov were Stalin’s enforcers.

Admittedly it was bloody and oftentimes thankless work, but it ensured that every death ordered and carried out was but a martyr’s stone in the foundation towards the paradise the Soviet workers and peasants marched so fervently towards. Sacrifices had to be made to safeguard Communism in Russia. This had been stressed by both the Bull and Stalin.

Fyodor was working in the annex leading to Stalin’s office in the Kremlin, across him was the Deputy Director’s personal secretary, Ivan Tovstukha. Both were working through the mountains of paperwork that were the true life blood of governance.

Though the OGPU kept itself concerned predominantly with interior affairs of the Soviet Union, Fyodor was reading a report by Soviet agent Richard Sorge. In it Sorge described an up-and-coming speaker in the German Communist Party, whose propagandist talents were winning significant sway amongst the workers in the industry-heavy North Rhine-Westphalia.

Sorge mentioned that the speaker was a man of talent and recommended that the Soviets should ‘encourage’ the KPD’s Central Committee to bring in the speaker to better advance the Communist cause amongst the masses as whenever the man spoke, people listened.

Attached to the report was a photo of the speaker and a woman, he in his best suit and her in a white bridal dress, though obviously pregnant. She was smiling, while the man looked almost solemn. To Fyodor’s eyes, the man was almost ghoulish in appearance, with a large forehead and ears, and a rat-like face, but even through the photo he could sense the man’s intensity. On the back of the photo was written some text by Sorge.

Dr. Paul Joseph Goebbels and wife Else Goebbels, née Janke. Rheydt, Germany, October 1923.

The door to the annex opened and Sergei Mikhailovich Davydov, OGPU Commissar and the man who had saved Fyodor’s life in Kresty Prison at the start of the Revolution, walked in, seemingly harried. Fyodor dropped the photo onto the report and half-stood.

“Is the Boss in?” Davydov asked, moving swiftly to the double doors that led to Stalin’s office.

“Yes, he is. What’s going on, Sergei?” Fyodor called out.

His fellow enforcer stopped at the door to Stalin’s office and turned back to Fyodor and Tovstukha. There was a look of uncertainty, of fear even, on the typically cold and impassive face of Commissar Davydov.

“Lenin is dead.”

Tokyo Bay, Japan
Empire of Japan
February 1924​

The small cutter skipped across Tokyo Bay, lurching as it did so. Adolf Hitler swallowed sour bile and tried to look composed, despite having a thunderous headache thanks to the go away party thrown by the crew of Shans i Dyte the night before. Ever since the oh so tragic death of Crewmate Arridhaois, Hitler’s and Lieselotte’s relations with the crew improved by leaps and bounds.

Furthermore, while in port in Singapore, word reached them of Vladimir Lenin’s death. While Soviet radio lamented the loss of Lenin, reporting the widespread weeping of millions of workers and peasants across the USSR, the crew of Shans i Dyte had celebrated, the Russians more so than anyone else.

It was during that night in Singapore that Hitler had taken Lieselotte out for dinner. Not as a boss would his secretary, but rather a man taking out a woman he had feelings for in a night out on the town.

Despite some private reservations about the whole thing, he found Lieselotte charming, intelligent and above all someone who shared a vision of a strong Austria. He had been hesitant that a romantic relationship would have distracted him, his drive towards what he knew had to be done, but instead he had found someone who he could envision as a partner.

Their relationship was still in its early stages, barely past the first tentative step, yet it did bring a smile to his face.

A smile quickly removed by another violent lurch. Hitler bit the inside of his cheek to prevent himself from throwing up everywhere.

The cutter flew the Japanese red sun on white field. The crew was cordial, with its commander conversational in German, but had left Hitler and Lieselotte alone. Behind them, further into the Bay, sailed the Shans i Dyte which made way to its designated port to unload its remaining cargo and to take on fresh cargo for the trip back west to Europe.

After several more minutes, the small boat docked, coming to a rest alongside a pier. Hitler led the way off once the ship was secured. And what he found waiting for him was a disappointment, to say the least.

He had expected a welcome party, perhaps several Japanese military officers or government officials to be in attendance to welcome the newest foreign ambassador to their country, yet all that awaited him was a sole man in a business suit.

Hitler covered up what he knew was a irked frown by turning and aiding Lieselotte out of the cutter. Turning back, he moved with purpose towards the man. Behind him he heard Lieselotte direct the crew into gathering their luggage.

Hitler stepped up to the dirty blond-haired man. A casual look told Hitler much. The man was young, possibly twenty-five or so, yet had the bearing of a soldier.

“Herr Ambassador,” the man stuck out his hand, “an honor to meet you, sir.” Hitler took the preferred hand and he was surprised by the man’s firm grip which he returned in kind. The man seemed to appreciate that with an approving nod before releasing his hand.

“Thank you…”

“Konrad Leichtenberg, sir. I was part of the advance team sent last year to reestablish our embassy here in Tokyo. I’ve been appointed the embassy’s First Secretary.”

“I see,” Hitler replied neutrally. He looked around the dock, still seeing no reception beyond Leichtenberg. A few Japanese onlookers watched with mild interest while two men nearby were writing furiously in their notepads, cameras around their necks.

Leichtenberg saw them too. “Local newspapers, Herr Ambassador. It is not everyday they get to witness a former enemy nation reestablish full diplomatic relations.”

“I see,” Hitler repeated. Lieselotte moved up to stand next to him, three Japanese men from the cutter walked by hauling their luggage towards a parked car sporting the Austrian flag. “Herr Leichtenberg, this is my personal secretary, Lieselotte Aigner.”

Leichtenberg clicked his heels together. “Ma’am,” he said bowing slightly. “If you would follow me, please, Herr Ambassador, Frau Aigner.” Leichtenberg gestured towards the parked car.

“Lead the way, Herr Leichtenberg.”

“Jawohl, mein Herr.”

Hitler looked at his secretary. “Shall we?”

“We shall,” she said with utmost certainty, ready to get to work.

The two walked towards and entered the car. The luggage was stowed in the rear compartment and the cutter crewmates withdrew back to their ship.

Leichtenberg was in the driver’s seat. He looked back at them, seeing them settled, and started the car, putting it into gear and drove off, masterfully weaving into traffic and smoothly changing gears as he accelerated away.

Hitler got his first good look at Tokyo. It was strange. It seemed to be a city of conflictions. Much of it was built in traditional Japanese architecture, most of which was wooden, though some buildings were of stone, glass and metal, while only a fraction of those were built in Western designs. The automotive traffic was full of cars from a half-dozen nations, honking and nearly crashing into one another.

“Seems people drive crazy in every country,” Lieselotte muttered. Her hand clenched as there was a near miss from a reckless driver, who poked his head out and shouted in Japanese, shaking his fist maddeningly.

Hitler grabbed her hand, giving it a comfortable squeeze, before letting go. He noticed Leichtenberg’s watchful eyes in the rear view mirror.

Observant that one, he thought of his new ambassadorial First Secretary, effectively the number two at the embassy.

As they drove towards the embassy, Leichtenberg seemed to want to explain the recent history of it.

“During the war, our embassy was shut down by Japanese authorities. The Austro-Hungarian ambassador was allowed to return home but diplomatic engagements with our country were severed for the war’s duration. Since the war’s end we have been warming the Japanese up for our official return, finally arriving here last year to begin laying the groundwork for a resumption of full ambassadorial services.”

He took the car into a left turn and proceeded down a slightly less crowded street. “We’ll be in Tsukiji District in a few minutes. It’s a sort of hotspot for us ‘round eyed foreigners.’ Several other embassies are located there, as are some European and American businesses.”

The car drove past a block where half the buildings were in various states of disrepair. Two of which were fully demolished, only their foundations remaining.

“This part of the city was hit hard by the Great Kantō Earthquake five months ago. Even now repairs are still underway. Our old structure was heavily damaged. But as a result, our embassy was rebuilt almost entirely brand new.”

He flashed them a winning grin which Hitler found himself mirroring and nodded politely in response.

Within moments they pulled up to a gated building off the busy street. Part of it was three stories tall while a majority of it appeared two stories. It was a uniform orangish-brown color. Overall, it was undeniably bland, unimpressive.

Yet it had become home for the foreseeable future.

The gate was closed as the car pulled up. A guard in Bundesheer gray walked up to the car, rifle held across at the ready.

“Papiere, bitte.”

Leichtenberg handed the soldier his papers who methodically inspected Leichtenberg’s identification, then did the same for Hitler and Lieselotte. After confirming their identities, the soldier stepped back and came to attention.

This was a signal for another guard inside the embassy grounds to open the gate to the side, allowing the vehicle entry. The soldier on the inside of the gate held a submachine gun spun over his shoulder.

“A lot of firepower for an embassy,” Hitler remarked.

“An unfortunate necessity, Herr Ambassador. There have been several incidents in Japan as of late.” The car was parked in the front of the embassy where two soldiers stood. One of the soldiers opened Hitler’s door for him and came to attention.

Hitler exited the vehicle, Leichtenberg and Lieselotte following. The other door guard opened the embassy doors and Hitler walked into a well built, albeit fairly spartan building. Staircases led up into the next storey. The only items on the wall were countryside paintings of Austria, an occasional flag of the republic, and the state portrait of President Hainisch.

Leichtenberg led them upstairs and down a hallway. About a dozen clerks watched their new ambassador arrive.

“We’ll do an official introduction later this afternoon. Right now I want to show you your office.”

Leichtenberg led Hitler towards the end of the hall, taking a right and passing through a room with several bookcases, a large but plain desk with a typewriter and telephone on it.

“This will be Frau Aigner’s office. To get to yours they must pass through here first. And yours, Herr Ambassador, is right through here. He opened a door to the room within.

The Ambassador’s Office was barren but for Hainisch’s state portrait behind the large wooden desk, and an Austrian flag pole in the corner. In the opposite corner was a small table with four chairs around it, a nearby window overlooking the street below.

Hitler walked in and turned around, taking it all in. He noted Leichtenberg stood there, waiting.

“This will do just fine, Konrad. May I call you Konrad?”

“Of course, sir.” Leichtenberg looked relieved. “I’ll let you get settled. My office is across the hall if you need anything.” Leichtenberg turned to go but stopped at Hitler’s next words.

“Just one moment, Konrad. Please, sir.” Hitler took a seat behind his desk, privately enjoying the chair, and gestured towards one of the two facing his desk. Leichtenberg did so after a moment’s hesitation.

“Sir?”

Hitler leaned back, intertwining his fingers.

“Tell me more of the incidents you mentioned earlier.”

Leichtenberg nodded. “In your top left hand drawer, sir, you’ll find a concise report over political events in this country from the past two decades.”

Hitler opened the stated drawer and drew out a hefty ensemble of papers, neatly divided and color coded. He laid it on the desk, unopened.

“I’ll read that later. Tell me the key details that relate to the now.”

Leichtenberg nodded. “To put it simply, sir, Japan is in a bit of a bind, politically. Relations between the military and government are strained at the best of times, while the hatred between the Army and Navy goes far beyond simple interservice rivalry. And the Kōtoku Incident may have happened over a decade ago but has led to increased fear of anarcho-socialist groups in Japan, a sort of Red Scare if you will. Because of this-“

Leichtenberg delved further into what would become a very informational lecture, surprising Hitler with the man’s memory for detail. Hitler leaned back and listened, learning, strategizing how to take advantage of it all.

Moscow, Russia
Union of Soviet Socialist Republics
February 1924​

Fyodor carefully placed folders containing vital governmental documents before each of the fifty-one seats. He had brought a ruler and ensured each was located precisely between the glass of water on the right and the ashtray on the left. He replicated this for all fifty-one spots.

It might have seemed foolish to an outside observer, but today had to go well. It must go well. Stalin had stressed it and whenever the Man of Steel wanted something done, you did it the way he desired as failure to do so was a quick earmark for execution or a one way trip to the gulag.

Others were in the large meeting room, similarly readying the chairs, the refreshments and more. Today was a day of great import. Everything needed to proceed as planned.

At 10:00am on the dot the doors at the end of the room opened and in marched nearly a hundred people. Fifty stood before the chairs marked for them,twenty-five on either side of the table, a name placard resting above their document packet. The other went against the wall where chairs resided, being aides, secretaries and adjutants and therefore not important enough to be included among the men seated at the table. Fyodor and Davydov were behind where the Director and Deputy Director would sit.

Fyodor watched Stalin walk in with Dzerzhinsky, both going over last minute reports. Arriving at their designated chairs, they put down the paperwork and waited like all the others, heads turned towards the entrance. A minute had passed when a thin and bookish looking man walked in. Yakov Sverdlov looked more like a librarian or an accounting clerk rather than the single most powerful man in the Soviet Union following Lenin’s death a couple of weeks ago. Sverdlov reached his chair and promptly sat down, signaling for the others to do the same.

“This meeting,” began Sverdlov, “is to codify the recommendations put forth in Comrade Lenin’s will and last verbal testimony. The founder of this great union has passed, but we cannot, we will not, let the people’s paradise succumb to external or internal threats. Our years of toil and blood will not be in vain, nor will the course set out by Lenin waver though he is no longer here at the helm himself. We shall present to the world a united government, strong in its composition and focused in its goals.”

The men around the table nodded their agreement to that. Today would not be the day to appear disloyal.

“Lenin was a great man of many talents and strengths. None of us here could hope to mimic his individual greatness. As a result, this government is to be divided into spheres of influence to better manage and coordinate, all under the auspice of my premiership.”

Sverdlov looked around the room.

“Comrade Dzerzhinsky.”

“Comrade Premier?” The rail thin secret police chief looked back unflinchingly.

“You shall remain as Director of the Joint State Political Directorate. You have proven yourself able and ruthless in neutering counter-revolutionary movements within the warmongering Cossacks and the vampiric kulaks, among others.”

“Thank you, Comrade Premier.”

“However,” Sverdlov raised a figure. “My esteemed predecessor was a man of great vision yet that vision was more focused on our union than what occurred within our neighbors. We are a nation surrounded by imperialists, capitalists and fascists that despise our proletariat revolution.”

Sverdlov leaned back in his chair.

“I aim to correct that. Lenin wanted the Revolution to sweep across the world like a cleansing fire to burn away the old order and herald the new upon its ashes. He believed Communism to be a natural remedy for the capitalist plague. However, with revolutions failing in Hungary, Germany and elsewhere it seems we need to take a more active role in fostering relations with Communist groups across the world, increasing their funding and access to means to defend themselves.”

Fyodor translated that last sentence as enough money and guns to overthrow governments.

“As a result, Comrade Director Dzerzhinsky, I want a status update on any and all Communist or far-left groups worldwide. I want dossiers on their ideology, methodology, key members, and the difficulties they face in their nations and local levels. I want this on my desk in the next six months.”

“Yes, Comrade Premier.” Fyodor saw Stalin writing notes down. Fyodor could feel his workload doubling for the next half-year and shared a knowing look with Davydov.

Sverdlov continued. “Are there any nations, Comrade Director, with promising Communist movements that could exploit any opportunity that arises, or at the very least destabilize their home country so as to secure our borders and foreign interests?”

Dzerzhinsky pondered the question and privately conferred with Stalin. “There are promising seeds in Germany, France, Austria, Japan, Yugoslavia and China. I will ensure they are nurtured to be ready for when the Revolution beckons.”

“Excellent.” Sverdlov looked to his left where another bespectacled Jew sat. “Comrade Trotsky, you will retain authority over the People’s Commissariat of Military and Naval Affairs. Your leadership during the Civil War struck the correct balance between political reliability and martial achievement. I see no reason why that should change.”

“What about the commissars, Comrade Premier?” Trotsky asked innocuously. The room went beyond quiet on that. Conflicts over who controlled the military’s commissars had been ongoing even before Lenin’s death.

Yakov Sverdlov was not a physically intimidating man, but the withering glare he gave the People’s Commissar of Military and Naval Affairs could have blistered paint off a battleship.

“The commissars will remain, as I still believe there are too many Tsarist factors in the military and they need to be watched.”

“Of that I concur with completely, comrade. I, however, am asking specifically about the supervising authority of these commissars. If they are to watch the Red Army and Red Navy, then they need to be recruited and trained by my Commissariat as our knowledge of military tactics and affairs surpasses that of other Commissariats.

Sverdlov gave a cold humorless smile. “As has been standard procedure for years now, the commissars that are to ensure the loyalty of the armed forces will be of a political nature, and therefore will come from OGPU. After all they have the training to root out wreckers and counter-revolutionaries, wherever they may be.”

Trotsky nodded at the premier’s veiled warning though Fyodor thought he saw a flicker of annoyance on the face. Trotsky’s eyes flicked to Dzerzhinsky and Stalin, his face hardening in contempt but said nothing. Fyodor understood the political machinations at work. The secret police would watch the military while the military had the numbers and weapons to keep the OGPU in check. Sverdlov wanted to keep the two powerful Commissariats at each other’s throats, fearful and greedy of the other so as to cement his position as premier. It made sense and would allow Sverdlov to survive long enough to become undisputed master of the Soviet Union.

Divide and conquer rang through Fyodor’s mind as Sverdlov continued to announce the appointments of other key government officials. Nearly three dozen were named, almost exclusively of key or integral facets of government.

Yakov Sverdlov, having already been officially designated Premier of the Soviet Union the day before by an emergency session of the All-Union Congress of Soviets, confirming his interim premiership following Lenin’s death, also retained the offices and responsibilities of General Secretary and Chairman of the All-Union Communist Party. This made him by all accounts the head of state, head of government and head of the party. Many of the men he retained or put into power supported him in one way or another, while those that opposed him such as Trotsky were saddled with deputies who were fervent Sverdlovists and would act as watchful eyes for any disloyal activities.

Grigori Sokolnikov became the People’s Commissar of the National Economy, his embracement of the New Economic Policy was hoped to act as a salve to strengthen some of the weaker aspects of the flailing Soviet economy that was still rebuilding from the ravages of the civil war. In time, Sverdlov had explained, the Soviet economy would evolve to what he had called ‘Total Communism’ of a monolithic state-run command economy, but it would have to wait until a semblance of economic stability established itself. Nikolai Bukharin was to act as his second-in-command in reining in the faltering economy and bring it back from the brink it had found itself nearing.

Mikhail Kalinin would remain as Chairman of the All-Union Congress of Soviets and of the Central Executive Committee, though they were reorganized, renamed and streamlined into the Supreme Soviet and the Presidium of the Supreme Soviet.

Foreign Affairs remained with Georgy Chicherin, as was expected. His quiet support of Sverdlov the past half-decade had been notable. The two were of the same mind in establishing a strong, albeit subservient, Communist regime in Germany to thwart any aggressive imperialism in Europe on the part of the French, Italians or British.

To end the meeting, Sverdlov announced the merging of several different commissariats into an umbrella organization called the People’s Commissariat of Culture, Education and Truth. A powerful amalgamation of state control, education and propaganda. This was to be headed up by Pavel Lebedev-Polianskii. This would ensure the youth would be brought up as dutiful and hardworking Soviet citizens while everything the nation read or listened to would cement Communism in the minds of its people.

Sverdlov stood, signaling the end of the meeting. People began to shuffle out, in murmured discussions with one another. Many were energized by the new course, while others like Kamenev were privately disappointed. Yet it did not matter whether they were pleased or not. The reign of Yakov Sverdlov had begun.

The Soviet Heptarchy was born.

 

[Tanner151]

Chapter Thirty
A Mutual Agreement
Tokyo, Japan
Empire of Japan
April 1924​

Konrad Leichtenberg was exhausted, having stayed up late, again, yet in spite of his tiredness he did not mind. He enjoyed working, the feeling of accomplishing something for his country. And Hitler, he had found the past two months, was a driven taskmaster with high expectations and little tolerance for failure or excuses. Thus far, Leichtenberg had matched them as there had been no complaint and even an occasional gruff compliment from the Ambassador.

When Leichtenberg was dispatched in 1923 to lay the groundwork for an ambassadorial return, he was by all accounts a consul. He knew once relations between Austria and Japan had been sufficiently normalized that he wouldn’t receive the Ambassadorship. He was too young, too inexperienced, and didn’t have the connections in the coalition government to see it through. Leichtenberg had come to peace with that.

Yet there had been a sense of nervousness, of worry even, for whomever the new CS-NLF government dispatched. The Japanese were a fierce and proud people, and did not take kindly to ‘round-eyed devils,’ especially those they were once enemies with.

And he knew that Hitler’s appointment had been more of political exile than a desired career move, yet Hitler as Ambassador might have done more to normalize Austro-Japanese relations than a more typical politician would have. Hitler was a decorated veteran, noted for his bravery and leadership. The taking of Hill 53 by the former Stabsfeldwebel especially impressed the Japanese, citing that Hitler possessed a ‘true samurai spirit’ in some of their more right-wing newspapers.

It seemed that instead of rejection, the Black Wolf had found respect and acceptance in the Land of the Rising Sun. Already he had attended a half dozen formal dinners and events, ingratiating himself with the politico of several nations. Already Hitler had paved the way forward with aggressive diplomacy and stark bluntness, establishing favorable trade conditions that would be mutually beneficial to both sides and help the financially-crippled Republic stumble towards a facade of fiscal stability.

Though Leichtenberg himself was a Christian Social, his reports back to Vienna contained glowing reviews of the new ambassador. Another reason he stayed on was that the CS leadership wanted a trusted man to be Hitler’s minder and report back on any activities that the coalition government would find… uncouth.

Leichtenberg couldn’t resist a small smile at the thought. He reached for the next stack of paper and his hand froze as he read the memo on the top sheet.

“Well, well, well… isn’t that interesting,” he murmured.​

Vienna, Austria
Republic of Austria
May 1924​

Franz Olbrecht sat in Parliament and listened alongside other members of the National Council to Labor Minister Dinghofer. The plump man was giving an update about current unemployment in the country.

“-unemployment has dropped nearly one percent, with our estimations projecting another one to two percent drop by the end of the year, especially once the proposed work programs are passed and put into effect-“

Olbrecht zoned out. He couldn’t help it. The minutiae of economics and labor were mind numbing, to say the least. He had been elected as councilor to the Nationalrat, being one of the Linz representatives, and was a political coup for the National Liberal Front. He was a war veteran, an aristocrat from an established family of regional importance, and a committed nationalist. While this made him popular in Linz and the Front lavished him with funds during his campaign, this public support underwent a marked shift after taking his oath before the rest of the assembled Parliament.

He was not blind nor a fool; he saw the whispered groups that would disperse or change subjects at his approach. The Social Democrats were cold and distant, the Communists hateful and distrustful, which was fine as the feelings were mutual, but it was the reaction from his own party and CS allies that worried him. The only ones he could trust were the other Hitlerites in the Front. The Front had thirty-three seats in the National Council, of which only seven were sufficiently pro-Hitler. Hitler had won them their seats, either directly or indirectly via his well-oiled propaganda machine, and they felt more loyalty to him than they did Chairman Gross or the other key players in the Central Committee.

“This is a waste of time,” the man next to him, a fellow Hitlerite, said. Olbrecht nodded at the words and sentiment. “We need to not be a government of talking but a government of action. The Commander would not waste time debating work programs or announcing these small improvements as if they were great triumphs.” The man looked ready to spit then shrugged.

“As I said,” Ernst Rüdiger Camillo von Starhemberg, Councilor of Eferding District, “this is a waste of time. I wish the Commander were here. This facade of governance would be at an end. We need real leadership.”

“Of that, I completely concur, Ernst. He’ll return, in time, and when he does,” Olbrecht narrowed his eyes and looked around the chamber, eyes lingering on the Communists and the Jewish politicians, enemies of the state in all but name, “Then we’ll rid the raff and restore Austria to its rightful place.”​

Jinzhou, Manchuria
Republic of China
May 1924​

The assembled men rose and came to attention as the small thin man entered the room. The man took his seat at the head of the table, and gestured for the others to sit down.

The colonels, generals and government officials sat down, cigarette smoke thick in the air. At the far end of the room was a large map of East Asia, centered on China. Pins noted divisions of the Fengtian Army near the border with the Zhili Clique.

Despite the building’s thick walls, the sound of trains, trucks and men could be heard. Tens of thousands of soldiers in Jinzhou were outside, with thousands more planned in the coming months.

Several adjutants handed out thick packets of paper in front of every official. The man at the head of the table took a sip from his cup of tea before setting it back down. He opened up the packet that would detail the upcoming military operation.

“Let us begin,” Zhang Zoulin, Marshal of Manchuria said. “We will begin with Scenario Thirteen.”
​

Tokyo, Japan
Empire of Japan
May 1924
​

Hitler’s pen slashed his signature across the dotted line. Camera bulbs flashed, immortalizing the moment, nearly blinding him.

Hitler looked up and shook the preferred hand of Japanese Foreign Minister Keishirō Matsui, who bowed slightly as they shook. Hitler mirrored it.

Letting go, Hitler grabbed the pen and offered it to Leichtenberg. The First Secretary came to attention and took it with muted surprise. Hitler stifled a smile. He had the man working sixteen hour days, almost as much as himself, and Hitler knew he would have been unable to carry out his duties so vigorously or effectively without Liese and Leichtenberg.

Further politicking and false smiles followed. A reporter moved up to him, an Englishman with a thick, but understandable, German accent.

“What are your thoughts on the agreement, Herr Ambassador?”

“The Austro-Japanese Trade Agreement is a bold step towards revitalizing Austria’s economy. The Austrian electorate voted for us to bring positive economic change to the Fatherland, and this trade agreement helps relieve the great pressures unfairly imposed on us by the Entente.”

The Englishman looked up from his notebook.

“Unfairly, Herr Ambassador?”

From his periphery, Hitler could see Matsui’s translator whispering in his ear.

“You heard what I said. My country intended to avenge the murder of our Archduke, and yet we were cast as warmongering devils. Having the Black Hand with its Serbian and Russian overlords assassinating the man who would have been our next Kaiser could not be tolerated. A response was necessary, hence our ultimatum to the Serbs.”

“Do you not believe the Austro-Hungarian response was needlessly heavy-handed?” The reporter inquired, pencil over his notepad.

“Heavy-handed?” Hitler stared down the man.

Leichtenberg must have seen his hand tighten beneath the tabletop for the First Secretary stepped forward.

“That’ll be all the questions for now. The Ambassador has another meeting scheduled…”

Hitler held up a hand and Leichtenberg snapped his mouth shut.

“It must be a joy, Herr-“

“Fulcher,” the reporter said, “and the joy, Herr Ambassador?”

“The arrogance of Perfidious Albion. To judge others and yet think yourself above it. You say my country was heavy-handed. Very well. Let us compare some historical notes. Was it heavy-handed when your empire intervened with force when Sultan Khalid bin Barghash ascended to the Zanzibari throne? Was it heavy-handed when your navy starved millions in Europe during the Great War with your tenacious and inhumane blockade? Was it heavy-handed when British jackboots marched in Dublin during the Easter Uprising, suppressing the freedom of an entire people to the political ambitions and whims of London. Do not lecture me or mine, Herr Fulcher, on what is heavy-handed.”

The Englishman shifted uncomfortably and opened his mouth to talk but Hitler had one more thing to say.

“There is a saying you English quite love to spout to others, to rub what you believe is superiority but is in fact misplaced hubris. I believe it goes ‘the Sun never sets on the British Empire.’ Well do remember that for every dawn there is a dusk. Your ascendance is not eternal.”

Hitler left the table, shaking the offered hands of lesser Japanese diplomats and several embassy aides, many standing in mute shock.

Finishing, he allowed Leichtenberg to guide him towards a door at the far end of the hall. Standing there was a Japanese suited functionary who opened the door, gesturing for them to proceed.

Stepping through, another functionary stood there who spoke in Japanese. Hitler glanced at Leichtenberg.

“He said, ‘Follow me.’”

The two Austrians followed the Japanese man further into the Ministry. Hitler soon found himself in a much more richly furnished chamber. On one wall was an illustrated and highly detailed map of Asia and the Pacific. Japan and its territories shaded blood-red and done in a way to appear like the rays of the sun spreading across East Asia.. A man in the uniform of the Imperial Japanese Army stood there, looking up at the map, gaze fixed on the Home Islands.

Hitler stopped a certain distance away. His mind went through the steps Leichtenberg had instructed him to follow in this encounter.

He bowed slightly, hands at his side.

“It is an honor to meet you,” Hitler said in Japanese, the memorized words unfamiliar but said with certainty, “Your Highness.”

​

Near Lublin, Poland
Second Polish Commonwealth
February 1943​

Commander Bazyli Sniegow shivered in the wintry morning, his right knee aching from the bitter cold. Before him was a snow covered landscape, marred only by small rolling hills, leaf-ridden trees and a single paved road that was kept clear by the labors of those he watched and guarded.

Behind was a three meter tall fence that went for kilometers in both directions. Every five hundred meters was a watchtower, sporting two searchlights and two machine guns, one facing out past the fence, the other facing inwards.

In the distance, what he awaited finally crested over a hill and moved towards the camp. Three black Steyr 220s moved towards where Sniegow stood, the Kruckenkreuz carefully applied on each side with pennant flags bearing the upturned sword and crossed spears of the Austrian Staatschutz to declare to all who resided within.

Sniegow wished he were anywhere else rather than here. Out on the Eastern Front, where he served until his knee injury prevented further combat service for his beloved Poland in early 1942, it was brutal but amongst his fellow soldiers it was a home of sorts, a brotherhood that survived against all odds. The great struggle against the Soviet menace was a crusade to defend Poland’s faith, culture and national identity. All just reasons to help explain the savagery being carried out on the Russian plains.

When he had returned to Warsaw a near-broken man, both physically and psychologically, following the Third Battle of Smolensk he dreaded whatever desk job the Army would have thanklessly saddled him with. So when an opportunity came from the Ministry of Public Safety to further protect the ojczyzna, and one that came with a substantial pay increase, Sniegow had seized the chance.

Little did he envision it would involve so much paperwork, walking around in freezing temperatures with a stiff knee, and making small talk with Austrian brutes.

The Volkswehr and Sturmwache he could respect in some ways, or at the very least their military professionalism and effectiveness, but the Austrian security forces were cruel beyond measure.

He sighed, taking his hat off to run a gloved hand through thinning hair. He might not care for the service his government demanded of him, but he was a patriot who would nonetheless carry it out, all in the hope of a better future for his children and those that would follow.

The three Austrian motorcars pulled up. The drivers in all three hopped out to open the door for the powerful men in each. Their aides followed after, presenting twelve men in the hechtgrau of the Staatschutz.

The lead figure was rather slim, despite the thick greatcoat covering him. Adolf Eichmann was Staatsprotektor Kaltenbrunner’s right hand man when it came to the affairs of ‘undesirables’ and had thus orchestrated much of the horrors being carried out in Austria and the former Yugoslavia.

The other two leading SS men were Odilo Globocnik and Alois Brunner. Having not only the Sozinat ‘Architect of the Final Solution,’ but also the State Secretary of the Czech Protectorate and the Butcher of Bratislava was disconcerting to say the least.

Sniegow’s right arm shot out. The Austrians repeated in kind.

“Good morning, meine Herren,” Sniegow began, at the moment cursing his fluency in German that had him earmarked to greet the blue-gray clad bastards. “On behalf of my premier and Marshal Rydz-Śmigły, I welcome you,” he turned to gesture at the gate before them, “to the Lublin Jewish Reservation.”​

 

[Tanner151]

Chapter Thirty-One
A Prince and a Funeral​

​

Nakhodka, Soviet Russia
Union of Soviet Socialist Republics
June 1924​

“Hurry up, you lazy bastards!” Andrei Fyodorrovich Kolganov yelled over the torrent of rain. Beside him, shivered fellow OGPU commissar Sergei Mikhailovich Davydov. The two of them were cold, wet and miserable, standing not ten meters from the waters of the Peter the Great Gulf. It was early in the morning, the sun hours away from rising, and it was pouring rain. Add in a steady, strong wind and what should have been a nice morning was now one of a wet chill that went bone-deep, despite their greatcoats.

The men Fyodor and Davydov were monitoring hailed from a nearby gulag, who after tonight would be liquidated and their bodies dumped in the forests for the bears and wolves to feast on.

A dozen OGPU Internal Troopers stood by, keeping a close watch on the prisoners. The smaller boxes they were unloading onto the three small rowboats contained bullets, grenades, while the longer boxes held rifles. Several smaller water-proof boxes held nearly sixty million counterfeit yen, though only Premier Sverdlov, People’s Commissar Dzerzhinsky, Deputy People’s Commissar Stalin, Commissar Davydov, and Fyodor even knew the wads of cash were fake. It was to be used to fund the Communists in Japan whilst simultaneously casting doubt on how widespread the false currency was so as to send waves, however minor, in the Japanese economy.

The guns were all Chinese models, their serial numbers filed off. The Soviet Union couldn’t very well give two hundred rifles of its own make to the Japanese and risk them being discovered. It must appear to be an entirely non-Soviet affair. The deception and omission wouldn’t fool anyone with half a brain, but it would protect the USSR on an international stage in legality.

Nearby stood six individuals who were to be the recipients of the weapons and counterfeit money. Their leader moved up to Fyodor and Davydov and spoke to them in halting Russian.

“We are good to go, yes?” asked Pak Yol. The Korean anarchist seemed to fidget, doubtless from the bone chilling rain and possibly from nerves as well.

Fyodor could have easily shot the man and his compatriots, providing their corpses to the Japanese as a show of warming international relations, but orders from Dzerzhinsky and therefore Sverdlov were crystal clear to provide arms and monetary aid to Japanese anarchists and Communists.

Sverdlov called it ‘revenge for the illegal and unlawful imperialist Japanese occupation of the northern half of Sakhalin.’ Fyodor could care less about some godforsaken island on the far side of Russia, but for too long the Russian people had been oppressed and exploited, either by foreign capitalists or their own imperialists, but at long last things were starting to stabilize. The torch of the proletariat had been lit by Marx, carried by Lenin and now Sverdlov carried the burden. If the world was to burn, then better to be the one setting the flame than be consumed by the fire.

With internal matters normalizing, it was long past time to turn the attention of the Soviet Bear outwards.

“Yes,” he said to the Korean. “Good luck, comrade. May the fires of revolution sweep through Japan.”

Pak Yol nodded. “And may it free Korea from the clutches of tyranny.”

Fyodor and Davydov watched the Japanese and Korean leftists begin paddling away towards the Home Islands. With any luck, they would slip by the Imperial Japanese Navy.

The laborers shuffled back and forth, unsure of what was next, eying the trucks they had come in on. Fyodor raised his hand, the Internal Troopers raising their MP-18s, confiscated from German weapon depots during the War. The laborers saw what was about to happen, and began to back up, screaming and yelling in fear.

Fyodor’s hand came down and the shooting began, the sounds of flesh tearing and bones shattering could be heard over the rain. The laborers were hemmed in along the beach and had nowhere to run.

After the shooting stopped, both Fyodor and Davydov unholstered their Nagant M1895 revolvers.

“It always seems to end like this,” Fyodor said. “Blood and corpses.”

Davydov shrugged. “Stalin once said something to me that I will never forget. ‘One death is a tragedy, a million are a statistic.’ He always has something foreboding and brutal to say, that damn Georgian.” Davydov chuckled but his words were quiet so the Internal Troops couldn’t hear it over the storm and cries of pain. One never knew who reported to who in the USSR. Yesterday’s gossip could be tomorrow’s testimony before a show trial. Davydov and Fyodor trusted one another, their years of doing Stalin’s dirty work had bonded them, further cementing what had begun at Kresty Prison.

Still, it hurt never to be too careful. Regardless, they were here not to lament sacrifices done in the name of revolution but to see to it that the premier’s will be carried out without question or hesitation.

“Come on,” Davydov said, “let’s get this over with.” Davydov moved off, firing a bullet into the head of the closest fallen laborer. It didn’t matter if they were dead or not, they had to make sure no one would let slip what happened tonight.
​

Tokyo, Japan
Empire of Japan
July 1924 ​

Hitler ate the shrimp and rice with gusto. After living six months in the Land of the Rising Sun, he had come to take a great liking to the local cuisine. Beside him sat Leichtenberg, who ate a similar meal though instead of mineral water the First Secretary drank sake. Hitler enjoyed the food, but the alcoholic beverages had not been to his taste.

Across from them sat only one man who bore the rank of Second Lieutenant in the Imperial Japanese Army. Yasuhito, Prince Chichibu, was a thin man, who wore glasses with hair slicked to the side with oil. His khaki dress uniform was immaculate, freshly pressed, and the man who stood third in line for the Chrysanthemum Throne sipped tea before placing his cup back on its saucer.

The waiter came over, giving a deep bow to the seated prince.

“‘The meal will not require payment, Your Imperial Highness, it is on the house,’” muttered Leichtenberg so Hitler could understand.

“Why, thank you,” Yasuhito said before turning back to the two Austrians and switching to German. “A perk of the family,” causing the two men to smile politely.

Hitler detested aristocrats, those well-bred blue-blooded bastards who lorded it over those born of more common means. However, Yasuhito had proven in their two months of acquaintanceship, which was fast evolving into friendship, to be a man of studious character, aware of his birth but not one to use it as a piece of leverage. Once or twice a week Hitler and Yasuhito would have lunch or dinner, always in a cafe or restaurant to show it wasn’t a formal state affair, and the two discussed much.

They both desired for their respective countries to rise in the world, to take a place both felt their countries deserved. Yasuhito, who admired the British and spoke excellent King’s English, felt that an alliance with Perfidious Albion or at the very least an understanding was the way to go about matters. Good relations with Britain, the prince argued, were needed if Japan was to cement its position in Asia.

Hitler tentatively agreed so as not to sour a blooming relationship in its early stages. Privately, Hitler understood Austria and Britain had different spheres of interest that rarely crossed with one another so he was open to a state of the world that retained a large and powerful British Empire, albeit one that either worked with or neutrally accepted Austria’s plans for the Balkans. But he knew if Austria was to regain its Great Power status, it would require control of influence over the former Austro-Hungarian Empire and that was something the British would reject most fervently.

Sipping his own tea, Hitler pondered how best to achieve goals in Southeastern Europe without attracting the undesired gaze of Britain.

Perhaps… hmm. Perhaps France is the key, he considered, setting down the tea cup. Britain ruled the waves but when it came to continental matters, Britain rarely did anything without the support of the French. If there was a way to drive a wedge between the two, then perhaps Austria could attain a free hand in its lost territories.

Yasuhito spoke up, interrupting Hitler’s thoughts.

“Pardon me, Your Highness, I didn’t quite catch that. I was woolgathering.”

“Am I boring you, sir?” The prince asked neutrally.

“Not at all, Your Highness, I was merely recalling some details I read about in yesterday’s newspaper about the raid that occurred in Niigata. Terrible discoveries.”

Yasuhito nodded like a sage from his nation’s past. Wise and unperturbed.

“Yes, a terrible discovery to be sure. It is a sad state that some within the Empire want to see our centuries’ old traditions be cast away through violence and anarchy. These Communists are a plague upon society.”

“Of that we can agree on wholeheartedly.” Hitler had learned about Japan’s problematic Anarcho-Communist movement from Leichtenberg when he first arrived. They had tried various forms of civil unrest and even assassination attempts several times, but matters seemed to be far more dire than he had originally thought. A raid by the Special Higher Police in a Niigata warehouse port district on the west coast of Honshu had revealed that several Japanese and Korean Communists had smuggled in weapons from overseas.

Several million yen had been discovered, nine rifles, a submachine gun, three pistols, a box of grenades and several boxes of ammunition. What was more disturbing was that more boxes were discovered yet were empty of their contents. God knows how many weapons were smuggled in and where they were sent.

Though the weapons were all of Chinese origin, few doubted that they originated from the Soviet Union. The Tokkō, Kenpeitei and Tokkeitai were out in full force hunting for any leads, seconding regular police units to bolster their manpower and search capabilities. Army and Navy forces in the Home Islands had quietly been out on a higher alert stance, ready to deploy their garrisons if and when anything were to break out. An IJN task force was patrolling the Sea of Japan intensely to intercept any more weapon shipments.

Today was no exception to heightened security. The funeral of former Japanese Prime Minister Matsukata Masayoshi was to take place in downtown Tokyo. Squads of soldiers and policemen marched through the city, both to remind any seditious elements of their presence and to respond to any acts of violence that may or may not erupt.

The newspaper had mentioned five Communists were present during the raid but that four were killed in the crossfire. The fifth, a Korean by the name of Pak Yol, committed suicide with a cyanide capsule. Hitler despised the method. If one were true to his convictions, better to die with a gun in hand rather than to take one’s life with poison like a coward. It was contemptible, it was reprehensible, it was pathetic.

“You know, there is a book being written about you,” came Yasuhito’s voice.

Hitler blinked. “I beg your pardon, Your Highness.”

“A book is being written about you. My nation’s Ambassador to Austria knew I was interested in the European Theatre of the war and I had instructed him to find any copies of biographies and autobiographies that detail the war and its leaders. He knew that the Hero of Hill 53 was here so he informed me.”

Yasuhito gave a self-admonishing grin. “I learned German because of you.”

“Really?” Hitler had not known about that little detail.

“Yes. When war broke out I was too young to join the military and thus escaped the war. To make up for that, I studied the Great War like a hawk on the hunt. As the fighting in the Pacific was considerably small in scale to what occurred in Europe and the Middle East, I turned my attention there. I read your name in a newspaper, talking about your lonesome assault on Hill 53 that secured it. It appealed to me, and to many of my countrymen. I started learning German only days later. If Austria was able to breed such a warrior spirit in its soldiers then I knew it was a language I should learn so as to better communicate with such a brave race.”

“I’m honored by your kind words, Your Highness.”

Yasuhito waved his hand as if to wash away the thanks. Unlike some within his family, Yasuhito didn’t yearn for praise, at least not all the time.

“So this book is being written about me? What does it cover about my life? I haven’t given permission nor interviews for a biography.”

“Now,” Yasuhito said playfully, “I did say it was about you, yet your name never appears in it.”

“I’m confused.”

“Due to copyright law, the story is not over Stabsfeldwebel Adolf Hitler, Hero of Hill 53, Defender of Carinthia, the Black Wolf, but rather it is about Lieutenant Adalbert Hettler, Defender of Hill 52 and Hero of Carinthia, the Grey Eagle.”

Hitler looked at Yasuhito in something akin to amusement and shock. “That is ridiculous.”

Yasuhito chuckled. “Oh, I know it is. Most of it will be conjecture or nonsense, yet I’m sure it will be interesting to read nonetheless.”

Hitler shook his head and was about to respond when Leichtenberg spoke up.

“Your Highness, Herr Ambassador, we should be leaving. We don’t want to be late for the funeral.”

“You’re quite right,” the prince said, rising and moving to a waiting Army vehicle reserved for the prince. The corporal who had been chosen to drive him around came to attention and held open the backseat door. Hitler and Leichtenberg entered their own vehicle behind the IJA car.

The drive to where the funeral was to take place was quick, traffic being practically nonexistent due to stringent security and several barricades in the street.

Arriving, Hitler saw hundreds of men and women, from uniforms, suits to elegant dresses. Some of the more traditional women wore kimonos. A vast majority were Japanese, while most embassies had been invited and their ambassadors or consuls had attended.

Due to Austria being a relatively minor nation, Hitler and Leichtenberg were unable to sit near the front of the foreign dignitary section, sitting behind the Americans, British, Dutch, and French, but Hitler was quite happy to be seated in front of the Italian Ambassador and noted with satisfaction that the Yugoslavian Ambassador was seated several rows behind him.

Hitler spied too government officials in attendance, even spotting the Empress who sat at front, surrounded by attendants and guards. The Empress was in discussion with a man in a black suit next to her, likely a government minister or other top official.

As the funeral began, Hitler tried his best to look engaged, solemn, and to stifle any potential yawns.​

———​

Over two hours later, the funeral had finally ended and dignitaries, both foreign and domestic were beginning to depart to the cemetery where Matsukata Masayoshi’s body would be interred with honor.

Yasuhito found him near the refreshments table of chilled water and hot tea.

“Japan lost a great man. Masayoshi had such vision,” Yasuhito mused, grabbing a cup of tea. “He will be sorely missed in these uncertain times.”

Hitler offered condolences he did not truly feel. All part of the public facade of a politician. God, he almost missed the war. At least there things were honest and clear.

Leichtenberg had already left to get the car ready to head back to the embassy, Hitler’s workload demanded he return to the office to combat the ever-growing pile of paperwork that never seemed to end. Beside him walked Yasuhito, who talked of matters of little import but Hitler nonetheless listened. If he were to influence Japanese foreign policy, he must ingratiate himself with those who could guide it.

Foreign dignitaries and Japanese politicians and officers were leaving en masse, making their way to the parked cars. Security kept a watchful eye, patrolling the perimeter and standing at strategic points throughout the area, alert. Hitler even saw the Regent Prince Hirohito walk by, surrounded by guards and aides, conferring something with one of them, doubtless something related to the minutiae of running an empire.

He hoped Olbrecht’s letter had arrived today. Their correspondence was much delayed due to the distance between Japan and the Fatherland, but it kept him apprised of events back home. The rift between the “moderate” faction of the National Liberal Front, led by Gross and von Hoffenberg, and Hitler’s “radical” faction was growing with verbal and ideological floor fights in Parliament erupting between the two, with even protests carried out by Hitlerites against the more moderate members of the party. This was causing the CS-NLF relationship to become… uncomfortable. The Christian Socials did not like to be associated with ‘rabble rousers’ and ‘street thugs.’ Hitler snorted at the hypocrisy.

Ironic, he thought. He was over nine thousand kilometers away and still he influenced events back home. The only thing radical about those that followed him was that they desired great and enduring change to better the country. Fixing the economy, putting people back to work, strengthening the military, and suppressing Judeo-Bolshevik forces lying in wait to drain the lifeblood of Austria.

Only the Austrian man whose blood is pure and heart hardened can save the Fatherland from the parasites and oppressors that wished to destroy it…

A shout snapped his attention. He could see three soldiers and a policeman approach a car that was parked near the barricade blocking any traffic from approaching the site of the funeral. It was probably someone, a messenger most likely, who parked in haste and left the car to deliver it to some official..

But something felt off…

“Your Highness, I think we should-“

The car the soldiers and policeman were approaching exploded, sending them to the ground either dead or wounded. Automatic gunfire ripped through the air. Bullets tore into the crowd, downing several. Hitler dived to his right, coincidentally knocking Yasuhito to the ground. A nearby Japanese official in a nice gray suit fell, two bullet wounds in his chest. Blood poured out rapidly and the man looked shocked. Hitler, his combat instincts still sharp, crawled towards the wounded man after checking that Yasuhito was sufficiently covered by a slight dip into the ground, large rocks helping add some protection. Reaching the man he put his hands on the two bullet wounds but blood continued to spill out.

Judging by the sound of gunfire, it was a machinegun, with the sharp and booming crack of a bolt action rifle following.

Another government official fell, as did his wife and daughter, peppered with bullet holes. His suit and their kimonos were stained crimson. Hitler cursed not having a pistol on him. The Japanese were very unhappy with foreigners carrying weapons outside of their embassies and specifically forbade any from bringing weapons to the funeral.

“Leichtenberg!” he yelled towards where he knew his car was parked. No response. The man he was trying to staunch the bleeding for seized then went still, a dying sigh escaping his lips.

Frustrated, Hitler crawled back to Yasuhito who was watching everything with wide eyes, his glasses broken and on the ground. A cut on the prince’s forehead dribbled blood along the man’s temple but he seem too shell shocked to notice.

Guards were scrambling to get to the shooters who were in a two story building across the street, with a perfect view of the parked cars. Another car down the road exploded, killing two policemen who were using it as cover, their bodies becoming like rag dolls discarded by a bored child.

“What- what should we do?” Yasuhito asked, starting to rise.

“Stay down!” Hitler yelled, pulling the prince down without decorum. He caught sight of Leichtenberg who was behind the small stone fence by the cars alongside many others. The First Secretary looked like he would bolt across any moment to reach his Ambassador, but Hitler held up a hand and shook his head. “Nothing we can do, Yasuhito, but wait for the shooting to stop.”

The prince didn’t even acknowledge Hitler breaking protocol and calling him solely by his name. And even if he did, Hitler could care less at that moment.

It took another ten minutes of shooting with the occasional explosion but eventually everything went still, the silence almost deafening after the fighting. Hitler hesitantly stood and looked toward the two story house. IJA soldiers were dragging out a half dozen men and women. One man punched the trooper manhandling him and started to run before two other troopers in khaki fired their Arisakas at the fleeing attacker. The man fell, dead before he hit the ground. Another trooper came up and stabbed down with a bayonet-equipped Arisaka to ensure the attacker was in fact dead. The soldier’s face was locked in hate and disgust.

Hitler watched on impassively as Leichtenberg ran up to him. “Sir, I need to get you to the Embassy!”

“No.”

Leichtenberg stared at Hitler incredulously.

“But, mein Herr…”

“Take a look around you, Konrad,” he quietly and calmly said. “This is an opportunity.”

Hitler moved off to help a kimono-dressed woman who had twisted her ankle falling down, her male companion laid face down, his head ruptured by a stray round. He could feel Leichtenberg staring him down first in shock then quickly in understanding. Leichtenberg also went to aiding any wounded, his fluency in Japanese helping a great deal.

It wasn’t what Hitler had in mind, but he would use every tool at his disposal. If events played out just right, it would accomplish his goals more effectively and far sooner than he had envisioned.
​

———​

Nineteen people died in the July 8th Incident at the funeral of Matsukata Masayoshi. Such a small number of people to die yet it would lead to countless lives perishing in Asia for among the dead were Prime Minister Katō Takaaki, key Kenseikai political member Wakatsuki Reijiro, Prince Yasuhiko Asaka and Sadako Kujō, the Empress of Japan and wife to the Emperor Yoshihito.

The death of Yoshihito’s beloved wife proved too much for the sickly emperor, who died of a heart attack mere days later, elevating Prince Hirohito to the weighty and venerable title of Emperor.

With the nation in mourning, Hirohito created a new cabinet, made up almost entirely of pro-emperor officials with totalitarian tendencies who went about hunting down any involved with the July 8th Incident. It did not take long for several of the captured terrorists to reveal the whereabouts of their compatriots. Across Japan a half-dozen raids were conducted with ruthless precision. Anarchists, Socialists and Communists were arrested in their dozens. And with them came the worry of a greater conspiracy in the minds of the Japanese government that quickly spread to its people via carefully composed propaganda leaflets and government-affiliated newspapers.

The Imperial Diet quickly passed the Peace Preservation Laws in mid-July 1924 which for all intents and purposes murdered Japanese democracy for the next two decades. The Peace Preservation Laws gave nearly unchecked power to the military and law enforcement which used their newfound powers to arrest thousands of leftist leaders and their key supporters across the Home Islands and elsewhere in the Empire. Hundreds would be thrown in jail, while hundreds more were shot and their bodies left in the streets of their hometowns as a reminder of the folly of challenging the military-controlled government.

Not long after July 8th, fingers began to be pointed at who could have orchestrated the attack, or at the very least armed and supplied the assailants. While many claimed it was the detested Soviet Union, just as many named the Republic of China as the instigator, while a lesser number spoke of French, American or British conspiracies to rid the country of its leadership so as to be more easily controlled by the West.

Though it could not be proven without a doubt who aided the militant Japanese far-left, the Empire quickly took ways to remind the Soviet Union and Chinese Republic that Japan was not a nation to be trifled with.

To China the Japanese military publicly, and quietly, began to ship small arms and older equipment to the Warlord of Manchuria, further warming the relations between Manchuria and Japan, as did Zuolin’s call for an justice for the murdered Japanese men and women. The central Beiyang Government issued protests but had little power to stop this flow of weapons and supplies to the power-hungry Marshal of Manchuria, Zhang Zuolin. As for the Soviets, well, the solution came not from a Japanese minister of ranking officer. Rather, it came from an unlikely source…​

-The World at War - Book 3: From Democracy to Totalitarianism in Japan, Dr. Karl Havlocke, PhD.​

​

Tokyo, Japan
Empire of Japan
July 1924​

“It is incredible you were able to convince the Japanese to do this,” Konrad Leichtenberg muttered to Hitler. The two Austrians were standing to the side of a stage where Tanaka Griichi, Japan’s new Prime Minister, was currently delivering a carefully prepared speech detailing the July 8th Incident and the heroic acts of those involved in arresting the traitors.

Hitler noted that the failure of security was not brought up, nor the half-dozen officers in charge of the protection of the funeral who were forced to commit seppuku for failure to prevent the assassination. And assassination was what it was, several separate individuals in the Japanese anarcho-Communist movement had revealed that Hirohito had been the prime target. To the great relief of Japan the former Regent, now the Emperor, had not only survived but had been enraged by the death of his mother and cousin and was taking swift action in retaliation to the attack.

Zhang Zuolin, the Warlord of Manchuria, was receiving public support from Japan with small arms and munitions soon to be sent. It was part of Prime Minister Griichi’s plan for Japan’s military to rid itself of older, outdated equipment and use newly freed resources to focus on better weapons. Hitler had even heard that Japanese officers and veteran infantry units would go on half-pay and be ‘loaned’ to the Fengtian Army to offer training, logistic assistance and gain valuable combat experience as it was becoming increasingly obvious to many that the Marshal's ambitions did not stop at the Manchurian border. The Zhili Clique would doubtlessly be the next target but the Beiyang Government in Peking was something he most certainly envisioned as a future conquest.

“The Chancellor and Foreign Minister won’t approve of this,” Leichtenberg whispered. “It’ll undermine their authority. What you're about to do, mein Herr, vastly oversteps your authority.”

“By the time they find out what I’m about to propose, it’ll be too late. They’ll either have to publicly agree or recall me before the deal is done, all but admitting that their ambassador went rogue. Seipel and Grünberger can’t appear weak or indecisive just now. It could lead to the fall of their government, or at the very least a grand embarrassment. My sources back home is that the coalition between the NLF and CS is starting to fray at the edges. They can’t dismiss me, at least not yet, as it’ll be an admittance of fault on their part.”

Hitler looked at Leichtenberg. “And they won’t find out until the world does, correct?”

Leichtenberg paused a moment. He was supposed to keep an eye on Hitler to avoid a predicament such as this, but… the man had earned his loyalty, the charisma and vision he held might be all to save Austria.

“Correct, sir. They won’t find out until it’s too late.”

“Good choice, Konrad.” Hitler gave a single firm pat on Leichtenberg’s shoulder and from then on Hitler knew the CS man was wholly his.

Prime Minister Griichi was finishing up his speech. And now came the next step.

“Ladies and gentlemen, members of the press and those of the government in attendance, please allow me to welcome Ambassador Hitler of Austria to the stage.”

Polite clapping greeted Hitler as he walked across the stage, shaking hands and bowing simultaneously with Griichi.

Stepping up to the podium, scores of camera bulbs flashed, temporarily blinding him. When his vision had cleared he looked at the front row of those in the audience.

Several members of Griichi’s cabinet and Prince Yasuhito who smiled and nodded encouragingly towards Hitler. Behind them sat nearly a hundred reporters, both domestic and foreign. Cameras continued to flash like lightning in the dead of night, whilst others held pencils over notepads.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. First I want to thank Prime Minister Griichi for his bold leadership these past few days that were so rife with chaos and uncertainty. Japan’s newest prime minister understands the threats that surround not only this great nation that I am a guest of but also the threats that surround civilization.”

More clapping, less vibrant as the crowd was unsure of where this was going.

“The world is a very different place than it was ten years ago. Many nations that once existed are no longer while new nations have surfaced in their place. And it is one such nation, the Soviet Union, that will soon prove to be the biggest threat not only to politicians or military but to humanity itself.”

Hitler tightly gripped the edges of the podium.

“Hear me now and know that I speak the truth. The Union of Soviet Socialist Republics is not only a canker amongst the nations of the world, but one that is not content with the current political arrangements neighboring it. To the Japanese people who wish to know who supplied the leftist fanatics that so horribly assaulted your nation’s imperial family and government, you need only turn your gaze to frozen wastes of Siberia and there you shall see the hungry bear of Russia watching with murderous intent

“The Soviets equipped the terrorists, of this we are sure of. One of the anarchists that was killed kept a diary… and in it he detailed meeting Soviet agents for supplies in the Gulf of Peter the Great. Recovering this proves Soviet interference and treachery. And today it was but a few dozen guns. Tomorrow it could be hundreds and then thousands and if the Bolsheviks succeeded then the Land of the Rising Sun would be basked in the blood of all those you hold dear.”

Hitler slammed his fist into the podium, causing a few of the reporters to jump in their seats at the sudden outburst.

“I will not let a state that sponsors terrorism or seditious activities to walk away unpunished! A thousand years ago England fielded a form of judiciary payment known as a weregeld, used to repay a blood-debt. The weregeld price Soviet Russia will pay is something Japan already controls. For several years the Japanese Army has maintained an occupation over the northern half of the island, preventing needless violence from breaking out and protecting it from unsavory political elements. Yet Japan was withdrawing, intent on returning the island on good faith to the Soviet government. Yet that faith has been tarnished and dragged through the mud with the disgusting acts of Yakov Sverdlov. What can one expect of a Bolshevik Jew after all?”

“I call on and invite the League of Nations and the Great Powers of the world to come to Tokyo. Meet with the Japanese government who only want peace yet are being driven towards vengeful fervor if their honor is not respected and Soviet aggression kept in check. A conference will be hosted in the first week of September. Come and may the world acknowledge the victim of this tragedy and come together to resist the insidious touch of Communism and once and for all decide the fate of Sakhalin.”​

 

[Tanner151]

Chapter Thirty-Two
Sakhalin Conference Part One

Washington D.C
United States of America
July 1924​

William Donovan sat comfortably in the furnished chair, fingers steepled and was deep in thought. From where he sat, he could hear the faint pop and boom of fireworks, briefly giving him unpleasant flashbacks to the Western Front’s infamous artillery barrages.

Close by sat Campbell Slemp, Personal Secretary to the President. Slemp was the leading assistant for the White House Staff and held great power and sway within the West Wing, despite repeated rumors of disagreements between Slemp and the President.

Slemp’s phone rang. Picking it up, the man listened to the voice on the other line for a moment. “Yes, sir,” he said and hung up. “You can go in now,” Slemp said to Donovan. Donovan stood, flattened out any creases, both real or imagined, and walked to the door.

Opening it, he walked into the beating heart of American democracy. Three men waited for him in the Oval Office. Secretary Charles Hughes was a known figure, an excellent statesman and negotiator, riding high off the success of the Four Power Treaty, the Nine Power Treaty, the Washington Naval Treaty and for helping organize the Dawes Committee whose Dawes Plan was being reviewed by both domestic and foreign leaders. The hyperinflation in Germany was worsening and political extremists were gaining popularity, much to the worry of American, French and British onlookers. Such popularity could lead to political power and the U.S. had a keen interest in ensuring democratic institutions and processes flourished in Europe rather than seeing them wither away on a collapsing economic vine.

Hughes rose to offer his hand, which Donovan shook respectively, the two exchanging a polite nod. The second man was faintly familiar to Donovan. He racked his brain, trying to recall who the man was and where he had seen his face before.

Ah. Major Sherman Miles, U.S. Army. The reason Donovan knew him was that Miles, as part of the Coolidge Mission after the Great War, had held the brevet rank of Lieutenant Colonel and had partook in the border adjustments of Carinthia and the reaffirmation of such adjustments after the Austro-Slovene conflict in the region.

Why was he here, Donovan wondered.

The third and final man in the room stood up from behind the Theodore Roosevelt Desk. Calvin Coolidge, President of the United States of America, was a man of average height and solemn appearance, seemingly cold and detached.

Yet if one were to look in his eyes then they would see the quiet inner strength, the fierce commitment to responsibly governing the United States after the Teapot Dome scandal, and a man of conservative small government principles and laissez-faire policies that was overseeing incredible economic growth that the United States had never before experienced.

“Ah, Mr. Donavan, glad you could meet us today.”

“It’s an honor, Mr. President.”

“Please.” Donovan sat down in the offered chair. The president returned to his desk, looking out the window for a moment, seemingly admiring the distant fireworks before sitting down behind his desk.

“I’m sure you can guess why I asked you to come over today, Bill.”

“The upcoming Sakhalin Conference is my guess.”

Hughes barked a short laugh as he looked at the president. “I told you he was perceptive, sir.”

Coolidge smiled. “That he is.” The president leaned back in his chair. “Bill, the situation in Asia is becoming more tense as of late. According to State Department sources, the Soviets have been smuggling weapons and financial support to Communist elements in China, Japan, and several countries in Europe. Mongolia is firmly under Sverdlov’s thumb and barks whenever Moscow commands.”

Coolidge sighed and pondered a moment.

“Britain and France can deal with the Soviets in Europe. But Asia is going to be the world’s market one day. Their population and resources will be indispensable to future American prosperity. We cannot have that be ruined by Soviet interference.”

“So you approve of the conference? Of its intended goal to allow Japan to retain the northern half of Sakhalin?”

“I am half a mind on yes and half a mind on no.” President Coolidge rubbed his chin in thought. “Tell me what you think, Bill.”

Donovan was silent for a moment, collecting his thoughts. “Japan,” he began, “is a rising power. A hundred years ago they were an isolated island centuries behind the rest of the world technologically. Fifty years ago they were a newly industrial nation hungry for raw materials their country simply did not have. And twenty years ago they were an upstart regional power who took on Tsarist Russia… and won.”

The three men nodded, knowing this.

“I say this to show you that Japan has grown rapidly in industry, population, and threat since Commodore Perry forced them to engage with the world. One day, Mr. President, we might have to fight Japan. But I believe a war with the Soviet Union will come first. They are the antithesis of our country: anti-capitalist, anti-democratic, atheist, and a police state that oppresses individual freedoms.”

“With your experience in Asian affairs, do you think the United States should support the Sakhalin Conference?” Secretary Hughes asked.

Donovan pondered the question carefully before answering.

“No, I don’t think we should. However, nor do I think we should stop it.” The men around him seem nonplussed by that, as if that was what they were expecting. “The northern half of Sakhalin has been under Japanese control for years. It is rich in gas, coal, and above all, oil. These are necessary for an ever-growing industrialized nation, yet it is just as important for military expansion. If we were ever to cut Japan off from the oil and scrap metal it needs for its military industry, Sakhalin will be a temporary salve of sorts but one that simply cannot satisfy the increasingly hungry maw of Japanese industry. Yet it is better to have a strong Japan than a strong Communist Russia. One we can defeat considerably more easily than the other.”

The other three men nodded. The president moved over a document across the desk towards Donovan.

“I concur completely, Bill. As a result, I am sending a team led by Secretary Hughes to the Conference to act as both representatives of the United States and neutral observers. I want you to go as well.”

“To represent and neutrally observe?”

Coolidge smiled humorlessly. “Not quite.”

“Oh?”

“I want you to compile an intelligence report of everything you see and everyone you talk to. I want to know what the Japanese are doing and how and when and why they are doing it. As you said, a strong Japan is better than a strong Russia but I do not intend to be caught with my pants down whenever Japan finally starts eyeing our territorial and market interests. Do you accept?”

Donovan thought for a moment of his duties in the firm and in combating crime but an honest answer came swiftly. “Of course, sir.”

Coolidge seemed relieved, or rather less stressed, and gave a look to Sherman Miles.

“Now, major, what can you tell us about the Austrian Ambassador? I know you met this Hitler in passing in Carinthia. What can you tell me about the man?”

As the Army officer went into detail about the Bastard of Braunau am Inn, Donovan paid close attention. This Hitler fellow had caused quite an international stir. Donovan’s contacts in Austria had reported that Hitler’s actions and call for a conference surprised many and the fact that Hitler was still Ambassador outraged many in the established elite. He either had powerful friends in Austria or was too dangerous to touch. Likely a combination of both, and reports from Vienna were detailing large-scale speeches and gatherings of pro-Hitler citizens in favor of the conference and the fate of Sakhalin. The Austrian government was paralyzed, at least for the moment, and was allowing events to play out.

Donovan’s attention was on Miles recounting the Carinthian Plebiscite, the Austro-Slovene conflict, and its aftermath but all the while he pondered the same thing over and over in his mind.

Who was this Adolf Hitler and what did he want?​

Moscow, Russia
Union of Soviet Socialist Republics
July 1924​

Joseph Vissarionovich Stalin stepped out of the car and looked up at the Kremlin. It was a symbol of Russian endurance, of strength. It was symbolic for the new Soviet state. Whoever controlled the Kremlin controlled the USSR.

Power, he thought wistfully, and it’s held by an intellectual. Tsking, he moved towards the guarded entry.

Behind him came his staff adjutant Andrei Fyodorrovich Kolganov. Or at least, that’s what he called himself these days. Stalin knew the boy’s true name. Pyotr, or the Bull as his cell knew him as, had told Stalin as much prior to the Revolution. Stalin knew ‘Kolganov’s’ parentage. While there were many former tsarist officers or children of them in the Soviet Union, it seemed Fyodor wanted such matters kept confidential.

And what could be confidential could be exploited at a day and time of his choosing, and thus he partook in the charade, for now at least.

The guards saluted as he entered the Kremlin. Stalin thought he could almost sense their dread as he walked in. Being the Deputy People’s Commissar of the Joint State Political Directorate gave one a certain gravitas that incited a respectable dose of fear.

Stalin did not shirk from that but rather embraced it. He wouldn’t want it any other way.

Making his way to the Premier’s Office took some time. Even with everyone knowing him, the Man of Steel was just that… a man. He had to be stopped, screened and checked more than once. With events in Japan having failed so catastrophically, there were whispers of discontent among elements of the party, the new premier’s foreign agenda had already suffered a major setback. And Sverdlov would not risk assassination from foes both external or internal.

Reaching the Premier’s Office, he looked at Kolganov.

“Stay here.”

“Yes, Comrade Stalin.” Kolganov came to a brief attention before taking a seat in the guest area.

Reaching the door, Stalin knocked.

“Come in,” came the response.

Stalin walked into the Office of the Premier of the Soviet Union. Yakov Mikhailovich Sverdlov, Lenin’s Heir, worked behind his spartan desk. It was littered with documents and memos needing signing or reading. Stalin knew only a few people held a more difficult job than he. Sverdlov was one of them. The paperwork alone must have required a platoon of clerks to sort.

The premier looked up. “Ah, Comrade Stalin, so thankful for you to have accepted my invitation to visit me today.”

Stalin kept a platonic face. If he had dared to decline the ‘invitation’ Stalin would have found himself digging his own grave with a pistol against his head. “Thank you, Comrade Premier. It was most generous for you to have invited me.”

“Bah, sit down, sit down.” Stalin did so, hand clutching the folder he held with care as if it were a child. At that moment, it was more dear to him than Vasily.

“So,” Sverdlov began, “let’s discuss your future in this government.”

Stalin felt his throat tighten but he refused to look intimidated.

“Operation Red Sun was a complete failure. The Japanese, rather than readying for a mass uprising as had been encouraged, instead went for their leaders directly. A bold move, and one we can relate to, however unlike us they failed, miserably so. Now we have an international problem.” The premier gestured towards his paperwork. “The League of Nations, this facade of international cooperation, is convening in Tokyo to discuss the ‘Sakhalin issue’ as they call it.”

Sverdlov’s scholarly face morphed into cold determination. “That is absolutely unacceptable, Joseph Vissarionovich. Sakhalin itself is unimportant, however it is symbolic. It was stolen by the Japanese during the Civil War, and now the capitalists and imperialists are likely to ‘gift’ it to the Japanese.”

Stalin felt the fury wash over him and he remained quiet, like an island in a storm.

“I should have you shot,” Sverdlov said, “for betraying the trust of the peasants and workers of this grand Communist state. I have ordered the deaths of others for far less.”

Stalin felt sweat starting to form at his temples despite the room’s cool temperature.

“However, I cannot lay the blame at the feet of the deputy but rather the one who orchestrated it all. As of this morning, Comrade Dzerzhinsky has been relieved of command. He is to retire to the countryside to enjoy a well-deserved retirement. Comrade Stalin, you are in charge of the OGPU.”

Stalin felt relief. He had prepared for this possibility. Opening the folder were two documents. One held a letter to his family if he were to be purged. Sverdlov was a family man, so even if Stalin were to be executed the letter would have reached his family. The second list however was a memo citing the need to reorganize and reform the secret police from the Joint State Political Directorate into the People’s Commissariat of State Security. Below the short statement were the names of over thirty members of the OGPU, section and cell leaders, key commissars in Dzerzhinsky’s OGPU.

Rivals one and all, men who had earned Stalin’s ire. If he were to be the new chief of the secret police, he wanted men he could trust.

He handed the memo to Sverdlov who read it quickly, eyes dancing behind the glasses he wore.

“This is something you feel is necessary, comrade?”

“Yes,” Stalin lied. “The OGPU needs to change. Felix did an outstanding job, but the stress of creating the people’s paradise has taken its toll. The OGPU has become bloated, complacent, it has missed things it should not have. Instead of reforming the organization, it is better to simply restart and do things in a better, more efficient way.”

Sverdlov looked at him for a moment before nodding. “I see. And these names?”

“A drastic rebirth requires drastic change. These men would slow down the process. And some of them, if they were to be investigated, would doubtlessly be revealed to have embezzled government funds or offered clemency to enemies of the state in exchange of favors.”

Sverdlov gave a chilling smile. “The price you pay to bargain with the devil, eh.” The premier looked at the paper where a dotted line awaited his signature. Grabbing a pen, the premier scribbled his name on the line.

“There, it is official. Congratulations on your new organization, Comrade People’s Commissar. May the NKGB serve the proletariat well.”

“Of course, Comrade Premier. We serve to better their lives after all.”​

Vienna, Austria
Republic of Austria
August 1924​

“Papa, I want more!”

Simon Golmayer smiled at the petulance in his daughter’s voice. It seemed all children were little devils at one age or another.

Hannah Golmayer had just turned seven, and Lord did she love to remind people of that fact! She stood there, reddish-brown hair tumbling down in curls. Her bottom lip was out and she stomped her foot.

“Papa, I want more!”

“Hannah,” her mother warned from across the room. “Don’t pester your father. He has been at work all day.”

Simon reached into his pocket and pulled out several hundred one krone banknotes and gave them to Hannah. She jumped with joy and ran off to play banker with her stuffed animals. Simon didn’t like bringing work home, but nonetheless Hannah knew what he did. It wasn’t as prestigious as a doctor or as profitable as a lawyer, but Simon was able to provide for his family, despite the hard times.

Judith gave him an exasperated look before returning to her quilting. He shrugged and opened the copy of the Neues Wiener Journal he had picked up on his way from work. He hadn’t had a chance to grab one in the morning and he was curious as to what was happening.

The headline made him wince.

‘Austrian krone loses value as new currency is announced! Instability rumored in the Government Coalition!’

Already there had been protests, supplementing the ones being carried out against the government’s austerity measures. Unemployment, having lowered in recent months, was once again rising albeit slower than before. The Austrian krone was rapidly devaluing despite a loan from the Bank of England to try and keep it afloat.

Instead of printing more money, further devaluing the near worthless krone, the government had announced they would begin transitioning to a new currency starting at the end of the year. It was an unpopular move. Chancellor Seipel was under great criticism from the Communists, the Social Democrats, some National Liberals and even some with his own Christian Social Party. The backlash was so widespread there could easily be a leadership challenge if issues persisted.

The Chancellor however stated that tough times required tough choices and that a new currency would help stabilize the markets and re-establish the public’s trust in their money. This would stimulate economic growth for the betterment of all, at least that was the pitch.

Simon sighed. The money he gave Hannah seemed like a lot to her but it wouldn’t even buy a candy bar at a grocery store.

He looked over at Richard, who was laboring over at the dinner table. Several textbooks over mathematics and engineering were open as he studied for his upcoming exam. Simon was proud of his son. Richard’s anger at the world had not lessened but had calmed, it was still there but better hidden.

The death of Abraham was no longer a fresh wound in their family’s psyche, and Richard was now focusing on those that lived. He still lived at home, houses and apartments had skyrocketed in costs to keep ahead of hyperinflation and working as a construction laborer part-time wouldn’t pay the bills, thus he stayed with his parents and younger siblings as he studied.

Everything was going well for the evening. Felix was doing his homework from school, Hannah was playing with a handful of useless krones, and Richard studied while he and his wife relaxed.

All was good. All was…

The living room window shattered. Judith yelped in surprise, frozen in her chair. Hannah and Felix began to cry, glass littered the front of the house. Another window shattered, a brick rolling across the floor.

Simon and Richard both threw themselves flat on the ground, combat experience coming back in a flash as they went down on instinct. Simon crawled to his younger son and wife, Felix cried as he was roughly pushed down behind a chair. Simon could see Richard grabbing Hannah, rolling over her as a human shield.

Shouting could be heard, and several more bricks went through the window, or rather where the window used to be.

Simon looked towards his eldest son, nodding. Richard, still clutching Hannah, dragged her further into the house. Simon could hear a drawer being pulled open. Richard crawled back, one hand pulling him forward, the other clutching two revolvers. He slid one to Simon who grasped it.

Nodding, both stood in conjunction, pistols raised to fire and…

No one was there. They could hear distant running from down the street. Lights were turning on in the neighborhood in response to the noise.

Richard looked ready to chase after those who damaged their home but Simon blocked his son’s way.

“No, Richard. If they come back, I’ll need you to help defend our family.”

Richard tensed but relaxed. “Yes, father.”

“Good lad,” Simon said, clapping his son on the back. Turning, Simon picked up one of the bricks which had a poorly painted-on Star of David with the words ‘Juden Unerwünscht!’ written beneath it.

Simon frowned. He had known antisemitism was rising in the city, especially against poorer Jews who had relocated to the city during the war, but this showed a clear escalation against the well-to-do Jewish members of Viennese society.

It was troubling, to say the least.​

South Tyrol, Italy
Kingdom of Italy
August 1924​

Jakob Kuhr took a long draw of his beer, savoring its rich flavor. Putting down the half-empty stein, he smacked his lips in appreciation and belched, his companions raising their own beer steins in salute.

“To the Commander!”

“To the Commander!” They echoed. The three men with him were Wolves and they were celebrating the newspaper laid on the table they sat around. Kuhr picked it up, cleared his throat dramatically and began to speak, many nearby shushing each other to better hear.

“‘With the League of Nations Conference over Sakhalin set to begin in less than a week, Ambassador Hitler of Austria has been quoted as saying that keeping North Sakhalin out of the hands of the Soviets and in the hands of Japan will deter the spread of Communism. Ambassador Hitler would go on, clarifying that Communism was an insidious poison that if it were to infect another country then it would spread forth in a kind of domino effect to neighboring nations. Denying North Sakhalin to Russia would be a victorious addition to international peace and stability.’”

Kuhr stopped as the men, and a few women nearby, cheered at that. Kuhr beamed, almost everyone in the beer hall knowing of Kuhr’s association with the Black Wolf.

He was about to read further when the door to the Bierhaus swung open and the cheering stopped for what entered.

Six Italian soldiers walked in, strutted more accurately. Their rifles were slung, posture at ease, but they waded in like the Roman legionaries of old.

They walked up the bar. One, bearing a corporal’s stripes, leaned forward and spoke in heavily accented German. “Six beers for my friends.”

The bartender, Leopold Braunwald, eyed the Italians with disdain as he cleaned a stein.

“We’re all out,” he said bluntly.

The Italian corporal stared in disbelief and anger at the bartender, muttering to his friends. They brought their rifles up half-aimed, a not so subtle threat.

“Do you wish to change your answer.”

Braunwald leaned forward. “As I said, dago, we’re out of beer. So sorry.”

The Italian corporal reached over, grabbed Braunwald by the shirt and slammed him down onto the counter. The sound of a broken nose and the shattering of fallen glass echoed like a gunshot in the Bierhaus.

Several men stood from their tables, some grabbing their steins like bludgeons while several others reached into pockets for knives and pistols.

Kuhr remained seated and at a gesture his fellows also sat down, the rest of the Austrians choosing safety over death.

Frau Braunwald came over, arms raised.

“Please, please, stop this! Stop it now!” She leaned over her husband, guiding him away. “We’ll give you beer,” she said to the Italians, “so just stop it.”

The Italians, realizing how close they had brushed with a mob out for blood, meekly accepted the olive branch. Six beers were given to them and they drank quickly, draining the beer down their thirsty gullets. When they had left with their tail between their legs, Kuhr rose and went to the Braunwalds.

Herr Braunwald had a rag against his nose, staunching the bleeding while Frau Braunwald wept as she swept up the broken stein glass.

Kuhr pulled out money to pay for his tab, the Italian lira feeling foul on his hands. He added a large tip to the bill.

“Do not worry, Herr Braunwald. This will be taken care of.”

Kuhr left, his men following suit. The Bierhaus remained quiet as a grave after their departure, the once vibrant energy having been sapped out by violence. A quote Hitler had said often in Carinthia came to mind then, ‘Violence is best matched with greater violence.’

The Austrians slithered their way through the city, knowing the ins-and-outs of Bruneck’s alleyways and streets. Within ten minutes they had found the Italians. They were moving slowly through the city, at ease and unafraid. Thus far the worst that had happened to the occupiers had been flat tires, sugar in gas tanks or infrequent boycotting of Italian goods. All fairly low in threat.

Yet that was to change. At a quick hand gesture, the Austrian men moved quickly through back alleys to place themselves in front of the Italians.

Kuhr reflected, as his three men situated themselves into position, that he did not receive explicit orders from Hitler to do this. Yet the Commander’s last letter called for ‘greater action’ against the Italians, leaving the meaning open to interpretation. Hitler would doubtlessly approve of what he was about to do.

Kuhr checked his revolver, cocking it inside his coat to muffle the sound.

As the Italians neared, Kuhr raised his pistol, hidden in the shadow of an unlit alley.

And fired.

On cue the other Wolves opened fire as well, cutting down the Italians faster than they could have responded in kind.

Rushing the fallen men, Kuhr’s men began to loot them of weapons, ammo and anything else that could prove useful. But that was for his men to do. Kuhr had another mission.

Finding the Italian corporal was easy. Kuhr had aimed at his abdomen when he fired. Enough to cripple but not yet kill. The man was bleeding out fast. Kuhr would have to hurry.

Stuffing his revolver in the man’s mouth, Kuhr hissed in his ear.

“Our home will become your grave.” The subsequent shot splattered blood, bone and brain matter on the paved road. Kuhr’s ears rang but he ignored the discomfort.

Kuhr cleaned his gun with the dead man’s coat as he looked around. Lights in nearby homes were already starting to turn on. Doubtlessly the local police would arrive soon, but by then they would be long gone.

As Kuhr rallied his men to leave, a thought passed through his mind, one that lingered in reservation: things would change now in South Tyrol. A new, bloodier chapter had begun.​

Tokyo, Japan
Empire of Japan
September 1924​

Adolf Hitler woke up to the slight snoring of the woman beside him. His room in the Austrian Embassy was dark but he could imagine her beside him, nude, sated and comfortable. It was not the first time he and Lieselotte had shared a bed, nor would it be the last. After her near-rape and murder on Shans i Dyte and the assassination attempt at the funeral, both felt bonded to one another. Survivors of near-death, the adrenaline and stakes involved pushed them together as if fate turned the wheel of destiny. Hitler wondered if this was Social Darwinism at work. Both had endured much, survived what would have killed or broken lesser people, and now they were thrust together as if the gods of old wanted them to create the next generation of Austro-German Aryans, the inheritors of the earth.

Shaking his head of such philosophical idealism, he rose from the bed, careful not to wake his… companion. He didn’t know what to classify her as just yet. Moving to the bathroom, he emptied his bladder noisily, holding himself steady against the door frame. Flushing away last night’s tea, he looked at himself in the mirror.

Admittedly he was a little dishuffled from last night’s… engagement with Frau Aigner. Knowing the importance of today, he dare not appear less than his best. Pulling out a razor and shaving foam, he rid himself of the growing hairs on his cheeks and neck, tidying up his toothbrush mustache.

Once finished, he turned on the shower and stepped in to allow the hot water to wash over him. His hand wandered to his back, feeling the puckered scars that always reminded him of Hill 53. The price of duty, the price inherent of the noble Aryan blood that flowed grouch his veins.

Halfway through his shower he heard Lieselotte enter the bathroom. She slid the curtain and joined him. What followed was a nice distraction and a good way to start the day.

An hour later a car driven by Leichtenberg took him to the Japanese Foreign Ministry where the talks were to take place. Arriving, Hitler was greeted with warm welcome by Yasuhito.

“Ah, Adi, the day is finally here, eh.”

“That it is, Your Highness. Hopefully the League of Nations sees reason when Prime Minister Griichi and Foreign Minister Keishirō Matsui state their case.”

“We can only hope, Adi.”

“Indeed.”

Yasuhito led Hitler and his First Secretary into the Foreign Ministry, greeting dozens of officials from a score of nations. Hitler mingled with the Ambassadors of the other nations, many congratulating him on helping organize today’s conference.

After several minutes of pleasantries and feigned camaraderie, the doors to the Ministry opened and the League representatives arrived. Secretary-General Eric Drummond walked in, wearing a sharp suit and top hat. Beside him were representatives from the four permanent members of the Executive Council followed by the six non-permanent Executive Council members serving their term.

“It’s really about to happen,” Leichtenberg murmured beside him.

Everyone who was to partake in the conference made their way to the grand hall where they were to discuss and come to a decisive conclusion over the Sakhalin question.

The table was large, sized to fit over fifty seated individuals. Chairs were also against the wall for staff to sit and take minutes or relay notes. Japanese Foreign Ministry aides helped guide the international body to their seats.

Hitler kept the frown off his face as he found the placard with his name and that of Austria upon it. It was not at the ends of the table nor in the center of the long parallel flanks. Yet he knew that was to happen. He might have called for the conference but the truth of the matter was that Austria was but a minor player here, a glorified observer.

The real decisions would be made by the Executive Council and the Secretary-General. It was they who had to be convinced of the necessity of Sakhalin remaining in Japan’s sphere, no matter the cost.

After everyone had sat down, Secretary-General Drummond rose from his position at the head of the table and looked out over the assembled men. Leichtenberg stood behind Hitler to translate.

“Gentlemen, we are gathered here today to discuss the question of North Sakhalin. This will not be easy, nor will it be swift or rash. However, in the interests of world peace this conference must come to a final conclusion that puts international cooperation and stability before anything else.”

Drummond sat down and spoke once more.

“Let us begin.”​

 

[Tanner151]

Chapter Thirty-Three
Sakhalin Conference Part Two

Tokyo, Japan
Japanese Empire
September 1924​

“I’m sorry for the delay, Minister Matsui, but this Council has decided not to gift North Sakhalin to the Japanese Empire.”

The room smelled of cigarette smoke, tea and coffee. Men from a dozen nations sat in the room, many weary, sweat beading down their necks and eyes heavy with fatigue

Minister Keishirō Matsui looked as if he’d bit into a lemon.

“And why is that?” He asked via a translator.

Secretary-General Drummond leaned back into his chair.

“The League of Nations was designed to prevent wars from developing, to ensure international peace and stability. That would be impossible if the League were to give your Empire land that has been Russian for nearly fifty years. While we here do not agree with the Soviet Union, its ideology or policies, how dare we dictate how they operate within their own borders.”

Leichtenberg leaned forward to whisper in Hitler’s ear. “How fair of them to criticize Japanese actions but not the intervention of the Allies during the Russian Civil War.”

Hitler hid a smile behind his hand, rubbing his mustache to hide what he was thinking.

“Your government, Minister Matsui,” Drummond continued, “Was already in the process of withdrawing from North Sakhalin. To then reward the island to you, snubbing the Soviet Union in the process, could very well lead to a war. The world, gentlemen, is exhausted of war. The wounds left by the Great War have yet to heal. Why risk peace over half an island most people have never even heard of.”

Matsui opened his mouth to counter but Drummond cut him off.

“I’m sorry, Minister Matsui, but the decision is final. North Sakhalin is to be returned to the Soviet Union on the condition that it is demilitarized for twenty years. The conclusion of this conference will be announced publicly on Monday at noon.

Drummond stood and withdrew, the rest of the Executive Council following suit.

Hitler watched as the conference room emptied, eventually leaving Minister Matsui and Prince Yasuhito. The two talked briefly in heated Japanese before Matsui rose to bow to Yasuhito and withdrew hastily.

Yasuhito sighed, rubbing his hands through his neatly combed hair.

“This is becoming a disaster,” he remarked. “We lost our prime minister, my mother and my father, and all we get out of this is a reminder that we are not seen as equals by the West.”

Hitler sat there in silence, letting the Prince vent his frustrations.

Yasuhito slammed both hands, palms down, on the table. “Damn it all, Adi! Damn! It! All! Griichi is furious, and that pales compared to the fury of my brother.”

“What will the emperor do?” Hitler asked quietly.

Yasuhito exhaled. “He’s told the Supreme War Council to ready an additional division to march into North Sakhalin, as well as prepare the mobilization and deployment of a half dozen divisions to Manchuria.”

“Is he going to order an attack on the Soviets?”

“I… I don’t know. It’s possible. He might be swayed to do something else but he can’t be seen as the League’s whipping boy. It’ll discredit him amongst the military.”

“I see.”

The Crown Prince, Heir to the Chrysanthemum Throne, stood up. “It very well might lead to war.”

Hitler hid a smile that threatened to show itself. “That’s very unfortunate,” he lied. “Austria will not be able to aid you. The post-war treaties have broken us. If they weren’t a noose around our neck, then perhaps,” Hitler shrugged.

“I understand,” Yasuhito said quietly but firmly, “Yet honor demands something must be done.”
​

+ + +​

“Is this truly a good idea, Herr Ambassador?” Konrad Leichtenberg asked. The room was dark, lit only by a lamp. It was dark outside, the sun to properly herald Saturday was still hours away.

Hitler gave a look across his office desk at the Embassy’s First Secretary before taking a deep drink of his coffee before responding.

“Is what a good idea?” he asked after a moment

“Encouraging this war between the Japanese and Soviets? It could be disastrous, sir.”

“There are risks but potentially three positive benefits. One,” Hitler extended his thumb, “A war between Japan and the Soviet Union could potentially weaken the Communists. Their economy is stuttering, their leadership is new and untested, and many within the USSR still chafe at the bit about being under Soviet domination.

“Two, the Soviets have a large army, this is without doubt but their navy, specifically their Pacific Navy, is woefully inadequate against the IJN. At most it will be a status quo and the world will see the Soviet Union for the glass cannon it is. Very strong bite, but vulnerable to cracks.

“And three, if Japan and Russia go to war, there is a chance, admittedly a small one, in which Britain and France might get involved in some form. This will force them to turn their gaze from Central Europe to Eastern Europe. They wouldn’t want weakened nations in Central Europe vulnerable to revolution, therefore the restrictions on economies and rearmament can be removed. All to counter a growing Soviet threat of course,” Hitler gave a sly look to Leichtenberg.

“Japan can be a useful ally, yes, but remember, Konrad, they are a tool to be used and discarded.” Hitler finished his coffee. “I would watch Japan burn if it were to serve my ends.”

Leichtenberg winced, frowning at that.

“Sir, I think-“

A knock sounded from the door and Lieselotte entered.

“Yes?”

“Herr Ambassador, someone has arrived to our main gate.”

Hitler frowned. “Just some common riff-raff. The guards will take care of him.”

“No, sir, I don’t think they will.” That caused Hitler to straighten in his chair, annoyance becoming plain on his face.

“And why is that, Frau Aigner?”

Lieselotte looked at him without flinching. “He is someone who you should definitely see, sir.”

Hitler’s anger cooled. Lieselotte wouldn’t interrupt this meeting without reason.

“Very well,” he finally said. “Come, Konrad, let’s see who our visitor is.”

Hitler and Leichtenberg walked down the staircase, a man standing near the half-open door. Two Austrian soldiers stood by, weapons holstered but alert.

Leichtenberg paused halfway down for a moment before quickly catching up.

“Sir, that’s-“

“I know who it is, Konrad. I’m curious as to why he is here.”

The two Austrians reached the bottom of the stairs and the man gave a solemn nod.

“Mister Ambassador,” he said in excellent German. “A pleasure. I’m Kirill Vladimirovich. I have a proposal for you.”
​

Györ, Hungary
Kingdom of Hungary
September 1924​

Major Tomás Horváth sipped the lukewarm beer, frowning at its taste.

“German beer not to your liking?” Gregor Barabás said. The former Lenin Boy-turned-Army lieutenant gave a toothy grin.

“Not entirely. I prefer Hungarian beer by far.”

Barabás shrugged and looked at the bartender, an ethnic German.

“Sorry, Ludwig. It seems like the good major does not care for Deutschbier.”

The German, a blond haired man, shrugged as he cleaned a stein.

Sergeant Thuloc, Horváth’s senior NCO, took a deep drag on his cigarette and picked up his shot glass filled to the brim with pálinka. “A true Hungarian drinks pálinka… sirs.”

Horváth chuckled as he raised his hand gestures towards the shot glass, the barmaid understanding.

“Is it just me, or is she getting prettier?” Barabás mused, sipping his beer.

“She’s the same,” Thuloc said, “You’re just more drunk.”

Barabás looked at the half-dozen empty beer bottles and two shot glasses next to him as if in shock.

“Oh.”

Horváth and Thuloc slapped the table in laughter.

Horváth rubbed his face, feeling flushed as he enjoyed himself. He felt relaxed, truly relaxed, for the first time in a long while. It was truly incredible how many things had changed in Hungary. Since Admiral Miklós Horthy came to power as Regent and appointed István Bethlen as Prime Minister, things had begun to stabilize.

Hungary was no longer at war with its neighbors, though Czechoslovakia, Romania and Yugoslavia kept sizable forces positioned on the border which forced Hungary’s meager twenty thousand soldiers to be spread thin in case of any assault. Yet there was peace… and with peace came prosperity, of sorts.

Trade, especially with Austria and Czechoslovakia, was increasing despite diplomatic tensions. The Hungarian korona was still riddled with inflation and near-worthless but a loan from the League of Nations had stabilized it for now, allowing the monarchy-less Kingdom of Hungary to begin infrastructure and industry projects to further strengthen its flagging economy.

Concerning the Admiral, or rather Regent, well… Horváth had great respect for power and Horthy had brought the country back from the brink. The Regent was autocratic, a dictator in all but name, but food was on the table and money of various value was in his pocket.

Sometimes that was enough.

Horváth looked at Barabás and Thuloc. Friends, comrades-in-arms, brothers of a sort. As the barmaid came by to deliver their shots of pálinka The Hungarian major nodded in thanks.

Grabbing his glass shot he raised it.

“To Horthy and Hungary!”

“To Horthy and Hungary!” Both replied with enthusiasm before downing their drinks in celebration.
​

Bruneck, South Tyrol
Kingdom of Italy
September 1924​

Black jackboots clicked on the cobble road. Jakob Kuhr watched with thinly veiled disgust at the newly arrived Italians. It wasn’t the first batch of foreign occupiers to arrive to enforce martial law on South Tyrol.

Ever since Kuhr and his men had ambushed that Italian squad weeks ago, things had progressively worsened. It seemed Mussolini, the bombastic bald Il Duce, was furious that his soldiers were killed on what the dictator declared was Italian soil.

While most of South Tyrol would dispute that, few seemed hesitant to do anything about it. The Wolves and a few like-minded patriots could do little against the several thousand strong garrison that now took few risks. Patrols were doubled in size, curfews implemented. To offset occupation costs, the Italians had levied an ‘integration tax’ on goods. So if an Austrian mother bought milk for her hungry child or an Austrian carpenter bought tools for his trade, part of their hard-earned money would go to their own oppression. Those who refused to levy the tax in their stores were subsequently arrested and an Italian business owner would move in to buy the business for a portion of its true cost. Already a half-dozen shops were now run by Italians where only a month ago they had been trueborn Austrians.

It was sickening, Kuhr’s mouth tasted sour as he watched the sharply dressed and well-armed troops march into the city center. The onlooking crowds, forced to attend, stood silent. There was no clapping or cheering, just a silent observation. Some women and even a man or two cried, likely remembering how events were in the aftermath of the Great War.

“What are we to do, boss? We can’t fight that many,” whispered Anton Braunwald, the bartender’s son. An impressionable young man, he was just young enough to have not fought in the war. If Kuhr was to resist the Italians, then he would have to recruit more and more among the South Tyrolese. The score of Wolves he had brought with him were too few to make a suitable enough difference in the grand scheme of things. Also Anton spoke Italian, learning it in school where it was now a requirement in the ‘Italianized Curriculum.’

Before Kuhr could respond, a Fiat 501-S model car drove up alongside the column of infantry, little Italian flags on the hood flapping in the wind. It stopped in the city square as troops began to form up behind the vehicle, facing the locals.

An older Italian stepped out in the uniform of an officer. It was hard to tell from the distance exactly what the man’s rank was but the Italian was older and sported a white mustache. The man was clearly displeased, a look of disgust wrought on his face. Another officer, less laden with medals and lacking a sash, stood next to the older officer, a megaphone in hand.

The older officer began to speak but Kuhr couldn’t hear or understand him. He turned to Anton but the boy shook his head, also unable to hear.

The officer with the megaphone began to speak, amplifying his words across the square, repeating what his commander had said and translating it into German.

“I am Field Marshal Luigi Cadorna. I have been sent by Prime Minister Mussolini to enforce law and order in the kingdom’s South Tyrol province. The recent debauchery by the local criminal and seditious element is to end now.”

Cadorna moved forward, the megaphone-wielding officer and two guards mirrored him. The field marshal stood in front of the crowd, staring them down with vile bitterness.

“While the Italian tricolor flies over this land it is then subject to Italian law. However, the prime minister has given me the authority to do what I must to ensure compliance and integration.” Cadorna’s gaze swept over where Kuhr and Anton stood though he wasn't looking at them specifically. Anton shuffled nervously but Kuhr stared back, unfazed.

“I can be a fair hand over you… but justice for the murdered soldiers must come first.” Cadorna raised his hand and waved it forward. Dozens of Italians moved forward, eliciting screams and people backing up, some falling and being stepped on.

Twenty Austrians, all men and boys, were dragged to the center of the square. Some were old enough to have seen the Austro-Prussian War, others were younger than Anton. They were dragged and thrown onto the ground, guns aimed at them.

“South Tyrol will become a peaceful province of Italy. I am forced to do this because of the actions of a few. It is their fault for what is to happen, not mine! While I am in command here there will be zero toleration of disobedience, sedition and Germanic barbarism.”

Cadorna walked to the end of the line of assembled captives.

“This is the price you pay. Actions always have consequences.”

He raised his hand again, this time rifles were raised, aimed at the back of crying Austrians who laid there in disbelief and horror. The field marshal’s hand fell down as if the event it was ordering to happen was unimportant.

Twenty rifles thundered and twenty new corpses littered Bruneck’s city square.

“Peace, law and order are now the way of this land. Follow the edicts and rules and you will have a fine life. Break them, and you and your people will suffer.”

The field marshal returned to his car and it drove away, the Italian soldiers soon following as they marched off to their newly constructed barracks. Earning Mussolini’s ire had caused Cadorna’s heavy hand.

Despite the dead in the square and the wailing that followed, Kuhr couldn’t help but feel relief. Not only that he hadn’t been chosen, but also the retaliatory acts of the Italians. If Cadorna had come offering a carrot rather than a stick it could have very likely killed the resistance movement in its fragile infancy. Now… now it would only grow. Kuhr saw the hatred in the faces and tears of those around him. As the soldiers left the square, family members and friends moved forward to gather the bodies and mourn.

South Tyrol was quickly turning into a house of cards. All Kuhr needed to do was give it a little push and it would all come crashing down in rebellion.

Kuhr remembered what he and other patriots had said in the town’s bierhaus when Hitler’s call to arms concerning Carinthia had reached them in what felt like an age ago but in reality was only five and a half years. They had said ‘First Carinthia, then South Tyrol!’

It seemed that South Tyrol’s turn was finally coming.
​

Berlin, Germany
German Reich
September 1924​

Paul Lutjens took a sip of beer, savoring the excellent taste. Say what you will about the Germans, they made excellent beer.

Finishing his stein, he raised it to get the bartender’s attention. The man nodded and took it to refill. Lutjens brought out a cigarette, lighting it, and took a deep drag, savoring the flavor. Exhaling he felt stress melt away.

It had been a difficult few months. Hell, it had been a difficult year, yet at long last he was finally able to work consistently. The German economy was slowly recovering due to the efforts of Gustav Streseman, once Chancellor but now only Foreign Minister, and the new American-crafted Dawes Plan that helped alleviate much of the fiscal burden that stuttered the German economy. Things were starting to be produced and money, actual money with value this time, was being paid out and circulating.

His stein, now refilled with a delicious golden liquid, was placed before him and he nodded in thanks to the bartender. Taking the stein he sipped, enjoying not only the taste but also that for the first time in a long time he could splurge on himself a bit. He had gone from near-eviction to semi-comfortable.

A lot of that was thanks to Ursula, his roommate. Ursula Winkler, well, she was a curious one. Usually was up and gone in the morning before he stirred from slumber and wouldn’t return until late in the evening long after he had returned.

They shared very little small talk, rarely even eating together or socializing. All he knew about her was that she was likely a prostitute of some sort and was vehemently anti-fascist after she made some scathing remarks about the Oppressor of South Tyrol, a certain Luigi Cadorna. The Italian field marshal did not even try and keep his executions hidden, showing them off to the world as the consequences of resisting the new regime. Newspapers showcased photographs of the mass graves, with estimates that already two hundred South Tyrolese had been killed in the weeks since taking command.

The League of Nations had issued a protest, but little was done to actually intervene and stop the butchery. Lutjens, as a committed Austrian, was outraged… but he knew the executions were the result of a murdered squad of Italian soldiers. Nothing came without cost.

And even though he was an Austrian man to his core, the Austria he loved was not exactly the one that existed. Political and ethnic tensions were rising back home with the Austrian democrats, communists and fascists all fighting in the streets with fists and in the halls of parliament with words… and sometimes fists. And if Germany was recovering, Austria was not, at least not on the same scale.

Nursing the beer, a woman’s voice interrupted him.

“Have I seen you around before?” asked a woman’s voice.

Lutjens turned to look at the speaker, breath catching in his throat. She was beautiful, her flaxen hair tied into a tight bun and her eyes appeared to be blue jewels. She was thin but not unhealthily so with a large bosom well-hidden by a form-fitting white uniform shirt.

“I doubt it,” Lutjens said after a moment, captivated by her beauty. “I don’t come here that often.”

The woman smiled, white pearls emphasizing her striking beauty. “You should come by more often then.” She held out a hand which he took. “Bärbel Herrmann.”

“Paul Lutjens.”

“Are you from Bavaria?” she asked, likely due to his accent.

“No, Austria.”

“Ah.” She nodded in understanding. “You fought in the war?”

Lutjens gave a shrug. “Who didn’t my age. Lost a lot of friends, thankfully I made it out alright.” He took a sip of beer, feeling Bärbel’s intense gaze on him.

“Shame that we weren’t able to become a united country. All Germans should be united in land as well as blood. It’s all because of the vile French and their British bootlickers.”

Lutjens nodded, but an alarm rang inside his head. United in land… blood… hating the French… he looked over her clothing again, not trying to see the curves underneath but rather the articles of clothing themselves. A white shirt with a khaki dress with an armband around her left arm. The armband was white but in the middle of it was a black sun ablaze. The Sonnenrad, symbol of Germany’s largest fascist movement.

She saw his gaze. “Oh yes, I nearly forgot why I came over to you.” She flashed him another dazzling smile. She reached into a satchel she wore and pulled out a flier. On the cover was a Teutonic knight holding an unsheathed sword and shield, protecting a blonde maiden who stared in horror at four approaching figures. A casual glance showed incredibly stereotypical and racist caricatures of Russians, Frenchmen, American Negroes and Jews.

The caption read, “Only we can protect the German Race!” At the bottom in smaller print read: “Vote for the Free German Workers’ Defense League this September for a New Germany!”

Bärbel held out the flier to him, holding it out like a holy work of text.

He looked at it and frowned. “I think you may have the wrong idea.”

Bärbel looked stunned. “Are you not a German patriot?”

“Considering I’m not German-”

“But you are! Austrians are brothers to the Germans. Your language is German, your culture, your blood-”

“Please stop. I am about as apolitical as you get. I have no interest in the FDAS so I would prefer if you kept your rhetoric for someone else.” He finished his beer, paid the tab and rose to leave. A burly young man in his early twenties and nearly two meters tall, stood up to block his way. He wore a khaki shirt and trousers.

“You’ll take the flier, friend, unless you’re some kind of damn Communist. Love sucking Sverdlov’s cock, you Red bastard?”

“Wonder if that classifies as kosher or not.”

“You- what?” The twenty-year old might have impressive muscles but clearly lacked a sense of sarcasm.

“Listen, I’ve had a long day and I’d like to go home. So if you would please move.” Lutjens tried to go around him but the fascist barred his way, pushing back on him. Lutjens was starting to get annoyed.

“How old are you?” he asked.

The fascist scowled. “Twenty-two.”

“So you missed the war, and now you antagonize a veteran. I thought you fascist scum glorified veterans? I’ve killed men and seen horrors you wouldn’t believe. Don’t fuck with me and get out of my way, boy.”

The khaki-clothed fascist’s face turned beet red at the insults and raised his fist to strike, but Lutjens was expecting that. He stepped forward, inside the tall man’s reach, and kneed him in the groin. The man fell to his knees. Lutjens grabbed a fistful of hair and slammed his head onto the bar counter. The man fell over, unconscious and bleeding. Lutjens patted him down, finding a wallet. Inside were a mix of Rentenmark and Papiermark. He took out the wad of cash, pocketed a twenty Rentenmark bill and put the rest on the counter.

To the bartender he said, “For the mess.”

Looking back he expected to see the FDAS woman furious, instead she stared at him with a collected gaze. Her cheeks were flushed but she said nothing as he turned around and left.

He took the long way home, backtracking and pausing frequently to see if anyone followed him. Once he was sure no one was, he entered his apartment building and quickly took the stairs up. He would need to carry a pistol with him for the foreseeable future, just in case.

Key out, he entered his apartment quickly, hearing several yelps of surprise from inside. After closing and locking the door, he turned and was surprised not only seeing Ursula home so early but also a dozen other people, most women. The three men pulled out cudgels but Ursula’s voice stopped them.

“He’s my roommate!” Her blonde hair was in a braid and her brown eyes stared at him intently, possibly even worried.

“Ursula, I don’t mind you having people over but why are there so many-”

And then he saw it. On the table at which Ursula sat at was a large banner, adorned in a symbol he had seen often in the newspapers and in the streets from supporters of a particular movement that frequently involved itself in street fights.

It was a gold-rimmed red star. On the inside were a hammer and sickle. At the top were the words: ‘Down with the Scum! Vote for the Movement of the Proletariat!’ and at the bottom read: Kommunistische Partei Deutschlands.

Lütjens looked at Ursula and before he could help it the word slipped out, “Shit.”
​

Tokyo, Japan
Empire of Japan
September 1924​

“You must agree, this is highly irregular,” Garth Culpepper, officially known as Murphy Lewis on this mission, said to the other man, an American attached to their Secretary of State.

Culpepper watched William ‘Bill’ Donovan read over the paper again before tossing the paper down and sighing.

“Yes, it is irregular, but tell me, Murphy, what about anything in the past forty-eight hours have been normal.”

“True. There has been a lot of hush-hush between Sir Charles Eliot and Secretary-General Drummond over the weekend. Japanese officials have been seen coming and going several times.”

Donovan added after a moment, appearing to ponder, “Adolf Hitler has been seen going into the Japanese Foreign Ministry at Kasumigaseki Saturday morning. He hasn’t left yet.”

“The Austrian Ambassador?”

“The very one. He’s an insidious bastard, that one.”

“Is that why you were sent here, to observe him?” Culpepper asked nonchalantly.

“Just like you were sent here as an aide to Sir Hughes. Isn't that right, ‘Murph?’” Donavan asked with a straight face.

Culpepper looked at the American and shrugged, causing Donovan to laugh.

“In our line of work, Murph, we have to hide our objectives behind a façade.”

“We do the dirty work so the world stays clean.”

“Precisely.” Donovan stood. “Shall we, my overbearing British friend.”

“We shall, my rebellious American chap.”

The two men left the café, having placed themselves at the back facing the doorway, and entered Donovan’s car, an imported Ford. Culpepper doubted Donovan knew his real identity, merely that Murphy Lewis was an alias. One he would have to double-check back home to ensure it wasn’t compromised. Perhaps the American intelligence apparatus, decentralized and underfunded as it currently was, was far better than MI6 gave it credit for.

The Ford car drove through Tokyo to Kasumigaseki of Chiyoda Ward, the beating heart of the Japanese government. Security was heightened, naturally, following the July 8th Incident which saw the Empress, the Prime Minister and many others murdered by anarcho-communist forces.

Arriving at the Japanese Foreign Ministry, Donovan parked the car, and the two walked up to the entrance of the Ministry which was full of reporters and government officials. A podium with a dozen microphones stood vacant in front of the Ministry’s doors. Dozens of security guards were visible, likely more stashed away elsewhere in case there was trouble.

Culpepper saw Donovan move towards Secretary Hughes while he himself found Ambassador Eliot.

“You Excellency, what is all this about?”

The British Ambassador to Japan frowned. “A devil’s bargain.”

“Sir?”

“You’ll see in just a moment, Mister Lewis.” Eliot shook his head. “The whole world is about to see.”

The assembled crowd began to hush themselves as Secretary-General Drummond moved to the podium. Drummond appeared tired as if the past couple of days had been restless and demanding, which was likely considering all the rumored backroom dealing that had taken place over the weekend.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the press, thank you for your patience.” Drummond took a deep breath. “The past couple of weeks the Sakhalin Conference, spearheaded by myself, the Executive Council of the League of Nations, and Foreign Minister Matsui, has convened here in the fair city of Tokyo. We set out to determine whether or not the Empire of Japan should annex North Sakhalin, all in the interest of world peace and stability. After much debate and a bold compromise achieved only late last night, I am pleased to announce that North Sakhalin will not be annexed by Japan nor gifted to the Soviet Union so as to prevent conflict between the two nations.””

The assembled crowd muttered, cameras flashing as reporters wrote furiously in their notepads. Drummond continued.

“Rather, North Sakhalin will become a demilitarized buffer zone void of any Japanese and Soviet forces. As such North Sakhalin will be reorganized into the Second Tsardom of Russia, allowing a nation free of Communism to act as a safe haven for any Russians who have suffered and fled from Soviet oppression. And now, ladies and gentlemen, let me introduce to you the founding tsar of this new nation and the man who proposed this idea: Kirill Vladimirovich Romanov.”

Polite clapping followed. Culpepper joined in. A slight against the Soviets was always a victory, but to essentially revive a Romanov-led Russia… that was a bit reckless. Culpepper eyed Drummond who clapped and shook Kirill’s hand, but Culpepper could tell the Secretary-General was stiff, the handshake a mere formality. Clearly the Secretary-General was not a fan of this deal, but perhaps he had no choice. Eying the Japanese delegates who stood behind the podium, smiling, shaking hands and bowing to one another, Culpepper could guess that the Japanese saw this as a victory of sorts. Even if they could not directly rule North Sakhalin, they kept it out of the hands of the Soviets and now a vocal anti-Communist Romanov sat on the throne of this ‘Second Tsardom.’ It wouldn’t surprise Culpepper if behind the scenes, the Japanese pulled the strings of Kirill and whatever government he would establish in the coming months.

Was a war prevented by this compromise? Perhaps, but perhaps not. Culpepper had a feeling war would come one day, that this Sakhalin Compromise merely delayed it. He looked out across the crowd and caught Donovan’s eye. The American scowled, likely coming to the same conclusions as he.

Unbeknownst to Culpepper and Donovan, Hitler watched the events unfold from several stories up in the Japanese Foreign Ministry. The Japanese in the room were cracking open bottles of sake and other local liquors, speaking excitedly in rapid tones that made it hard for Leichtenberg to translate.

“Sir, would you care for a drink?”

Hitler shook his head and the First Secretary withdrew to leave Hitler to his thoughts. Looking down, he saw Kirill, now Tsar Kirill I, make his speech in English about the hopes and dreams of his newborn nation, of the reasoning for its founding, and so on and so forth. Most of the speech Kirill had come up with himself, but the rest had been ‘suggested’ by Foreign Minister Matsui and Hitler himself.

Three days ago Hitler had readied himself to the fact that war would break out between the Japanese and Soviets. While war between the two nations was an outcome he was not particularly against, as there were potential benefits to come from the conflict, it was not the preferred outcome. And neither was the Sakhalin Compromise, but perhaps it was a better alternative. North Sakhalin to act as a ‘buffer zone’ between the USSR and Japanese Empire was a gilded lie. Give it a few years, maybe a decade or more, but in time Japanese soldiers would march through the streets of Alexandrovsky and the Rising Sun would rule the pissant tsardom in all but name.

Hitler could feel pride in the hand he had played here, both with the Austro-Japanese Trade Agreement and the Sakhalin Conference and subsequent Compromise. Yet his actions were not without consequences. Already he had received reports from Olbrecht stating the frayed relationship between the National Liberal Front and the Christian Social Party, and the growing divide within the Front itself. Hitler’s actions had been praised by his supporters in Parliament, while his enemies once again barred their knives. Official government communiques from Vienna had relayed Chancellor Seipel's belief that Hitler had overstepped his authority and that an investigation would be carried out.

He would be recalled soon, there was no doubt about that. Possibly forced to resign and be censured, but Hitler was planning for that. The consequences for his actions were coming due yet he was unafraid.

“Let them come,” he said quietly as the men behind him started to make toasts to this historic day. “Let them try.”​

 

[Tanner151]

Chapter Thirty-Four
A Calculated Risk
Vienna, Austria
Republic of Austria
October 1924​

Chancellor Ignaz Seipel threw down a copy of the Wiener Zeitung on his desk in frustration. The headline read: ‘The September Restoration!’ Below was a picture of the newly crowned Tsar Kirill and Japanese Prime Minister Griichi shaking hands at the formal announcement of the Second Tsardom of Russia’s creation. Yet the focus was not on them but rather centered on a man standing behind them amongst a small crowd of onlookers. Superimposed on the photograph was Adolf Hitler, who stood watching on like a man who had just succeeded in a bold move during a chess match.

The Austrian head of government stared daggers at the four men across from him. Two were fellow Christian Socials, the others National Liberals.

“This is outrageous!” Seipel snarled. “That man is out of control, Gustav!”

Gustav Gross, Chairman of the National Liberal Front and Vice-Chancellor of Austria, wearily eyed the newspaper. Seipel almost felt sorry for the man, but his anger won out.

“Hitler has for all intents and purposes gone rogue. He pushed for the Sakhalin Conference and Compromise all behind our backs.” Seipel glared at Grünberger. “I thought you were keeping a close eye on that megalomaniac. What happened to your man in the embassy?”

The Foreign Minister loosened up his collar, coughing awkwardly. “It seems Leichtenberg falsified his reports somewhat. Rarely lying, but consistently misdirecting and relaying half-truths.”

Von Hoffenberg spoke up, “Where that bastard goes, he gains followers. He’s dangerous.” The Front’s Deputy Chairman and the government’s Minister of Labor side-eyed Gross. “I told you he couldn’t be trusted.”

Gross sighed. “Hitler has always been a man of drive. That appeals to people, especially those desperate for something to believe in.”

“A man of drive or not, he has unnecessarily entangled Austria in foreign relations with countries on the far side of the world,” Rudolf Ramek, the Christian Social Party Whip stated. “We can ill afford a war. It will tear the Fatherland apart.”

Seipel nodded. “The Communists and Otto Bauer’s radical segments of the Social Democrats are protesting in the streets, calling for new elections. They are demonizing Hitler, labeling him as a ‘lederhosen fascist.’ Our working majority in Parliament is fraying,” the Chancellor said, glancing at Gross and von Hoffenberg. “Either get your people in line or threaten party expulsion.”

Gross grimaced. “While that might work with a majority of professional politicians, the members of our party who have been… outspoken in their support of Hitler are not career politicians. They are-“

“Uncouth rogues,” von Hoffenberg interrupted. “Most are bitter veterans of little education who cannot fathom that the country doesn’t need their remembrance of misery or revanchist desire for vengeance.”

“Those ‘bitter veterans’ as you so accurately but poorly label them, Herr Minister, are a powerful voting bloc,” Ramek interjected. “Many support the CS and NLF for now, but Hitler’s appeal to the disgruntled veteran cannot be underestimated. Look at what he did in Carinthia for example. For God’s sake just look at what is happening in South Tyrol right now. It is rumored that many of the instigators in Bruneck were part of those damn Wolves.”

“What can we do?” Grünberger muttered. The Foreign Minister’s thin frame and ghoul like appearance did him no favors in politics, but he was a damned good negotiator and diplomat.

Seipel’s fingers tapped against his desk, scenarios racing through his mind. He knew what to suggest, but it very well might be the fall of his government. Yet it was Gross who spoke first.

“I fear we might have to recall Hitler from his ambassadorship and remove him from office. Then… then the Central Committee must expel Hitler from the Front,” the Vice-Chancellor said at last, relieving Seipel that he wouldn’t have to propose it himself. While a relief, it also brought worry.

“You show Hitler the door, thousands will follow. It will weaken the National Liberals considerably, especially amongst the working class and military, both former and current,” Ramek pointed out. “If enough voters and MPs follow Hitler, it will cause our coalition to lose its majority and with it the government.”

Seipel rubbed his eyes until an idea struck him. “Hitler cannot be allowed to remain in government. He is unpredictable and follows only his ambition rather than national interests. Are we in agreement on that?”

The other four men nodded as a matter-of-fact, some quickly like von Hoffenberg, others more hesitantly like Grünberger. Seipel continued.

“However, it is highly probable that if Hitler were to be expelled from the Front, many would follow him. This will cause the National Liberals to fracture and the government to fall. I will not tolerate another coalition with the Social Democrats and their Schutzbund henchmen. Therefore,” he cleared his throat, “I will approach the Heimatblock and Landbund to sway them to join us in coalition and to keep this government afloat.”

Ramek whistled through his teeth. “Risky.”

“Risky?” Von Hoffenberg said in a neutral tone that conveyed his disbelief. “Having sex with a whore without a rubber is risky. Putting the Heimatblock and the Landbund together is suicide. They despise one another.”

Seipel nodded, agreeing with the irate Labor Minister. The Heimatblock, and their more dangerous Heimatschutz, were adamant pro-Catholic nationalists through and through who wanted to either overthrow the Republic or reform it to a degree as to be unrecognizable, citing Mussolini’s Italy as an example to be followed.

The Landbund on the other hand were semi-pro-democracy farmers, largely Protestant, who wished the union with Germany had gone through back when the Fatherland had been temporarily known as German-Austria. Following that failure they wished closer ties to Germany and that religion not play a role in politics, something that would only benefit them and other minority groups, or so their detractors stated.

One supported authoritarianism, the other was lukewarm about democracy. Their economic, domestic and foreign policies were very nearly the opposite of the other’s platform. While the National Liberals and Christian Socials courted support from both sides for various laws or initiatives, it was a delicate balance and the two movements were rarely able to work together, typically ending in parliamentary bickering and street fighting between their respective paramilitaries.

“It has to be done,” Gross spoke, not as a burdened man but as a confident Party Chairman and dutiful Vice-Chancellor. “We need to show the Austrian people that the government cannot and will not revolve around any one man’s vision. We all agree the Communists and Social Democrats cannot be in governance, nor do we wish to risk a coalition with them. I see no other choice than what you propose, Chancellor Seipel. You have the Front’s support.”

“Thank you, good sir.”

Gross shrugged. “Please, Herr Chancellor, it is the least I can do. I will contact those approachable to such an alliance in the Heimatblock and Landbund, as I’m sure your party will as well,” Seipel, Grünberger and Ramek all nodded in confirmation, “Meanwhile I will be ascertaining the loyalty of our party members, especially those in government and party organization. Hitler has a firm grip on the propaganda department and several Heimatschutz formations loyal to the NLF, but they are a minority. The days to come will be difficult, but it will be made clear to Hitler and his extremists that Austria is a nation of Christian principles, law and order and thus has no place for a man like him to do as he desires without consequence.”

Seipel stood, the others mirroring the chancellor. Seipel stuck out his hand and shook hands with each man, smiling as he did so.

“Gentlemen, it looks like we have just averted catastrophe for the Republic and, more importantly, ourselves.”​

Berlin, Germany
German Reich
October 1924​

The sound of sausage and bacon sizzling on an iron skillet filled the apartment, as did its delicious smell. Paul Lutjens flipped the bacon, humming in tune with the music playing on the radio.

With the bacon and sausage finished, he scooped them out onto a plate and cracked two eggs on another iron skillet, quickly bubbling as it cooked.

The door to the apartment’s guest bedroom opened and Ursula Winkler walked out. She was dressed modestly in gray trousers and a red shirt. Lutjens noted the color, as well as the lack of visible KPD insignia. The police did not take kindly to Communists, as the past few years had thoroughly shown with violent frequency. The feeling was mutual. The Communists called the police and Reichswehr reactionary pro-monarchist fascists, while the police likewise demonized the Communists, labeling them traitors and ideological slaves to Marx, Lenin and Sverdlov.

With the Reichstag politically gridlocked, Chancellor Wilhelm Marx was forced to call for new elections to be held in the first week of December. The Center-led coalition government was wavering under increased pressure from the SDP who were only growing stronger as the Opposition. Factor in the growing fighting between the KPD and the FDAS, both verbally and physically, and things were looking uncertain once more in the Weimar Republic’s frail democracy.

It had been a couple of weeks now since Lutjens had come home early to a Communist meeting taking place in the living room, held by his roommate no less. The few days that followed were mind-whirling. The Commie bastards threatened him, tried to sway him to their ideology, and ignore him all at once.

Though it was a relief that Ursula had finally been upfront about the nature of her work, she still had not apologized. In fact their living together had become even more awkward and stiff.

She sat down at the dining table, looking over the newest campaign leaflets she was to dole out today. Lutjens finished the eggs and turned off the stove. He divided the food between two clean plates. Eyeing the growing amount in the sink, he moved to the dining table, setting one of the plates before Ursula.

She nodded wordless thanks. They ate in solemn silence.

Annoyed, Lutjens spoke to break the ice. Gesturing to the morning’s paper, he said, “Another one of yours was killed yesterday. The police stated it was a mugging but,” he shrugged, “this seems more like a murder. This has the FDAS written all over it.”

“Another one of mine?” Ursula intoned. “Are we Communists a separate species from you? Does our drive to save the proletariat make us inhuman?”

“You know that’s not what I meant-“

“As for the man who was murdered, he will become a martyr.” A flicker of sadness crossed her face. “We are a movement of martyrs it seems.”

“Ursula, I don’t think-“

“Well, there is truth to that,” she snapped. Lutjens frowned and Ursula’s face reddened, either from anger or embarrassment.

“All I’m saying,” he began, “was to be careful. It’s getting worse out there.”

“It’s always darkest before the dawn. And the dawn of the proletariat is coming, Paul, whether you like it or not.”

At that Ursula left, leaving Lutjens frustrated and worried. He sat there and ate his food in silence, thoughts stirring in his mind. When he had finished his meal, he dressed and left. He did not have work that day and so he found himself walking without a destination in mind, merely wandering, placing one foot in front of the other.

Election posters, both in the KPD red and FDAS brown were frequent, as were the faces of KPD leaders side-by-side with those of Lenin and Sverdlov. As for the fascist FDAS they favored images of their Party Chairman Gregor Strasser. Centre, SDP and DNVP posters were also out in force, their supporters shouting out party principles and promises to passerbys.

As he continued walking through Berlin’s bustling streets, the brown posters became fewer and fewer and the red more frequent.

It wasn’t too long before he found himself staring across the street at Karl-Liebknecht-Haus, the national headquarters for the Communist Party of Germany.

Guards with red armbands stood out front while people came and went in and out the large building like a factory line. He didn’t see Ursula but he just stood there, watching.

“Interested in something, comrade?”

Lutjens turned to look at the speaker, startled as he was so hyper focused on the K-L-H.

“Uh no, just making sure my roommate made it safely to work is all. It’s been hectic on the streets recently.”

“I see.” The man’s face was strikingly rat-like, with slick black hair and dark eyes. To Lutjens, he appeared as a stereotypical Jew the FDAS loved to hate on. Seeing the man’s own red armband, Lutjens knew him to be a Communist.

“Are you wishing to speak with her?” The man asked. “I could arrange it.”

“No, no, it’s okay.” Lutjens nodded thanks to the man and turned to leave.

“Paul?”

Looking behind him, he saw Ursula walking up to him, cigarette in hand.

“Yes, Frau Winkler?” The dark haired man said. His words came out with confidence, oily and insidious. This was a man who could sway people with voice alone.

“Oh, sorry, Doctor Goebbels. I was calling my roommate over there,” Ursula said, pointing at Lutjens.

“Ah, I see. Well do take care Frau Winkler, and please, stop by my office any time you like.”

“Thank you, Comrade Goebbels. I may take you up on that.”

The shorter man nodded and walked away, showing Lutjens that he had a noticeable limp. Was it from a war wound, he wondered.

Shaking his head, he cleared his thoughts as Ursula moved to him. She was comically short compared to him, barely reaching his shoulder and her pale blonde hair contrasted sharply with her red armband and dark gray clothing. Her brown eyes stared at him as if he were an insect.

“What?” she said, not quite snapping the words out but close.

“I-“ Lutjens felt awkward. He almost laughed. He had fought for four years in the Great War, becoming a sergeant and bracing machine guns and artillery, yet he found himself unsure of this woman.

Ursula stood there, tapping her foot as she took a deep drag of her cigarette. “Well?” She finally asked.

“I, uh, just wanted to see that you made it to… work ok.”

Her eyes were like brown flint, staring at him unflinchingly.

“And… I see that you have.” Feeling foolish, he turned to leave. “I’ll see you later,” he mumbled, face feeing hot from embarrassment. He just made a damn fool of himself, now things would be more awkward between them.

“Wait, Paul.”

He stopped, head turning back on its own volition.

Ursula stood there, frowning, nearly pout-like.

“I like Italian food,” she said hesitantly.

Lutjens smiled. “As do I.” Both looked at each other, ignoring the bustle of the street traffic. “Would you like to get dinner together sometime?” He hoped he didn’t sound desperate. He had faced Russian machine guns with more bravery.

“Yes. Yes, I would like that.”

Relief flooded through him.

“Good,” he managed. “I’ll let you know the time and place soon.”​

Near Tianjin, China
Republic of China (Beiyang Government)
October 1924​

Artillery thundered like an angry god beating upon a drum. Booming claps of heat and smoke, followed by a piercing wail and the thud and roar of impact. Mounds of earth were thrown into air before falling down, occasionally on people, both the dead and the living.

Corporal Yuuki Nakano marched through the countryside of northeast China, dust kicking up into the air as thousands marched, spread out to avoid being easy targets for enemy aircraft.

Though Nakano knew there was little to fear. The Fengtian Clique ruled the skies, their own aircraft and Japanese Avro 504s, ‘loaned’ to Marshal Zhang Zuolin, flying in cooperation. Many of the Avro 504 fighter craft were flown by Japanese pilots, similarly loaned to the Manchurian warlord alongside several divisions of the Imperial Japanese Army of which Nakano and his company belonged.

Nakano hated China. A land of mongrels fit only to serve their betters. At one time China had been a grand civilization, but that had been long ago. Now they were the dessicated husk of their former glory. It was time for a new empire to rule these rich lands. Marshal Zuolin was… tolerable, admittedly. If the Emperor wished to conquer China in the guise of aiding the Manchurian warlord then so be it. Who was he to question the divine?

Marching through a village, filled with ruined huts filled with smoke and fire. The Japanese soldiers walked beside a ditch on the village’s edge. It was filled with dozens of men, shot through the back, likely after digging said trench. Children cried, left alone or the fallen corpse of their mother. Screams came from several still-standing huts. Eventually a soldier emerged from a hut, wearing the uniform of the Imperial Japanese Army. He saw his countrymen and gave a toothy grin, waving.

Nakano returned the wave with a nod. He noted the Fengtian soldiers nearby watched on with boredom. It seems they held little love for their own countrymen. They were rivals and this was the price of their refusal to submit to the Old Marshal.

Marching past the village, the Japanese company marched for nearly an hour until coming upon a checkpoint manned by Fengtian troops.

Nakano didn’t understand a word exchanged but he eyed the Fengtian carefully, allies though they may be, he didn’t trust them.

Captain Tachi Igato talked to the checkpoint officer, both using a mish-mash of Manchu, Mandarin and Japanese. Eventually igato and the Fengtian separated, the captain calling forth the lieutenants, sergeants and corporals together.

“Good news,” Igato began, “Tianjin has almost fallen. A day, perhaps two, and it will be in our hands.”

The captain beamed as if he had taken the city by himself with nothing but samurai sword in hand.

“Why is that important?” Asked another lowly corporal.

“Because, you imbecile, when Tianjin falls Beijing won’t be far behind. And with Beijing in our hands-“

“The war will be over. We’ll have won,” Nakano found himself saying.

Igato nodded begrudgingly, obviously irked he had been interrupted. “Correct. It seems this Second Fengtian-Zhili conflict will be a short victorious war.”

And that it was turning out to be. The war had only been going on for a couple of weeks but the Fengtian Army, supplemented by Japanese soldiers and equipment, had made significant strides, defeating the Beiyang government at almost every turn.

To Nakano, he didn’t care what China would look like after the war ended. Likely the Old Marshal would be allowed to keep his gains as long as there was an understanding of certain matters between Zuolin and the Japanese government, specifically the Army General Staff.

As the soldiers continued their march past the checkpoint, Nakano just wanted to be out of China and back home in Kyoto.

Avro 504 fighter-craft flew over, their engines roaring, the fresh paint in Fengtian colors bleeding as they flew south towards where the fighting still continued.

Soon the war would be over. Soon Japan would reign supreme.
​

Tokyo, Japan
Empire of Japan
November 1924 ​

“It’s time, sir,” came the voice of Konrad Leichtenberg, the Austrian Embassy’s First Secretary.

Adolf Hitler closed his briefcase, locking the clasps before turning to look at the man who had been designed by his enemies to be a spy but who had become a trusted confidant since his arrival nine months ago.

Hitler looked around his office, frowning in disappointment that his tenure here had ended so soon. He did well in this office, accomplishing things his detractors would not have thought possible a year ago. He had brokered the Austro-Japanese Trade Agreement, which had created thousands of jobs in both countries. Olbrecht had written to him that many laborers and factory workers in Vienna, Graz and Linz supported Hitler’s strand of National Liberalism.

While good to hear that his words, his truth and efforts, were appealing to more and more within the Front’s voter base, his greatest accomplishment had little to do with Austria itself. The Sakhalin Compromise emboldened Japan, was a political slap to the Soviet Union, and created the anti-Communist Second Tsardom of Russia.

But such victories came with repercussions.

Turning his back on his office, he walked to the doorway where Leichtenberg stood.

“And so it is.”

In the hallway waited Liselotte Aigner, his lover and personal secretary. The three of them moved from the Ambassador’s Office, reaching the top of the stairwell. Lining the stairs and at the base of the steps were the embassy staff, from the cook to transcriber to guard.

They clapped as he walked down the steps, shaking hands with all he could. Some even dared to pat him on the back, but he allowed it, all smiles and camaraderie.

Let them feel proud, Hitler thought, so when the time comes they remember who brought that sense to them.

He gave a small speech near the embassy entryway though later he could not recall much of what was said, his mind already on other thoughts. The three of them left to the sound of applause, approaching the ambassadorial automobile that waited outside, engine running. Another car was parked further back, it’s engine also on. Inside was the next Ambassador to Japan, a Christian Social chosen by that spineless worm Seipel. It seemed the new ambassador did not wish to entangle with the old. Hitler didn’t mind, he’s rather not deal with men who were all but traitors to the country, only a shade better than Social Democrats and Communists.

Leichtenberg opened the door for Lieselotte and Hitler. After they settled in, Leichtenberg closed the door and moved to the driver’s side, getting behind the wheel of the car.

The car quickly left the embassy and soon enough it departed Tsukiji District, heading towards the port he had been picked up from. The universe loved its irony, for the ship contracted to take Hitler back to Europe by the Austrian government was the very same that deposited him.

He had already received an invitation to eat dinner from Captain Mikhail Spestov of the Albanian-chartered merchant vessel Shans i Dyte.

As the car drove through Tokyo’s narrow and traffic-filled roads, Hitler took stock of the country he had come to, if not love, then at least admire. The people were hardworking, proud, committed to their emperor, and wielded a formidable martial spirit.

He realized he would come to miss it, it’s history, and it’s people. They were not some Asiatic mongrel but rather a noble race. In a world where Austria and its alliance dominates Southern and Eastern Europe, let the Japanese have a free hand in Asia. They truly were the Aryans of the East, honorary admittedly but still impressive.

He would miss the food too…

The car pulled into the port, parking nearly in the same spot Hitler had been picked up from in what felt like a lifetime ago. Yet unlike last time, people had come to see him off.

Hitler opened his own door before Leichtenberg could. He held out his hand for Lieselotte who helped herself out of the backseat. Before the three Austrians were what looked like a hundred soldiers of the Imperial Japanese Army, fifty on each side of the walkway to the dock itself, formed up in ten ranks of five.

Standing in the walkway was Yasuhito, brother and heir to Emperor Hirohito.

Hitler moved forward but halfway there the one hundred Army troopers came to attention, rifles shouldered. This gave Hitler temporary pause but he continued moving to Yasuhito. When he stood in front of his friend, the Crown Prince bowed deeply. Hitler did not know the ins-and-out of imperial protocol, but for a prince to bow before someone of lesser social rank was almost certainly unheard of.

Yasuhito rose, a smile on his face as he saw Hitler’s shocked expression.

“Adolf Hitler,” Yasuhito’s German was loud and clear, doubtless his soldiers knew not a word of it. “In recognition of your leal service to both your country and to Japan, I bear three gifts.” Three soldiers stepped out of formation, each holding something different.

The first soldier stepped forward, hold a small wooden box that he opened. Inside lay a seed stop a small smattering of rich black soil.

“Mister Ambassador, you went above and beyond in aiding the Empire of Japan, helping solve the Sakhalin question and saving my own life during the July 8th Incident. As a reward, I present to you a seed of a cherry blossom tree. May it find root in your country to symbolize the friendship our two nations now share.”

Hitler took it with a thankful nod and handed it to Lieselotte.

“Next, I bear a letter written by Prime Minister Griichi, thanking you for your diplomatic skill and assistance to His Imperial Majesty’s government, also carrying the Emperor’s Seal.” Another wooden box was opened, showing a rolled up document, sealed in red-gold wax.

Hitler took the box, nodding thanks once more and handed it to Leichtenberg. The last soldier carried something even more remarkable.

Yasuhito took it from the soldier and presented it to Hitler.

“I have the great honor, Adi,” the Crown Prince said more quietly yet no less enthusiastically, “to give to you a sword of the samurai, fresh-forged, custom made for you.” The sword was partly unsheathed, just enough for Hitler catch a glimpse of a wolf’s head etched into the steel blade. Yasuhito sheathed the sword in its impeccably made scabbard.

“From one warrior to another.”

Hitler accepted the offered sword and felt… something stir within him. Thanks, relief, pride, ambition, but above all it was something he thought he only shared with Olbrecht and Kuhr.

Brotherhood.

Hitler looked at Yasuhito.

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Then don’t say anything. Enjoy the moment, my friend. Your country may have recalled you, thinking they have dishonored you, but you are going home. The prime minister and brother both feel that you will go on to accomplish great things in Austria. And mayhaps one day, Japan could count on its European friend in any future endeavors.”

Hitler nodded. “We will see where the cards lay when I return to Austria, but I will do everything in my power to ensure the strong bond between our two countries remains resolute, no matter how recently it was established.”

Yasuhito nodded and held out his hand. Hitler took it and gave it a firm yet respectful shake.

Within moments, he and Lieselotte had boarded a small cutter to take them to the Shans i Dyte further into the harbor. Leichtenberg was to stay behind as First Secretary, but they had made their goodbyes and promise to stay in contact. Soon after boarding, Hitler and Spestov made their re-introductions to one another before the ship’s captain guided Hitler and Lieselotte to their new quarters, two rooms next to one another.

“That’ll be unnecessary, Captain Spestov,” Hitler had said formally. “Frau Aigner and I will share a room.”

Spestov nodded and left. Hitler and Lieselotte took the larger room, reserved for them for the duration of the long journey back to Europe.

As Lieselotte unpacked, putting things in drawers. Hitler placed the wooden boxes holding the seed and letter on the desk beside the bed. The sword he stared at in quiet reflection. He pulled it fully from its scabbard, watching the light reflect off the steel with admiration. After a moment, he slid it back into its sheath and set it down gently on the bed.

“What will happen to us when we return to Vienna?” He heard her ask.

Looking back, he shrugged. “I have a feeling I will no longer hold a governmental position. I doubt even the Front will keep me. I’ve gone against the grain too often for too long. You could potentially stay with the Front, but once they learn of our relationship I can guarantee you’ll find yourself unemployed.”

“What will you do?” She didn’t sound afraid, just curious.

“Keep fighting for a Greater Austria,” he said with ironclad determination. “No matter how many get in my way, I will return the Fatherland to glory. No matter the cost.”​

 

[Tanner151]

Chapter Thirty-Five
A Cold Wind
Outside Bruneck, South Tyrol
Kingdom of Italy
December 1924​

It had snowed the night before, leaving the snow thick on the ground, at least a meter high in many places. The roads leading in and out of Bruneck had been plowed over by modified civilian tractors earlier that morning. Workers, some conscripted whilst others volunteered, had slaved away by shoveling snow and chipping ice up and down the main arterial roads crisscrossing throughout much of South Tyrol. Goods and people were once again able to move, albeit slowly, until the next snowstorm where the whole process would have to begin again.

The sun was shrouded by dark gray clouds that were gently moved by a cold, bitter wind. The road before them curved between snow-capped hills. Below were four vehicles, moving slowly but steadily, careful of any patches of black ice. Three were armored military cars while the fourth vehicle was a large Army truck carrying either crates of supplies or heavily armed soldiers, placed at the rear.

Jakob Kuhr eyed the approaching convoy, noting the machine gun on the lead car. A smile split his face as the machine gun wasn’t manned. It seemed to him that the Italians did not wish to expose themselves to a South Tyrolese winter.

Good, that would make things easier.

Kuhr looked to his left and right, seeing loyal Austria-loving South Tyrolese readying themselves. They wore white coats, some originally darker colors like brown, black and gray that had been painted over to blend into the snow. His men were a mix of Wolves and recently joined volunteers who had grown tired of Italian tyranny. There were two score in total, half on the hill Kuhr resided upon while the other half lay in waiting on the hill opposite. The weapons they carried were the ones Kuhr and the Wolves had brought from Carinthia, unearthed and ready to kill.

Kuhr thought back to the past weeks, the Italian oppression under Luigi Cadorna had only increased in devastating leaps and bounds. There had been frequent public executions of suspected ‘terrorists’ in Bruneck alone, with province-wide arrests numbering in the hundreds and increasing higher ‘occupation taxes’ that left many wondering if they would be able to afford rising gas and coal prices to survive winter.

The field marshal’s brutality had the opposite effect of what he likely envisioned. Instead of crushing the South Tyrolese rebel movement, it merely added fuel to the fire. Acts of defiance, from puncturing tires on Italian Army vehicles, to boycotting Italian goods and businesses and killing the occasional Italian soldier had led to South Tyrol becoming an economic blackhole for the Kingdom of Italy. Kuhr had heard rumors from barmaids and evening companions loyal to their true Fatherland stating that many Italian soldiers had stated they would have preferred garrison duty in Eritrea or Somaliland rather than be stationed in South Tyrol as those locations were deemed safer. That was not all. It seemed many Italian soldiers, most fresh-faced conscripts, considered South Tyrol in the same category of danger as Libya, greatly amusing Kuhr and his Kampfgruppe associates in Vienna who had continued to discreetly send money and other supplies needed to keep the rebellion afloat.

Things had devolved so much that it had forced Benito Mussolini’s hand. The dictator had recalled the bloodthirsty Cardona, replacing him with the more tame and calculating Emilio De Bono who had already ordered the executions to stop and slowed the arrests, following a ‘wait-and-see’ policy, as well as enforcing patrols on the Austro-Italian border. Outright rebellion had simmered down but steadfastly remained just beneath the surface. Kuhr would ensure it would never dissipate fully.

Now Cardona, removed from his disastrous governorship of South Tyrol, was being moved to Rome to be part of the General Staff. Labeled in newspapers as a promotion, anyone who could read between the lines knew it was a demotion. And now the bastard field marshal was approaching, unaware he was to face Austrian justice.

Kuhr checked his rifle, a Carcano M91 ‘borrowed’ from a dead occupier he and his cohorts had killed weeks ago. Satisfied it was in good order, he looked down the hill to the road. There was a small boulder near the road, unremarkable in every way yet it was important. It was the marker.

As the lead Italian car moved past the boulder, unafraid, it exploded. The mine it had run over had turned the armored car into a fireball of broken metal and cooking flesh. The vehicles behind the now destroyed car swerved to the sides, hitting the brakes, fearful of more mines.

Kuhr raised his rifle, aiming at the driver of the second car. He fired one, then a second time, the glass shattering and the driver falling forward onto the wheel, causing the car horn to ring out. The other Austrian patriots raised their guns, an ad-hoc collection of bolt-action rifles, both of Army and civilian origin, pistols and even a shotgun. They unloaded their hateful barrage against the confused and disorganized Italians, killing a dozen in less than a minute. Soldiers spilled out from the large truck only to be cut down by pinpoint gunfire. Many of his men had fought in the Great War and took savage glee in delivering retribution to the weakling Mediterranean race.

“Go!” Kuhr yelled, running down the hill. Half followed him, the other half staying back to provide cover fire.

An Italian soldier popped up from behind the boulder, having ran there from one of the cars when the ambush began, but one of the Austrian sharpshooters downed him with a well-placed shot in his chest. He fell back, sputtering blood, staring wide-eyed up into the sky, moaning in pain.

Kuhr and several other Austrians moved towards the second car, a command vehicle, so denoted by the small pennants on the hood. Another soldier of the Regio Esercito rose up from behind the car but Kuhr and two other Austrians peppered him with rifle fire. The man’s body fell backwards into the roadside ditch, blood steaming in the wintry air and blood staining the snow crimson.

Reaching the vehicle, Kuhr pulled the rear-side passenger door open, revealing a bloodied and dazed Field Marshal Luigi Cardona.

Cardona looked at him, afraid. Kuhr raised the rifle, chambering a new round, the spent shell falling to the road.

“Per favore, non uccidermi-” Cardona began.

Kuhr pulled the trigger, bursting Cardona’ head open like spoiled fruit.

Several men behind him cheered in victory but stopped after Kuhr raised his hand.

Turning, he spoke to them. “Scavenge for weapons and ammo. Destroy the vehicles. Kill any survivors.”

While his men followed orders, Kuhr looked back at Cardona. The field marshal’s blood and brain matter were dripping down the seat. Sneering, Kuhr spat on the corpse.

“Good riddance,” he muttered before turning away to join in the retrieval of weapons.​

Berlin, Germany
German Reich
December 1924​

The bedroom smelled of sex, sweat, alcohol and cigarettes. Paul Lutjens and his lover’s limbs were entangled, the bed sheets thrown haphazardly to the floor. Their body heat kept each other warm through what proved to be another cold year. By the time it would end, there would doubtless be corpses found in their homes, having frozen to death due to lack of heat.

Ursula sat up, her hair dampened by sweat, the blonde curls reaching her exposed breasts that shifted as she moved. She grabbed the bottle of schnapps from the nightstand they had been nursing for the past hour and took a long swig of it straight from the bottle.

“Well don’t be greedy,” Paul said lightheartedly, hand outstretched. She gave him a piercing glare before it softened. She had been giving him a lot of those as of late but after taking another long drink she then handed him the bottle. Frowning, he spoke gently but firmly. “It’s not your fault, you should take it easy for the next few days.”

“I know damn well it isn’t my fault, but we lost twelve seats, Paul. Twelve! Our bloc in the Reichstag has shrunk by nearly a fifth!”

Paul kept his composure. God knows someone had to. Ursula sighed heavily before grabbing another cigarette and lighting it with a match. She took a deep drag, the smoke billowing into the air.

Paul gestured towards the pack. “May I?”

“Of course.” She picked up the cigarette pack and held it open for him to grab one.

“Thank you,” he said, lighting it and taking that first drag, exhaling slowly in relief..

She gave a faint smile.

“Sex and cigarettes. We must appreciate the small comforts,” Ursula said. “There are so few these days.”

Paul said nothing, his mind racing in thought as he smoked. Ursula had been in a foul mood the past week since the Reichstag December election. The Communist Party of Germany had lost a dozen parliamentary seats, largely benefiting the Social Democrats and Center Party. Worse still, was that the Free German Workers’ Defence League had firmly established itself in the Reichstag, rising from the three seats it held since May to eleven. A small gain, true, but the party didn’t even exist a year ago and was a motley collection of over two-dozen small political parties, all amalgamated under the leadership of Gregor Strasser.

Yet despite what should have been nearly impossible to manage, Strasser had whipped the various factions into a unified political party, with the Brownshirts being his muscle and enforcing his word as law amongst the party as well as combating the KPD paramilitary in the streets. Dozens had died in the past year, with hundreds more wheeled into hospitals with concussions, stab wounds and gunshots riddling their bodies.

The KPD despised and even feared the FDAS somewhat. With Communist appeal waning and the fascists rising across the country, it worried many in Berlin who leaned far-left. The KPD Central Committee was so shaken by the parliamentary losses it had suffered, and the surging rise of far-right movements, that a leadership reshuffle had taken place, ostensibly with the permission of Soviet Premier Yakov Sverdlov.

Ruth Fischer and Arkadi Maslow were removed from the party’s upper echelons, recalled to the USSR for ‘political reeducation.’ They were replaced by the committed Marxist-Leninist-Sverdlovist Ernst Thälmann. Ursula had mentioned the night before when she had been quite drunk, that Thälmann was nothing more than a bootlicker to the Soviet dictator and would be little more than a sock puppet under Moscow’s control. For the German Communists that had wished their party to follow a path parallel yet independent to the Soviets were quickly being reminded of their subservient role to Sverdlov and his henchmen.

And not only had the party’s central leadership been changed, so too was the leadership of the Berlin chapter. Paul Joseph Goebbels was to be the head of the Berlin Communists and Chief of Propaganda for the entire KPD. Ursula had complained that the man was both rat-like in appearance and character. No one liked him and he liked no one, but he had proved to be damn effective in his duties. While support for the KPD had wavered, it had only strengthened in Berlin with thousands more active dues-paying members.

Paul had heard all this and more from Ursula, who had tried her best to drink herself into forgetfulness but only making her fall further into despair and lament at what was befalling her beloved Germany and Communist Party. Though he was an Austrian by birth, and proud of that fact, he was coming to love Germany. It was quickly becoming a Second Fatherland to him. Though he did not align with his lover’s politics, he could see past that. It made him uneasy to see her in such a state.

Yet he had no words to comfort her, no words to ease her pain. Lying there, as she began to cry at the misery she found herself in, Paul could do little but be a shoulder for her to lean on. It was a hollow comfort.​

Vienna, Austria
Republic of Austria
December 1924​

The train pulled into Wiener Stadtbahn, lurching to rest as its brakes squealed, stalling the carriages. The whistle blew, loud and piercing. Many of the passengers rose from their seats, collecting their stored luggage to leave. It did not take long for only two to remain seated, having deigned to wait for the crowds to disperse.

Adolf Hitler looked up from the newspaper he had picked up in Graz. The headline read ‘Peace Declared: New Empire, Same Emperor!’ detailing the conclusion of the Second Zhili–Fengtian War. The conflict between the Beiyang Government and the Japanese-backed Manchurians only recently ended as of earlier this month. The war had been in its infancy when he had left Japan, yet much had come to pass in the near two months it had taken him to cross the world from Asia to Europe.

Better armed, more prepared, and with decisive leadership the Manchurians under Marshal Zuolin had proved victorious and now controlled most of northern China from the Manchu-Soviet border to the Yellow River. With Japanese arms, money and manpower, the Manchruians had solidified a firm hold on their recent gains. Despite such a short victorious war, the newspaper did note that there was great unrest and dissatisfaction in Manchurian-occupied territory.

Yet it seemed Marshal Zuolin had taken this into account, announcing to the world that he was combining the territories of Manchuria and their newly conquered lands into a single state: the Empire of Manchuria. To cement support from uneasy populace and to front up a facade of legitimacy, Zuolin had named himself the Empire’s head of government, titled Grand Marshal of the Empire. But the head of state was to be the once-emperor of the Qing Dynasty: Puyi.

Titularly the sovereign, Hitler knew Puyi would be nothing more than Zuolin’s mouthpiece to appease the pro-imperialist masses. The new emperor’s policies would be in fact the Marshal’s. Puyi would be only a symbol rather than an active and reigning monarch. Hitler gave a momentary chuckle, which drew the eye of Lieselotte.

She sat across from him, reading over the notes that he had written on the long journey home. It was a motley collection of ideas, political thoughts, potential policies, and more. He knew his time in the Nationalliberale Front was short. It was better to be prepared for what came after. He had filled out two entire notebooks and Lieselotte had gone through it all, correcting spelling mistakes, making notations, adding thoughts to appeal to the female electorate.

Once he had become settled, Hitler intended to codify those thoughts and concepts into a political manifesto. But first came the price he would pay for his actions.

Rising, Hitler grabbed his briefcase and suitcase. Lieselotte mirrored him. Their things gathered, they disembarked off the train. The conductor was calling for the next batch of passengers to board.

The train platform quickly emptied as people boarded the train or continued away from platform, hugging and shaking hands with the people who waited on them.

A man waited for them, standing solemnly, hands in the pockets of his Great War-era greatcoat.

Hitler and Lieselotte moved to the man, both smiling.

“Franz!” Hitler said, shaking the preferred hand. “Damn it is good to see you.”

“You too, Adi.” Franz Olbrecht offered a small smile, nodding politely to Lieselotte. His expression turned solemn. “I wish it had been under better circumstances.”

“Don’t we all,” stated Lieselotte. Adjusting her purse she stared at Olbrecht with those piercing pale blue eyes. “What’s happened?”

Olbrecht looked at Hitler. “Perceptive, isn’t she?”

“It’s half the reason I keep her around.”

“Only half?” Lieselotte commented, causing the two men to laugh. It did very much to lighten the mood.

After a moment, Hitler spoke. “What’s going to happen, Franz.”

Olbrecht prepared himself with a single shrug of the shoulders. “Gross has called for a Party Congress. The Central Committee is there in full force, as are all of the Front’s parliamentary representatives. The reason isn’t supposed to be disclosed but it is an open secret it is for your removal from the Front.”

Hitler frowned. “Do I have allies in there, Franz? Tell me the truth.”

“A fifth, perhaps even a quarter of the rank-and-file will follow you with little to no convincing. As for the Central Committee, I think only Seyss-Inquart will back any power play you try to make. Pfrimer arrived from Styria two days ago. He brought sixty of his Heimwehr along with him. Pfrimer wanted me to convey he will follow any order you give, especially if it involved storming the Hold and…”

“Stop.”

Hitler knew he looked annoyed but couldn’t help it.

“If I take power through force I am going to have to contend with upstarts trying to take my position, mimicking my success. Besides, the Front is too static, stiff. It is entrenched in its own morality. If we are to lead Austria in the direction we know it must embark upon, we must be both fluid and firm in ideology, tactics and implementation.”

“Another direction?” Olbrecht queried, not in dismay but in curiosity.

“I do not feel National Liberalism is the way forward anymore.”

Olbrecht exhaled noisily through his nose.

“Do you have an alternative, Adi?”

“Yes.” Hitler’s answer was resolute, it was quick.

“Then that is good enough for me. Come, Adi, they are waiting.”

As Olbrecht led Lieselotte and Hitler to a car he had parked outside the train station, Hitler could not help but feel a sense of finality over the whole affair. Finally the chains of the NLF were soon to be cast off.

And so one act is set to end, but little do they know the next is soon to begin.

+ + +
Arriving at the Hold was like visiting a long-lost friend. The building had changed little in the year he had been gone, but Hitler noted the armed men outside the building were not of Heimwehr units loyal to him. It was wise to not have Pfrimer arrive in force, as that would lead to a shoot out and potentially any chance Hitler had today to make an impact.

Hitler led the way, flanked by Olbrecht and Lieselotte. The double doors were opened by the guards, their eyes staring forward, as if he were just some visitor. Even from the entry hallway, they could hear the mumble and rumble of a large crowd in the main hall. Two more guards opened the door, basking them in the smell of sweat, cigarettes, and cologne and showing them the room was full almost to the seams. It would seem that it would be a well-attended party congress. Hundreds of people, almost exclusively men, waited in the dozens of wooden benches, many standing in the corner due to lack of seating.

At the back of the large stuffy room, facing the entrance doors, was a long wooden table. Six men were seated there. Hitler looked at Seyss-Inquart who offered a slight nod of greeting, while the other remained stone-faced. All but one that was. Ludwig von Hoffenberg was practically beaming, a large predatory smile on his face as Hitler approached. Hitler noted Olbrecht motioning for Liselotte to wait behind near the benches. This was Hitler’s moment after all, his trial in a sense.

Gustav gross, looking more haggard and lean than he had been a year ago, rose from his chair.

“Adolf Hitler, welcome home.”

There was some cheering and hand clapping from his supporters in the crowd but they were quickly hushed.

Gross continued. “You have been recalled, Herr Hitler, to face judgment from the Front. You have willingly and arrogantly ignored party orders, misrepresented the party and the Austrian government overseas in Japan, and have placed the country in an uncomfortable position. This is an out-”

“I did what I had to do for the Fatherland!” he shouted, surprising Gross by the interruption.

“Yes, well, it was-” the Party Chairman and Vice Chancellor of Austria began.

“Necesaary.”

Von Hoffenberg spoke up, his baritone easily carrying through the crowded room.

“Herr Hitler, you have no right to interrupt. This is to be a formal review of your record and the Central Committee will vote-”

“Shut up, Ludwig. I will not tolerate a worm such as you to question my methods or actions.”

Von Hoffenberg reddened with anger but before he could do or say anything, Gross put a hand on his shoulder to calm down the Deputy Chairman.

Hitler continued before Gross spoke.

“Let us not extend this sham. This conclave was called to lambast me and claim I had harmed the party and country. As for the Front, perhaps I did but perhaps I did not. As for the country, I have done nothing but empower and aid my beloved Vaterland.”

Hitler turned his back on the Central Committee to look out over the faces of men who sat there, some with hate on their face, some with hope, but a majority were simply there to see what developed.

“I went to Carinthia to help fellow Austrians in their struggle against the Yugoslavs. I did so against the orders of this ‘ever-so-wise’ Central Committee,” that last bit was loaded and delivered with scorn. “They said it was too dangerous, and that it would damage the Front politically. I cared not for politics or public image, I cared for action! Our countrymen were being murdered, driven from their homes, our men imprisoned, our women defiled and our children exploited. I went to Carinthia while they stayed behind in their comfortable homes. While they smoked cigars and drank the finest liquors, I was there fighting in the mud of Carinthia. I led men into battle, I fought and bled with them. Shared their pains and their victories. And you know what happened, my friends? What occurred down there?”

Hitler was feeling the room quiet down, everyone hanging onto his words. “We won,” he whispered, many leaning forward, straining to hear. “We defeated the Yugoslavs at every turn, we pushed them back. The only reason the border is where it is today is due entirely to Allied intervention. The Americans, the French, and the British, they wish to keep us broken and weak. And the Russians,” many of the men shifted in their seats or shuffled their feet at the mention of the eastern foe. “They want to destroy us. Us, who only attacked Serbia to bring murderers to justice.”

Hitler’s voice rose slowly, building in tempo.

“Surrounded by enemies this Committee, who lords above you all, were too afraid to take action. I helped drive the Yugoslav invaders back, our gains stolen from us by the Allies and gifted to that bastard state of Yugoslavia.”

Hitler turned back to the Committee and pointed at them, voice now almost shouting.

“I organized our electoral victory in 1923! Me and my propagandists, not them. We convinced hundreds of thousands of Austrians to vote National Liberal because we appealed to them, to their desires and hopes and dreams. And then I was set adrift, cast away to Japan. The success I had garnered for the Front was rewarded with an office far from the Fatherland, to a land many in Vienna did not care for. I was expected to do nothing, to wither on the vine, to stay out of the way.”

Hitler’s hand and voice lowered, calm in pitch but no less calm in delivery.

“They expected me to do nothing and I balked at that. For I am a man of action, of moving forward no matter the cost. I struck the Austro-Japanese Trade Agreement which will generate thousands of well-paying jobs in both countries. I had helped organize the Sakhalin Conference that bore fruit in the creation of a friendly Russian regime in North Sakhalin, and that checked Soviet aggression. I did all this and more, with no support from the Committee and in turn little support from the Front as a whole.

“Imagine, my friends, what we could accomplish if we were to shrug off the cowardice, uncertainty and idiocy of our supposed leaders-”

“Are you done?” Von Hoffenberg. The Deputy Chairman was now the color of spilled red wine, a vein visibly pulsing in his neck. “You are an upstart, feckless thug who-“

“Resigns.” Hitler reached into his coat pocket and threw out a small lapel pin with the words Nationalliberale Front encrusted on its surface. “My fate is my own. I hereby resign from this party and this farce. If any Here wish for Austria to lag behind its neighbors, to be weak and exposed to foreign intervention, and to led by men of weak will who did not fight in the trenches of the Great War, then stay.

“If you want to be led by a man of action, of vision and who places Austria above all, then hear me now. National Liberalism is not the way. This party’s leadership does not have the drive or ambition to succeed. They are the past, I am the future.”

And with that, Hitler turned and walked away, the room breaking out into arguments, some shouting slurs while others offered their support. It was to this chaotic cacophony that Hitler departed the hold, Lieselotte and Olbrecht in tow.

Though he was effectively penniless, had no outside support or a political structure to spring off of, Hitler nevertheless felt liberated.

Now came the next step.
​

Vienna, Austria
Republic of Austria
January 1925​

Franz Olbrecht, Austrian National Councilman, a former Landwehr Lieutenant Colonel and an educated man of noble birth, was now relegated to door greeter.

“Welcome, welcome!” He said jovially to seven men who approached. He hoped his voice didn’t sound so desperate. “Go on inside, we have bagels and coffee. It’s warmer too.”

The men shrugged off the new year snow and trundled inside. Olbrecht checked his watch and sighed. He had hoped for more to come but they had a shoestring budget and could post only so many flyers. And the Front had been very persistent in tearing them down

It had been weeks since Hitler publicly resigned from the NLF. A few hundred had soon walked out, following Hitler to a nearby bierhaus where he had delivered an impromptu speech, full of fiery rhetoric and plans for the future. The crowd had responded with fervent passion.

Yet in the weeks that followed, very little happened. Hitler had been in a newly rented apartment with his closest advisors, outlining a political platform and name, as well as codifying all his thoughts and ideas written across several notebooks into one combined collection that Lieselotte transcribed away on a typewriter. It was both a political manifesto and autobiography. Hitler had come to call it Der Kampf. It was simple and very fitting.

The only noteworthy development, aside from party building, was Hitler’s wedding to Frau Aigner. He had proposed mere days after leaving the NLF, and she had accepted. Their wedding had taken place on New Year’s Eve with only a dozen people in attendance.

Now, only two weeks after 1924 had morphed into 1925 was Hitler at long last revealing his new political party.

After checking his watch again, Olbrecht closed the door to the building Hitler had rented, spending almost all of the money he and several other Hitlerites had pooled together. It was a warehouse in Floridsdorf District, it’s innards barren aside from a scattering of half-rotted boxes and recently purchased and salvaged seating. The business that had operated the warehouse as storage had gone bankrupt last year. Hitler had chosen it for that reason, to show that even with the NLF in power businesses were still closing and people were losing jobs. That, and because it was cheap. The air smelled moldy, only emphasizing the fact.

With the doors closed, Olbrecht was greeted with warmth from a score of iron cast empty oil barrels where thousands of devalued krones were being burned alongside newspapers, sending up smoke and embers. With the new schilling currency soon to be put in circulation, people were preparing their finances for the transition, but any banknote below 50,000 in value was practically worthless as money, more suited for fireplaces or toilet paper.

There were a few boxes and benches but almost no chairs. Those were reserved for the table at one end of the warehouse. Above the table was a banner that read:
Österreichische Sozialnationalistische Volkspartei. It was flanked by a Kruckenkreuz on either side.

While a mouthful, the name had been carefully selected by Hitler and Olbrecht. It had to appeal to a vast and varied array of people, from rural farmers to factory workers to wealthy businessmen.

There were around two hundred men and about a dozen women in the warehouse. They were in small groups, mingling and chatting away as they ate stale bagels and drank ersatz coffee. Olbrecht had hoped for more but knew the weather had played a factor in the low attendance, alongside many who were waiting to see what Hitler would do next.

Ernst Rüdiger von Starhemberg was waiting for him, hands in his pocket and a noticeable frown creasing his face.

“This is embarrassing,” he hissed to Olbrecht, head gesturing at the people present. “There’s room enough for a thousand, easily. Maybe more. Yet we can’t even fill out half the room. I bet you von Hoffenberg and Lutschounig will laugh their asses off when they hear about how few showed.”

“Easy, Ernst, easy. The weather is terrible out there. How many people do you think would trudge through a meter of snow with biting winds to attend a meeting on the edge of Vienna. Most of the busses and trams aren’t even operating today. More will come, Ernst. Give them time.”

As the only parliamentary member to attend this meeting, aside from Olbrecht himself, von Starhemberg held a fair amount of sway in the NLF. If he was convinced to join, then a betting man would guess more would follow. At least that was the theory. Most of the other pro-Hitler councilmen were privately excited by the unveiling of this new movement but refused to switch to the newfound ÖSNVP until it became more established.

The murmurs died down as Hitler entered. Two of the few Wolves remaining in Vienna had held the door open, their quasi-uniform and holstered pistols a symbol of militant strength. Olbrecht hoped no one knew how desperate the showing was.

Hitler moved to the center of the warehouse while his wife and Arthur Seyss-Inquart carefully carried out a large piece of thick paper to the table beneath the banner. If Hitler was disappointed by the attendance, he did not let it show.

“Greetings and welcome, national comrades, to the inaugural meeting of the Austrian Social National People’s Party.” There was a muted cheer as the onlookers took to their seats.

“It is perhaps prophetic that our new party should be officially born on such a day. A cold bitter day in a country led by cold disinterested men. Our undertaking, our ÖSNVP, will be the standard bearer of civilization and order that will set fire to the old world order, heralding a new dawn not just for Austria but Europe as a whole.”

Hitler spread his arms out. “We may be few today but mark my words, my fellow Social Nationalists, that in time we will be an army. An army dedicated to the revival and renewal of our great country. None shall stand against us and emerge victorious. We are the phoenix that will heal the Vaterland’s woes. We are the future.”

Hitler reached into his pocket and pulled out an ink pen. “Before I go over the founding Twenty-Three Points this new party will base its entire platform upon, let us first show our commitment to the cause.”

Hitler spun around and walked to the table beneath the banner. Olbrecht knew it featured the party’s name at the top, its Twenty-Three Point Platform, and the establishment of a party hierarchy with one titular leader in charge, bearing the rank and power of Führer. Hitler was to be that of course. While there would be a Central Committee, Hitler would make all final decisions. It was to avoid the in-fighting and slow nature of more democratic means of party leadership. It was to be one party with one leader, no more and no less.

It was sometimes strange to Olbrecht to follow the orders of his former adjutant. But Hitler was no longer a First Sergeant in the Landwehr. He was a political force by himself, a sort of storm where everything either joined or was thrown about into the wind.

Olbrecht followed Hitler, and he too was followed by von Starhemberg and Seyss-Inquart. Hitler reached the table and leaned over, signing his name at the top left of the empty space at the bottom. Hitler turned and offered Olbrecht the pen.

“To the future, Franz.”

“To the future… mein Führer.” Hitler smiled and patted him on the shoulder before moving down the line, shaking hands. Olbrecht leaned over the paper and signed, becoming Party Member #2 of the ÖSNVP.​

 

[Tanner151]

The program is the political foundation of the ÖSNVP and accordingly the primary political law of the State. It has been made brief and clear intentionally.

All legal precepts must be applied in the spirit of the Party Program.

Since the formation of Social Nationalism, the Führer has succeeded in the realization of essential portions of the Party Program from the fundamentals to the detail.

The Party Program of the ÖSNVP was proclaimed on the 14th of January 1925 by Adolf Hitler at the inaugural Party gathering in Vienna and shall remained unaltered henceforth barring necessary additions under the directive of the Führer. Within said program is the Social Nationalist philosophy summarized in Twenty-Three Points:

1. We demand the unification of all Austro-Germans into a Greater Austria on the basis of the right of self-determination of peoples, with land wrongfully stolen at the end of the Great War returned.

2. We demand equality of rights for the Austro-German race in respect to the other nations; notably the abrogation of the Saint-Germain Peace Treaty.

3. We demand former imperial land as territories (colonies) for the sustenance of our people, and colonization for our surplus population.

4. Only a member of the race can be a citizen. A member of the race can only be one who is of German blood, without consideration of creed though those of a Catholic spiritual disposition are preferred. Consequently no Jew, Serb or Roma can be a member of the Austro-German race, which is in of itself a leading subsect of the greater Aryan Race.

5. Whoever has no citizenship is to be able to live in Austria only as a guest, and must be under the authority of legislation for foreigners.

6. The right to determine matters concerning administration and law belongs only to the citizen. Therefore we demand that every public office, of any sort whatsoever, whether in the State, the county or municipality, be filled only by citizens. We combat the corrupting parliamentary economy, officeholding only according to party inclinations without consideration of character or abilities.

7. We demand that the State be charged first with providing the opportunity for a livelihood and way of life for the citizens. If it is impossible to sustain the total population of the State, then the members of foreign nations (non-citizens) are to be expelled from Austrian lands.

8. Any further immigration of non-citizens is to be prevented. We demand that all non-Germans, who have immigrated to Austria since June 1914, be forced immediately to leave the State.

9. All citizens must have equal rights and obligations.

10. The first obligation of every citizen must be to work both spiritually and physically. The activity of individuals is not to counteract the interests of the universality, but must have its result within the framework of the whole for the benefit of all. Consequently we demand:

11. Abolition of unearned (work and labour) incomes. Breaking of rent-slavery as a man and woman of true blood should be the master of their own self rather than be subject to others of lesser races.

12. In consideration of the monstrous sacrifice in property and blood that each war demands of the people personal enrichment through a war must be designated as a crime against the people. Therefore we demand the total confiscation of all war profits.

13. We demand the nationalization of certain industries as to benefit the greater whole under the jurisdiction of the State. Social Nationalism respects private property and self-owned businesses, but industries deemed important to the development and protection of the nation shall be under the purview of said government.

14. We demand an expansion and preservation on a large scale of old age welfare as those who have put their labors and efforts towards the betterment and survival of our people and nation deserve to be taken care of as reward for their sacrifice.

15. We demand the creation of a healthy middle class and its conservation, immediate communalization of the great warehouses and their being leased at low cost to small firms, the utmost consideration of all small firms in contracts with the State, county or municipality.

16. We demand a land reform suitable to our needs, provision of a law for the free expropriation of land for the purposes of public utility, abolition of taxes on land and prevention of all speculation in land.

17. We demand action without hesitation against those whose activity is injurious to the general interest. Common national criminals, usurers, rapists, murderers and so forth are to be punished with death, without consideration of creed or race. To implement fair and just laws, the Party advocates for the national adoption of a German Common Law to replace that of the Roman Law that serves only a materialistic world-order.

18. The State is to be responsible for a fundamental reconstruction of our whole national education program, to enable every capable and industrious German to obtain higher education and subsequently introduction into leading positions. The plans of instruction of all educational institutions are to conform with the experiences of practical life. The comprehension of the concept of the State must be striven for by the school as early as the beginning of understanding. We demand the education at the expense of the State of outstanding intellectually gifted children of poor parents without consideration of position or profession.

19. The State is to care for the elevating national health by protecting the mother and child, by outlawing child-labor, by the encouragement of physical fitness, by means of the legal establishment of a gymnastic and sport obligation, by the utmost support of all organizations concerned with the physical instruction of the young.

20. We demand abolition of the mercenary troops and formation of a national people's army to protect the territorial integrity of the nation. and if need be, extend our national interests abroad.

21. We demand legal opposition to known lies and their promulgation through the press. In
order to enable the provision of an Austro-German press, we demand, that:
A) All writers and employees of the newspapers appearing in the German language be members of the race.
B) Non-German newspapers be required to have the express permission of the State to be published. They may not be printed in the
German language.
C) Non-Germans are forbidden by law any financial interest in Austro-German publications or any influence on them and as punishment for violations the closing of such a publication as well as the immediate expulsion from the State of the non-German concerned. Publications which are counter to the general good are to be forbidden. We demand legal prosecution of artistic and literary forms which exert a destructive influence on our national life, and the closure of organizations opposing the above made demands.

22. We demand freedom of religion for all Christian denominations within the State so long as they do not endanger its existence or oppose the moral senses of the Germanic race. The Party as such advocates the standpoint of a positive Christianity starting with the Catholic Church and spreading outward from there. It combats the Jewish-materialistic spirit within and around us, and is convinced that a lasting recovery of our nation can only succeed from within on the framework: common utility precedes individual utility.

23. For the execution of all of this we demand the formation of a strong central power in the State. Unlimited authority of the central parliament over the whole nation and its organizations in general. The forming of State and professional chambers for the execution of the laws made by the government within the various states of the confederation. The leaders of the Party promise, if necessary by sacrificing their own lives, to support by the execution of the points set forth above without consideration.

Vorwärts zum Sieg!​

 

[Tanner151]

Chapter Thirty-Six
Upon Fragile Paths
Berlin, Germany
German Reich
October 1928​

Paul Lutjens threw another cigarette stub onto a ground littered with them. Reaching into his coat pocket, he pulled out the pack of Ecksteins. Grabbing another, he quickly lit it, taking a deep drag.

Exhaling, feeling his nerves calm a bit, he chuckled. One of the other men standing outside the hospital looked at him quizzically.

“Real and right,” he said, referencing the Eckstein tagline.

The other man chuckled. “May I grab one off of you?”

“Sure, yeah.” Lutjens handed him a cigarette.

“Got a light?” The man asked, cigarette dangling from his lips as he talked.

“Here,” Lutjens handed him a matchbox. Striking it, the cigarette was lit and the man took a deep breath.

“Oh that’s good. True tobacco, none of that ersatz stuff we were forced to smoke during the war. Thank God we have real cigarettes again!”

Lutjens nodded in agreement. Things had changed for the better in Germany over the past few years. American loans and the repayment scheme set up with the Dawes Plan had seen a fragile sense of fiscal stability return to Germany.

The Weimar government, despite all who clamored against it, still stood as an institution. The democratic government, having dealt with all manner of military coups, workers’ strikes, Communist uprisings, and an increasing partisan political system, was at last finding its legs.

Economic stability led to political stability. The chaos of the early ‘20s was at last fading. Lutjens himself was a construction supervisor, a steady and well-paying job. And his personal life had changed as well. Speaking of which…

“Herr Lutjens?” a woman in a nursing uniform popped her head out of the hospital.

“Yes?” he said apprehensively.

“Your wife is fine,” she smiled. “As are your two children?”

“Two?” Lutjens said, numb from more than just the cold. The man he had given a cigarette to slapped his back.

“Congratulations!” he said.

“Thank you,” he said, still shocked.

“Come, sir. Your wife is waiting.”

Lutjens laughed. “Ursula always hated waiting.” He extinguished the cigarette, pocketing the rest, and followed the nurse into the hospital’s maternity ward. Expecting fathers waited nervously in the lobby, shuffling their feet and downing cup after cup of cheap coffee. Lutjens was led past them, down a too-white hallway, and brought to a room. Ursula Lutjens, nee Winkler, stared up at him, a look of anger on her face. A doctor and another nurse stood by, reading over some paperwork.

“You did this to me,” she slurred.

“Well you were enthusiastic about it at the time,” he chided, eliciting a snort from the doctor.

“You’re unbearable,” his wife said acidly.

“Guess that’s why you married me,” Lutjens said cheerfully. His positivity broke through his wife’s ice facade, as it always did. She gave him a warmer expression.

“Meet your daughters,” Ursula said. And it was then Lutjens noticed the two bundles of pink clothing. Inside them were reddish-pink babies, faces scrunched up, eyes closed. They were whimpering.

Lutjens kissed his wife’s sweat-damped head. Girls meant Ursula would name them, they had an arrangement. “What names did you decide on?”

“Frederica and Karla.” She looked at him, as if daring him to comment.

Lutjens closed his eyes in amusement. Ursula still worked in the propaganda wing of the KPD, the names for the girls smacked of a devoted ideologue. He doubted that would ever change, but he loved her despite their political disagreements.

“Those are wonderful names, my love.” He looked at his daughters and wife, feeling lucky to live such a life.​

Vienna, Austria
Republic of Austria
November 1928​

Jakob Kuhr walked out of the grocer’s market, bag of food in hand. He was conflicted at that moment. The prices in the grocery store had fallen substantially over the past few years, much to the relief of people’s stomachs and wallets. However, lower prices and a more stable currency meant the Party’s attacks on the Austrian government’s economic policies were defanged, seeming more petulant than scathing.

With the day-to-day life of most Austrians improving, Kuhr couldn’t blame his countrymen for continuing to support the Seipel government. They were blind to the flaws of democracy, to its inherent vulnerability to radical socialism. As fiscal stability returned to Austria, the KPÖ had become more radicalized and violent, appealing to those desperate or foolish.

It did not occur to him the hypocrisy of criticizing the Communists for using similar strategies the Social Nationalists had been implementing since its inception.

He walked down to Party headquarters in Floridsdorf District, the same place Hitler had created the ÖSNVP almost four years ago. Entering the district was like arriving to a new world. Party banners and mottos hung from dozens of buildings. Posters of Hitler were dominant, but there were others of parliamentary members, those who switched from National Liberalism to Social Nationalism back in 1925 and the few that gained seats for the Party in the ‘27 election.

Kuhr had truly believed, as did many in Hitler’s inner circle, that the 1927 election would prove to be the catalyst for great change, a step towards national revolution. In the two years from the Party’s creation to the parliamentary election, the Social Nationalists had swayed, haggled and threatened hundreds of thousands, promising a strong Austria, with a prosperous economy, an extensive social welfare safety net for its citizens, a racially pure nation-state fit for the Aryan Race, with irredentist claims to territory stolen by the Treaty of Saint-Germain.

Columns on newspapers were paid for, radio slots used, while propagandists crowed the Party line on street corners and outside the gates of factories, office buildings, and as close as legally able to government institutions. Hitler himself went on an exhaustive and thorough tour of Austria, speaking in nearly a hundred different cities and towns in two months, deriding the CS-NLF coalition, claiming their interests were the wealthy industrialists and Jewish bankers, rather than the common man and woman.

The Party's funds, having been built from scratch, were spent in almost their entirety. However by 1927 the economy had started to bounce back, hyperinflation started to cool down, the new schilling currency had put confidence back into the market, and prices began to stabilize as wages and purchasing power increased.

Things were still not as they were in pre-war Austro-Hungary, but the situation was a marked and visible improvement over the years immediately following the Great War.

The district held several oil refineries, factories, and retail warehouses. The apartments in the area were largely inhabited by educators, shop owners and laborers, a bustling center of lower-to-middle-class workers, ripe for the ideals and goals of Social Nationalism. In spite of the Party struggling with rural communities it had been making steady headway into urban areas, or so it thought.

Kuhr remembered election night, hearing the returns coming in. Within hours a picture began to form. The ÖSNVP had gone into the election with seven National Councilmen, all defectors from the National Liberal Front, so expectations were high that they could form a large bloc in Parliament, possibly enough to unseat the NLF.

However when all was said and down, the result of the 1927 election was bitter disappointment. The Party gained a measly six seats whilst losing two, bringing it up to a total of eleven. The Unity List, the Christian Social-National Liberal-Landbund-Heimatblock ticket, had won ninety-four seats, giving it a legislative majority. The Social Nationalists, despite winning more seats than the National Liberals, were not invited into government by the Christian Socials.

They were not even part of the Opposition, which was led by the SDAPÖ with nascent support from the more moderate wing of the KPÖ and a half-dozen minor parties. Social Nationalism had done well, but not good enough to change government, and had to content itself with criticizing and voting down every measure the government proposed.

The election was only the beginning of the Party’s woes. The support base, numbering nearly four hundred thousand voters, began to quickly dwindle as the months followed. Hitler’s rhetoric and the Party’s solutions seemed too drastic, too alarmist, and too dangerous to the average voter.

Now, a year and a half past the election, the Austrian Social Nationalist People’s Party was struggling to remain relevant and not descend into mediocrity. Registered Party members had drastically fallen from a height of a hundred and ninety thousand to around seventy thousand members. Several ÖSNVP branches throughout Austria had been forced to close their doors and allocate resources to the remaining Party infrastructure that cling to life.

Kuhr snorted as a thought occurred to him. Social Nationalism might have been struggling in the land that birthed it, but it had surprisingly found elsewhere to take root.

Social Nationalist sister parties had formed in Germany, Switzerland, Hungary and Czechoslovakia, countries with a significant German-speaking population. Kuhr remembered the Central Committee’s decision to tacitly support and endorse said parties to help popularize Social Nationalism amongst the burgeoning fascist movements growing in popularity across Europe.

From the English Channel to the Polish-Soviet border, from the fjords of Norway to the Mediterranean Sea, the far-right was spreading. And Kuhr would be damned if fascism would be dominated by the Italians.

Arriving at the warehouse that had been the beating heart of the Austrian Social Nationalist People’s Party, the Sturmwache guards patrolling the perimeter nodded as he walked in.

“Sturmbannführer!” Saluted the door guards, arms extended in the Fascist salute. Kuhr returned it with his free hand, the other still holding the grocery bag. Entering the warehouse-turned-headquarters, he moved to Hitler’s office, nestled near the center of the room. A half-dozen guards stood within shouting distance. Attacks on public figures had increased in recent months, across the political spectrum.

Arriving at the Führer’s office, he knocked twice.

“Enter,” came the voice.

Kuhr entered, seeing Hitler and Starhemberg sitting opposite one another at the small table in the corner. A coffee pot and two mugs were out, half-filled, as were various documents placed between them

Kuhr respectfully nodded to Starhemberg. Not only was he a National Councilman, Starhemberg was also the Oberführer of the Sturmwache, commander second only to Hitler but who saw to the day-to-day operations of the Party’s paramilitary unit. It was by Starhemberg’s recommendation to Hitler that Social Nationalism needed a defender.

So was created the Sturmwache to act as a new and improved Kampfgruppe Wolf, open to any who passed rigorous standards, many of whom came disenfranchised from Heimatschutz units. To further cement that connection between the Wolves and SW, the Sturmwache’s symbol was a wolf’s head flanked by lightning bolts.

Starhemberg returned the nod, raising his coffee mug to drink. Hitler looked up from a paper he was reading.

“Yes?” asked the Party’s undisputed leader.

“Here are the liver dumplings you wanted, mein Führer.”

“Ah, thank you, Jakob. Must feel strange for the Party’s equivalent to a major going to fetch me some food.”

“It is no problem, sir. I needed to get some other stuff anyway.”

Hitler took a deep drink of his coffee, blue eyes twinkling.

“I have been talking to Ernst about your record since you returned from South Tyrol. Impressive, very impressive. You led several breakups of Social Democrat and Communist rallies the last few months. Good work, and your activities in South Tyrol were inspiring.”

“Thank you, sir. That means a lot to me, coming from you.”

Hitler shrugged. “When I see someone or something useful, I’ll move heaven and earth to get it. I do have one question though, Jakob.”

“Sir?”

“Was it hard leaving South Tyrol? You created the rebellion there and led it for four years. Now you’re here, away from the action and away from home.”

Kuhr gave a smirk. He had expected the question for months now, since he returned from South Tyrol to Vienna.

“It was hard, mein Führer, but the rebellion in South Tyrol has petered out. The more lax hand of the current Italian general has led to many either accepting Italian rule or, in some cases, embracing it.”

Hitler scowled at that but Kuhr continued.

“I knew that if South Tyrol was ever going to be free, it would do so at the behest of the Austrian government. Only an incredible diplomat or a strong military will kick Mussolini and his henchmen out of my home. You are that diplomat, sir. Your accomplishments in Japan proved that, and with you as leader of the country, whether it be as president or chancellor, Austria would be able to do as it wishes, free of the shackles laid upon us. I knew I could do more here beside you than I ever could back in South Tyrol. I did not abandon my men in South Tyrol, despite what some of our national comrades have whispered. Before I departed Bruneck, I put my second-in-command Peter Hofer in charge of the Social Nationalist resistance, but per your orders they are to keep a low profile,”

Hitler tapped his chin in thought and looked at Starhemberg. “He will do. Dismissed.” Hitler went back to reading the document in hand.

Starhemberg rose form his chair, coming to attention briefly before turning to leave, gesturing for Kuhr to follow.

Once outside the Party Leader’s Office, Kuhr looked quizzically at Starhemberg.

“The Führer wants to create a bodyguard unit to protect him and key Party personnel. It will be named Stoßtrupp-Adolf Hitler. By my recommendation, the Führer had chosen you as its commander. This means you’ll be promoted, with the associated pay increase and other benefits given.”

Starhemberg eyed him critically. “The Führer’s life will be in your hands. You served him well in Carinthia, and did as he ordered in South Tyrol, keep doing that, and keep him alive. Don’t screw up.”

Starhemberg stuck out his hand and Kuhr shook it, feeling dazed.

“Congratulations, Obersturmbannführer Kuhr. You earned it.”

“Thank you, Oberführer!”

Starhemberg nodded and left, two of the Sturmwache trailing him discreetly.

Kuhr looked at his own desk, stationed not far away. An unopened bottle of schnapps was placed there in a bowl of ice. Kuhr smiled. Well he wouldn’t want that to go to waste.​

Zhongyuan (Central Plains), China
Empire of Manchuria
December 1928​

Garth Culpepper looked through the binoculars and whistled in awe.

“That’s a lot of guns,” he commented to the Chinese fellow beside him, a captain in the National Revolutionary Army.

“That there are, Mister Williams.”

Culpepper, his hair cut and dyed white-blond, nodded. His alias was Robert Williams, an agent of His Majesty’s Foreign Ministry, there to inspect and determine what sort of aid Britain would give. A convenient cover for his true mission of gauging the border strength of the Manchurian and Japanese Imperial Armies stationed along the Yellow River.

Said river was still littered with the failures of the last assault before the ceasefire. Half-sunken transport boats, a few corpses here and there, and even a ferry that had caught fire. Oil leaks marred the river’s surface, besmirching its natural… well not beauty, it looked like sewage water, but its visage gave off a polluted and war-ruined look to it.

Culpepper scanned the fortifications, the trench works, machine gun nests. The Imperial flags of Japan and Manchuria billowed in the wind over their earthen bunkers, defiant and victorious.

The British spy grimaced. If the Nationalists had been given more support early on, there might have been a chance for a crossing to secure a bridgehead. Instead Chiang Kai-shek had launched attack after attack against the Manchurian and Japanese positions. The Manchurians were woefully equipped, only their elite units fielded proper equipment and support. The Japanese Army was not much better on average, with Japanese soldiers using brutality as intimidation to acquire foodstuffs, alcohol and pleasure women.

But the Japanese had been smart enough to not do that on their side of the Yellow River, rather in Chinese Nationalist territories. The two key factors that had crippled Chiang’s Northern Expedition had been the Japanese air and naval support.

Merchant vessels destined for port in Nationalist China, ships laden with supplies vital to the KMT war effort, had been turned away, When the blockade proved insufficient in slowing down the flow of aid, as well as angering European and American governments, the Japanese had instead invaded, capturing most of the major port cities on the east coast

Dozens of port cities were now feeling the oppressive heel of the Empire of the Rising Sun. Not only were the Japanese robbing Nationalist China of trade, it had sent fractures through Chiang Kai-shek’s fragile alliance, even within the KMT, split between the Nanjing and Wuhan factions. Several warlords had already returned home, exhausted after years of frequent fighting and angered by Chiang’s leadership.

Culpepper looked at the NRA officer, a young captain by the name of Cheng Guo. Guo seemed a good man, a boy by all accounts, though he had seen war. Shrapnel scars pockmarked his face and he walked with a noticeable limp.

“When will supplies from England arrive?” Guo asked.

“Depends on my recommendation but I’d say within a few months.”

Guo frowned. “That’ll be too late. The peace talks will be over then.”

Culpepper shrugged in a ‘well what can you do’ gesture and went back to scanning the other side of the river.

“Most likely,” Culpepper agreed. “But at least you’ll be ready for next time.”

Guo said nothing, just frowned again but eventually nodded.

“Sir!” Came the voice of a corporal, running out of the communication tent, the static pops and thrum of radio equipment following him out. Culpepper’s Mandarin was not bad, but it wasn’t good either.

“Yes?” Captain Guo asked

The corporal handed him a piece of paper, saluted then left when Guo returned the salute.

Guo read over the paper, his ever present frown deepening.

“What is it?”Culpepper heard himself ask.

“This, Mister Williams, is a reminder of my country’s failure in unification. The peace talks have concluded, the war is over.”

He put the binoculars down, the leather strap hanging them from his neck. “And the terms?”

“The Yellow River is to remain the border between the Empire of Manchuria and the Republic of China. The Japanese have agreed to withdraw from most of the port cities except for Qingdao, Yantai, Hangzhou, and Shanghai. Those will remain under Japanese military occupation for a period of no less than twenty-five years.”

Culpepper grimaced in understanding. The Japanese likely withdrew from the other port cities due to manpower or logistical issues, or a combination of both, and to end the war on their terms now instead of garrisoning half the Chinese coast, they instead were securing their hold in four of the biggest and most important cities.

“I don’t know what’s going to happen next,” Guo admitted in a downtrodden manner.

“I do.”

“Hmm?”

“There will be peace, of sorts, for a time at least. But war will come again, Captain Guo. Mark my words. And when it does, it’ll be cruel and bloody but I’m certain when the smoke clears and the markers on the map are checked, your country will be reunited under the KMT with the pretender and his Japanese masters driven from your land.”

Hope stirred in the Chinese man’s face.

“You think so?” He said.

“Damn right I do. And when war breaks out, as I’m sure it will, you can be certain the United Kingdom will be on your side, aiding you in your struggle.”

Guo smiled and turned, walking back to the car.

Culpepper knew he stretched the truth there. it wasn’t so simple. It all depended on when the war started, how it started, and which political party was in charge of the government back home, but he was fairly confident that the British Empire would back the Chinese Nationalist Party when push came to shove. Not out of any true love for the oft-corrupt KMT rife with factionalism and warlordism, but rather because the alternatives were far worse.​

 

[Tanner151]

Chapter Thirty-Seven
The Flame Sputters
Beiyang, Manchuria
Empire of Manchuria
January 1929​

Sergeant Yuuki Nakano walked through the densely packed streets of Beiyang. The street was bustling with merchants shouting their wares, people yelling at one another to move, and the barking of dogs. Yet to Nakano, these were a mere annoyance rather than a hindrance. A parting formed before him among the sea of people. Such things happened often to Japanese servicemen in the Empire of Manchuria. He didn't mind, in fact he expected such treatment. Japan had saved these people from communism and democracy, reinstating imperial rule.

Officially Manchuria, which stretched from their pre-1929 borders down to the Yellow River, was an equal ally to the Japanese Empire, but the truth of the matter was that the Japanese often looked down on their ‘friends.’ Orders from Imperial General Headquarters were to treat them like equals but many Japanese soldiers found that difficult. The Chinese, after all, were inferior. Shorter in stature, deformed features and skin too dark to be healthy.

The Jewel of the East had fallen from grace, into decadence and fragility. The time of the Red Dragon had passed, the Rising Sun was now in ascendancy. A new era in Asia was beginning.

Nakano’s squad followed behind him. Mostly conscripts, they had not fought in the Second Zhili-Fengtian War or even the more recent battles fought against the Chinese Nationalists in their failed Northern Expedition. They put on a brave face so as not to dishonor their families, but Nakano could tell some were nervous, perhaps even scared. They were young, inexperienced, and surrounded by a population that flip-flopped from friendly thankfulness to simmering anger on a day-to-day basis.

Walking, the troops neared a stall where the succulent smell of cooking meat came from. A Chinese man hobbled over, bowing as he did so. He spoke in Mandarin, a language Nakano knew a scattering of words, but it was delivered in some Emperor-forsaken dialect that he couldn’t work out the words. The merchant seemed to understand, instead moving to the side to show a selection of cooked meats impaled on small sticks.

Nakano and his squad took what they wanted and turned to leave, the matter done, but the Chinese merchant was braver than he appeared. He said something to Nakano which he didn’t understand but he saw the man’s hand held out and open palmed. The merchant gestured to it.

Nakano laughed. The balls the Chinese peasant must have had to confront a squad of Japanese soldiers after a few pieces of meat. Feeling good-humored, he reached into his pocket to fish out some money. The Chinese merchant stared at him with money-hungry eyes.

Pulling out a wad of cash, Nakano peeled off a few of the newly issued Manchurian yuan and placed it in the man’s hand. The merchant gave a sour smile. He couldn’t refuse his country’s new currency, but Nakano could tell he would have much preferred Chinese tael. The Manchurian yuan was notorious for its lack of value but the Japanese sergeant had heard that with the recent trade agreement between Manchuria and the Home Islands that the yuan would start to gain purchasing power as the Manchurians grew their economy, especially in mining and farming, to match the needs of a resource-starved Japanese industry.

To Nakano, that was acceptable. Japan was to receive the resources it so desperately needed without having to commit itself to a never-ending occupation while Manchuria on the other hand received hard capital. A mutual relationship, beneficial to both sides.

They continued to walk through the crowded streets. Japanese soldiers were a frequent sight in Beiyang, though the reception was typically lukewarm. The Imperial Japanese Army had taken a vested interest in maintaining a sizable presence in Manchuria to defend it from Chiang Kai-shek’s Nationalists south of the Yellow River as well as Mao Zedong’s Communists in Shanxi.

He had heard that the Nationalists were fraying, the cliques that had supported Chiang’s ill-fated Northern Expedition were rumored to be plotting against the Nanjing government and the other cliques. Some followed Chiang out of loyalty, others out of ambition but many had been defeated and forced to serve him and thus were looking for a way to get retribution..

An open secret amongst the Kwantung Army garrisons in the Empire of Manchuria was that the Kempeitai and Manchurian intelligence services were helping inflame such tensions to the south. An enemy occupied with internal affairs was less likely to strike outwards which suited Japan’s needs quite well. The Republic of China and the recently declared Soviet Republic of China would be taken care of, in due time.

It was towards the end of their patrol where they heard shouts and the blaring of high-pitched whistles. The crowd parted, but this time it wasn't for Japanese soldiers, but rather Manchruian ones. They marched in formation, five-by-ten. Behind them marched more soldiers flanking a gilded litter. The curtains were parted and Nakano was able to see the figures inside. One was the Manchurian Emperor Kangde, Aisin-Gioro Puyi himself. Two others were in the litter. One was the emperor’s wife Wanrong, who looked visibly unhappy, staring out the litter at the crowds bowing before them. The other figure Nakano recognized immediately.

“Form up!” he barked at his squad, who quickly formed up, standing at attention, their bayoneted rifles catching the late afternoon sunlight.

Puyi saw them and smiled, waving at them but Nakano and his men weren’t coming to attention for him but rather his passenger.

Yasuhito, the Prince Chichibu, turned to see them, nodding in their direction before turning back to Puyi. Nakano’s chest swelled with pride. It was not everyday the heir to the Chrysanthemum Throne acknowledged those so low in Japan’s strict social hierarchy. But Yasuhito was a soldier and he likely saw them not as peasant born commoners but rather fellow soldiers-in-arms. Nakano could see his squad out of the corner of his eye, and could see they were similarly proud and honored.

Behind the litter marched a platoon of the Japanese Imperial Guard, followed by another fifty Manchurians soldiers in lock-step. Once the litter and its accompanying protection had moved on, Nakano and his men continued on their patrol, eventually making it back to the camp on the outside of town. Machine gun nests, earthen bunkers and a three meter wooden fence with wrapping barb wire protected the large Kwantung Army camp, overseen by dozens of watchtowers with lights and machine guns on them. Inside were mortars and light artillery, a motor pool of trucks, cars and a handful of

Nakano and many of the other non-commissioned officers, the corporals and sergeants who actually ran the Army, got together and went back into Beiyang, for pleasure rather than official duties.

Eating at a restaurant attached to a brothel, they ate their fill, laughing loudly and frequently. If any of the Chinese patrons or Chinese prostitutes cared they did not say so. The madame of the establishment, a woman who must have been a beauty back during the Russo-Japanese War, bowed profusely to them, gifting them free dishes and a free bottle of cheaply-made baijiu.

They had been there an hour, feeling up the girls, choosing the ones that would entertain them, the door opened and a dozen men entered. All but two were Japanese sailors, the other two were obviously White Russians. Judging by their clothing they were in the small Tsarist Navy. Though officially neutral, ever since its inception the Second Tsardom of Russia under the reign of Kirill Vladimirovich Romanov had grown increasingly closer to Japan, becoming by default a puppet state to the Land of the Rising Sun. So it came as no surprise that Tsarist sailors would accompany those of the IJN. What was surprising was that the Navy had come to the part of Beiyang under the informal control of the IJA.

Nakano stood, as did several of his fellow Army NCOs. They reached into their waistbands, pockets and holsters, showing knives, brass knuckles and pistols. The Navy sailors stood in the doorway, hesitant, before one of them moved forward, striding up to the bar as if he owned the establishment.

“Barkeep, a bottle of your finest wine for the Emperor’s finest sailors!”

The bartender, aware of the bitter interservice rivalry, busied himself wiping down the counter.

“Are you deaf, shina? I’m talking to you.”

Nakano, buzzed with alcohol and annoyed that his pleasant evening was being disrupted, walked over to the sailor. Grabbing the man’s shoulder, he pulled him around and punched him. Nakano felt the man’s nose break under his fist.

The other sailors started forward but the Army NCOs had already pulled out their weapons, the handful of pistols aimed at them gave the sailors pause.

“You broke my nose, you bastard!” the kneeling Navy sailor squealed through clenched fists dripping with blood and snot.

“Be lucky that’s all I break,” Nakano hissed, hoisting the sailor up and roughly shoving him towards his compatriots. They grabbed him and quickly left, the two Tsarist Russians looking bewildered at how things developed. After the sailors left, the Army corporals cheered and raised toasts to the IJA and to the Emperor, with one even toasting Prime Minister Tanaka Griichi who had been a general and later minister for the Army.

Downing a shot of the cheap liquor, Nakano stumbled towards one of the prostitutes who looked at the Japanese soldiers nervously. He grabbed her wrist. She at first started to protest but a quick word from the madame in Mandarin, too quick for Nakano to understand, sated her and her resistance fell though she was notably unhappy. They walked to one of the bedrooms above the restaurant, a small dank room that smelled of sex and mildew, and there he shoved her to the bed, a thin cot of blankets and a pillow. Grabbing her roughly, he pulled off her clothing forcefully, starting with the skirt. The whore didn’t protest but nor did she help.

“You better help or I’ll bash your skull in,” he slurred in terrible Mandarin and despite his mishandling of the language she either understood or could see the murder in his eyes. The too-dark girl paled and quickly peeled the rest off, revealing small breasts that he cupped and squeezed hard. He unzipped his pants and began.

After finishing, Yuuki Nakano smiled and rolled off her, the whore stifling a sob which he ignored. His wife back home didn’t do this, and if he was to fight and risk dying in this Emperor-forsaken country he might as well enjoy the benefits his deployment gave him.

Vienna, Austria
Republic of Austria
March 1929​

The bus stopped in Floridsdorf District. Konrad Leichtenberg got up from his seat, grabbing the small suitcase and satchel that had laid there in the seat beside him since arriving in Vienna. Paying the bus fare of ten groschen, Leichtenberg departed the vehicle and it sped away, black exhaust thrown up into the air.

Leichtenberg looked around the working-class district, pleased to see a lack of leftist propaganda posters and leaflets. Vienna was not known as Red Vienna for nothing. In a country ruled by the conservative Christian Socials and the quasi-fascist National Liberals, Austria’s capital city remained a bastion of the Social Democrats and the Communists. Many of the National Council seats portioned for Vienna were held by those two parties.

Florisdorf, being a labor and lower to middle-class district, would typically be a SDAPÖ or KPÖ stronghold but it seemed the Social Nationalist focus on urban laborers was paying dividends.

Leichtenberg pulled out a scrap of paper, an address scribbled on it. He followed the spartan directions that he had been given at Vienna’s central bus station, and made way to the large warehouse-turned-headquarters for the Austrian Social Nationalist People’s Party.

Kruckenkreuz banners billowed from windows with a large poster of Adolf Hitler above the entrance way. Guards in dark blue patrolled the perimeter and a couple stood at the doorway. Even in faraway Japan, Leichtenberg had heard of the Sturmwache, the Party’s Storm Guard.

Approaching, hands visible out to the side so they wouldn’t think he was reaching for a weapon, Leichtenberg walked slowly and non-threateningly.

“Hold it right there,” one of the guards said, walking down the steps, keeping his distance. “Who are you?”

“Konrad Leichtenberg,” he said calmly, “I’m expected.”

The other guard checked a list he had in his pocket. “He’s on here. Meeting with Olbrecht.”

The guard neared him and nodded. “I’m gonna pat you down.”

“Go ahead.”

The SW man patted him down. “He’s good,” the guard said to the other. “Go on in, talk to the receptionist. Herr Olbrecht is not here yet.”

Leichtenberg nodded as he walked up the steps, the door opened for him. Entering, a pretty blonde woman at the desk looked up. “Can I help you, sir?”

“Yes, I’m here for a meeting with Franz Olbrecht.”

The woman checked some notes. “Yes, I have you down for a meeting in an hour. Herr Olbrecht is currently not here, he is in a parliamentary session with the National Council.”

Leichtenberg nodded. The receptionist gestured to a chair against the wall. Taking a seat, he noted the nearby pots of coffee and fruits. Glancing around, he was impressed by what he saw. Despite being the third largest political party in the country, the ÖSNVP put on airs as if they were the largest or the leading member of a government coalition. For the next three hours Leichtenberg sat in the reception lobby, watching messengers come in and out, the guard shifts changing, and the natural light coming in from the high ceiling windows fading to dark.

It was when he was on his tenth or so cup of coffee that Franz Olbrecht arrived. The former colonel and aristocrat came in looking haggard and annoyed. The receptionist at the desk rose and saluted with her arm outstretched, shouting “Heil Hitler!”

Olbrecht returned the gesture and saying before he noticed Leichtenberg.

“Konrad Leightenberg, I presume?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Apologies for my lateness. A National Council session went long. There’s a lot of worry from some economists that the American Stock Market is running too hot and too fast, and we’re trying to decide what we would do if a crash were to happen. Talk, talk, talk, that’s all they do. God, I hate politicians, doubly-so since I became one." Sighing, Olbrecht gestured. "Follow me.”

Leichtenberg did so, hefting his luggage with him. Olbrecht saw this and smiled. “Leave it behind the desk, Helga will watch it.”

Leichtenberg obliged, following Olbrecht further into Party headquarters. Arriving at a corner office, past the bustling back-and-forth of Party clerks and officials, the two men sat down.

“Can I get you something to drink?” offered Olbrecht.

“No, thank you. I’ve had enough coffee to keep me awake for at least another day.” Both chuckled at that before Olbrecht leaned forward, face all serious.

“So, why are you here?”

The question was blunt so Leichtenberg decided answering it bluntly would work best.

“To try and get a job.” Leichtenberg shrugged. “The new Foreign Minister, Heinrich Mataja, is cleaning house over at the Foreign Ministry. He’s putting his own people in place, especially those with the stain of controversy surrounding them.”

Olbrecht frowned but nodded for him to continue.

“Dozens of embassies across the world are being purged of Grünberger affiliates. It seems Seipel was unhappy with Grünberger’s management and wishes to refocus the Foreign Ministry to be more in-sync with his own plans. As such, I’m unemployed and I doubt the current government would hire me back on. My… modification of reports to Vienna cost me my government job and pension. I knew it would catch up to me eventually. I’m only hoping it was worth it.”

Olbrecht nodded at that. “The Führer has told me on multiple occasions that his success in Japan was due to your efforts. And he predicted your patriotic actions would come back at a cost to your professional career. As a result the Central Committee has set up a position for you, one we believe you would excel in: Personal Secretary to the Führer. Now,” Olbrecht began, seeing Leichtenberg’s expression, “I know it isn’t glamorous and it is essentially what you did for Hitler back in Japan, but you would have daily interaction with the Führer, help control the flow of information to him, and be a key member of the Party’s inner elite. Your salary would be three hundred schillings a week, plus an apartment nearby rated at a steep discount. The landlord is a Party member.”

It was a large reduction of what he made as an Embassy First Secretary but considering he didn’t have a job, any money was good money. “I appreciate the offer, but I wouldn’t want to take someone’s job. Having recently lost mine, I sharply remember the sting that can cause.”

“An honorable intention but you don’t need to worry about that. The Führer’s current personal secretary is soon to give birth to her second child and will be on maternity leave.”

“But when she comes back-”

“Frau Hitler has stated her intention to be a hausfrau for the foreseeable future, feeling that if she were a stay-at-home wife that it would appeal to other hausfraus.”

“Frau Hitler? Lieselotte?”

“Yes, she has been an integral factor in the smooth running of the headquarters’ staff and relaying communiques to Hitler for years. The Central Committee has a high degree of confidence that you will seamlessly step in and help us in the push towards victory in the next election.”

Leichtenberg nodded. “Two questions, if I may.” Olbrecht nodded. “Where is Hitler and when do I start?”

“He is currently on a speaking tour in Styria and Carinthia. He’ll be back in a week or so. But you can start tomorrow.”

“I’ll see you then.”

Villach, Austria
Republic of Austria
March 1929​

“As you can see, mein Führer, Villach is a respectable city, one that remembers your efforts fondly from back during the Carinthian War.”

Hitler nodded as he walked beside the Party chief for the Villach Section Jans Stuecker. The Kapitelleiter, like many in the ÖSNVP, was a Great War veteran, having fought on the Isonzo Front. He walked with a slight limp, a hallmark of an Italian sharpshooter in the war’s final months. He was tall, blond with bright blue eyes, broad shoulders and a committed Social Nationalist. Stuecker was the perfect Austro-German Aryan, a credit to his race.

Ever since Hitler had arrived in Villach, a city a little over a hundred and fifty kilometers from the Austro-Slovenian border, Jans Stuecker had been beside him, showing him the Party offices and some of the leading donors who were generous in their contribution to the Party’s coffers. Hitler shook hands, declared bold claims and muttered assured promises. Anything to get the money, anything to get the vote. It highlighted the weakness of democracy, a system he despised only marginally less than monarchies and Communism, but it was the only potential path to victory in Austria’s combative politics.

Hitler walked at a steady pace, hands behind his back. His greatcoat was dark blue, to symbolize that he was not only Führer of the ÖSNVP but also the overall commander of the Sturmwache, though he left much of the day-to-day operations to Oberführer Starhemberg. As he walked towards the raised platform in Villach’s town square to deliver a speech, his mind raced. When the next election came about, it would be the make-or-break moment for the Party. Social Nationalism would either surge to governance or simply fade away into irrelevance.

The crowd, only around a hundred or so this far as the speech did not begin for another half-hour, parted, gently nudged by the circle of SW guards. Jakob Kuhr was just a step behind Hitler, off to the side, watching for any sudden movement. Hitler could see his bodyguard’s hand resting near a holstered pistol. As he shook hands, offering false smiles and friendly pats on the shoulder, Hitler’s mind went back to a meeting he had with top Party leaders a week ago in Vienna.

Walter Pfrimer, the ranking Party official in Styria, had traveled with him throughout Styria to discuss a potential coup with Hitler but grew frustrated at Hitler's insistence on avoiding it, citing a lack of broad support. As before, Franz was against it, saying that a coup would invalidate their government, and that was if they succeeded. The chances were far more likely to be that they would either end up as corpses in a morgue or as men in jail.

Pfrimer, ever the impatient gung-ho fighter that he personified, argued that they would only need a thousand men, or even just five hundred Sturmwache, to secure key buildings and infrastructure in a potential coup. The Austrian Bundesheer had few men and even fewer were stationed in Vienna.

The Social Democrats and Communists were hesitant to have the military, which had many right-leaning members in its command hierarchy, to have so many troops positioned so close to the halls of power. So a coup was possible to carry out but would have been infeasible to maintain. If his Party took over the government in a violent overthrow, then the people would be untrustworthy and unsupportive of it and that was the dreaded secret of dictatorial rule. A dictator’s authority is only as powerful as the people allow it. If Hitler and the Social Nationalists took over and stripped people of their so-called liberty then they would rebel, boycott and all sorts of passive and active resistance that would make governance of the country impossible.

However, if the people were to voluntarily surrender their freedoms for security and national interest, then, well, it would be far easier to maintain control and legitimize whatever actions his government would carry out. If Austrian democracy was to evolve into a corporatist-fascist state, the ÖSNVP must first win in a democratic election. The irony was not lost on him.

For the next thirty minutes Hitler mingled with Villach’s Party elite, noting with some annoyance that only a few newspaper reporters had shown up. He would have a word with the Section’s propagandist…

A shout shattered the calm event.

“Fascist bastards!”

A gaggle of men approached from an adjoining street, dressed in gray trousers and greatcoats, a couple of signs above their heads read ‘Freedom, Not Fascism!’ and ‘Social Democracy, not Sozinat thugs!’

Hitler smiled. The Republikanischer Schutzbund, the Social Democrats’ answer to the Sturmwache.

They held cudgels, bludgeons and knives, and judging by their expressions and continuing advance they were itching for a fight. Standing nearby the pair of police officers had their hands on their service revolvers and were backing away, wary of the fight about to break out knowing they would only be caught in the crossfire.

Kuhr and Stuecker looked at him. Hitler frowned, eyes flicking over the reporters who, to their credit, had moved behind the stage, journals and pencils out, scribbling away. If his men, armed with pistols, started the fight by opening gunfire then the headlines tomorrow would be ‘Social Nationalists, Trigger-Happy Murders?!’ They couldn’t risk bad press, not at this time.

Hitler moved to stand near the front, a wall of tall and broad-shouldered Sturmwache protecting him from the Republikanischer Schutzbund.

“Sir?” Kuhr muttered, hand reaching into his coat pocket for the Steyr-Hahn Hitler knew was there.

Before he could respond, someone shouted, quickly followed by a single sharp crack of gunfire. There was a brief hesitation, shocked that a street brawl had turned into a shootout so quickly. Then the men on both sides reached for their guns and that was when the shooting started. One of the Sturmwache, the one standing directly in front of him, was hit and fell over.

The screaming was loud and piercing, more and more pistols and revolvers firing, several people on both sides falling down, dead or dying. Blood, hot and sticky, splattered on Hitler’s face from another guard getting killed. Falling down, the corpse of one of his bodyguards weighing him down, Hitler watched on as a Republikanischer Schutzbund ran up to him, pistol raised. Everything seemed to slow, the sounds were deafened, the only sound he could hear was his own heartbeat. The man was only a meter away and aimed his pistol.

Hitler closed his eyes as a gun went off.