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Chapter LVIII
The fortress that was Hohenzollern castle had not been used for its purpose of housing vast armies in quite some time, and although they had a distinctly foreign tinge to their swagger, the dozens of Blackshirts that lined the perimeter were well aware of the men whose footsteps they were following in. Their leader had made sure of that.
The Volkisch Bund had not always been his project. Not long ago it had been little more than a disparate movement of dozens of factions united only in their love of fighting, drinking and whatever variation of right-wing extremism had become the new flavour of any particular month. Their former leader, General Erich Ludendorff, had harboured political ambitions that had fallen flat over and over again as he had lost interest, fallen into idleness, and eventually become satisfied with presiding over a perverse social club of drunks and thugs. That was when he had taken control.
Ludendorff was easily replaced, the washed-up old officer happily accepting the royal thanks for his contribution to the national cause, allowing him to mold a new organisation using his means and his contacts. Financial and material aid had flown in from all quarters, he was a prodigal son to many after all and now so was his movement. The old veterans had shown their support, as had the Junkers and the established gentry. Members of the state apparatus who preferred to keep their allegiance quiet offered secret toasts, whilst big business dithered but expressed their encouragement for what they saw unfolding in the midst of an international crisis.
The new Volkisch Bund, clean, disciplined, Christian, Conservative, German, and most importantly, Monarchist.
Perched high above his men, the Crown Prince Wilhelm looked out over the town of Hechingen, overshadowed by his family home and the mountain it sat upon. When his father had been Emperor this had been a place of pilgrimage and Hechingen had done well out of the relationship. The heir to the throne couldn’t help but feel the certainty that those days would come again pulsating within him. The town was tiny from the distance from which he gazed upon it, quiet, beautiful, German, fragile.
“It is truly a beautiful view, your majesty,” Hermann Goring announced, almost as if he were replying to a thought unspoken, “I always enjoy our meetings here.” Wilhelm paused a moment more to gaze at what had been his father’s kingdom, smiling briefly, before returning from the balcony to address the matter at hand.
“It was a fine inheritance Herr Goering, far more pleasant than the duty I also took on the day my father passed.” Looking through his gathered lieutenants at the opulence of former Kaiser’s study Wilhelm inadvertently thought back to the scene on his father’s death bed, his heavy throat bellowing, the grey, lethargic face, a withered hand. His mother had joined her husband soon after, she never truly recovered from the grief. He was yet another orphan of the Spanish Flu, one of millions in what had been the deadliest pandemic of the modern world, and yet he felt he was unique in having the power to change it.
His father’s abdication had been the ruin of Germany and almost the ruin of his family as well. It was a score that was yet to be settled.
“If my father had been here I feel the people would have taken to him in far greater numbers than they have taken to me.” Goering appeared hurt by this suggestion.
“They need you your majesty, they all do, and as this global crisis worsens the people are flocking to your message in greater numbers than ever before.”
“Even with the Bolsheviks assaulting our supporters and breaking up our rallies?” The Crown Prince asked sarcastically, a hint of venom being added to the mountain air. The riot in the Berlin stadtpark had been a humiliation for Goering, one that was recent enough to still sting.
“We soon won’t have to worry about brawls with the communists any longer your highness, not with the new supporters we are attaining. Soon the patriots of Germany will be able to bring their true power to bear.”
“Is he right, General?”
“I believe we have every reason to hope so, your majesty.” General Kurt Von Schleicher replied. A furtive man, he was loyal to the cause of the Crown Prince even if he preferred to keep it a secret given his role as Chief Advisor to the Ministry of Defence.
“The government has been hanging on by a thread ever since the Social Democrats walked out, they cannot legislate and they can barely hold onto power. With the right pressure we can force an election in months, perhaps weeks, and then it will be impossible to deny your God-given right to the throne.” Wilhelm beamed at Von Schleicher’s reverence, allowing him to cast aside any doubts that the officer might only be flattering him. Their shared contempt of those who had governed Germany ever since defeat in the Great War bound them together, although he couldn’t help but dwell on those who might also profit from a snap election.
“The Communists will also benefit from a snap election, won’t they? They’ve been preaching against American loans and foreign companies for years, and now they’re able to say they’ve been proven correct, perhaps loudly enough for the German worker to ignore that their alternative would lead to even greater ruin.”
“A strong performance from the KPD may actually work in your favour, majesty.”
Von Schleicher had to suppress a groan as both the Crown Prince and his errand boy, Goering looked at him with a mix of confusion and distress.
“It will prove to those who so far have lingered on the fence in regards to accepting our movement that we are the only alternative to continued communist subversion.”
“Ah yes, I see, very clever.” The Crown Prince smiled with a confidence derived from clarity., as ever Von Schleicher had made it so that even the temporary triumph of his enemies ended in a victory for the House of Hohenzollern. The man would make an excellent Chancellor once the Empire was restored.
“Take this recent violence between our blackshirts and their rag-tag bunch of hooligans.” Von Schleicher went on, “If anything, the riot in Berlin has helped to direct the attention of the state towards your warnings of the Communist threat.”
Wilhelm nodded in agreement but the episode still annoyed him nonetheless.
“I do wonder if we could claim some dignity out of the whole affair,” he pondered, “perhaps a martyr to underline the heroism of our actions?”
Goering picked up a neglected copy of the party newspaper, the front page proudly announcing Das Volk in a bold gothic font resembling pagan runes. The Crown Prince's deputy hesistantly leafed through to the report on the riot, and the obituaries of those who had fallen.
“What about this one?” He observed, placing the page on the table and pointing to one of the party ID photographs that represented those who had not returned from their battle with the Communists, before reading the obituary aloud.
“Group Leader Heinrich Himmler, last seen fighting off over a dozen Communists by himself as they attempted to attack a German woman. His willingness to sacrifice shall be dearly missed by our movement, but his heroism shall never be forgotten,”
The Crown Prince curled his lip at the scrawny, stubbled face gawking up at him.
“No, his appearance is too off-putting, we need a hero that our men can look up to and our women can mourn, not some frail curiosity.” Goering nodded knowingly and closed the paper.
“We’ll find someone else.”
The meeting between the would-be-Emperor and his council returned to more important matters, and throughout the discussion Kurt Von Schleicher managed to avoid strangling anyone as he comforted himself with plans of his own, and in the fact that patience was a virtue.
---
The painting is Eclipse of the Sun by George Grosz.
"It is in the interests of the most reactionary circles of the bourgeoisie that fascism intercepts the disappointed masses who desert the old bourgeois parties. But it impresses these masses by the vehemence of its attacks on the bourgeois governments and its irreconcilable attitude to the old bourgeois parties."
~ Georgi Dimitrov
~ Georgi Dimitrov
The fortress that was Hohenzollern castle had not been used for its purpose of housing vast armies in quite some time, and although they had a distinctly foreign tinge to their swagger, the dozens of Blackshirts that lined the perimeter were well aware of the men whose footsteps they were following in. Their leader had made sure of that.
The Volkisch Bund had not always been his project. Not long ago it had been little more than a disparate movement of dozens of factions united only in their love of fighting, drinking and whatever variation of right-wing extremism had become the new flavour of any particular month. Their former leader, General Erich Ludendorff, had harboured political ambitions that had fallen flat over and over again as he had lost interest, fallen into idleness, and eventually become satisfied with presiding over a perverse social club of drunks and thugs. That was when he had taken control.
Ludendorff was easily replaced, the washed-up old officer happily accepting the royal thanks for his contribution to the national cause, allowing him to mold a new organisation using his means and his contacts. Financial and material aid had flown in from all quarters, he was a prodigal son to many after all and now so was his movement. The old veterans had shown their support, as had the Junkers and the established gentry. Members of the state apparatus who preferred to keep their allegiance quiet offered secret toasts, whilst big business dithered but expressed their encouragement for what they saw unfolding in the midst of an international crisis.
The new Volkisch Bund, clean, disciplined, Christian, Conservative, German, and most importantly, Monarchist.
Perched high above his men, the Crown Prince Wilhelm looked out over the town of Hechingen, overshadowed by his family home and the mountain it sat upon. When his father had been Emperor this had been a place of pilgrimage and Hechingen had done well out of the relationship. The heir to the throne couldn’t help but feel the certainty that those days would come again pulsating within him. The town was tiny from the distance from which he gazed upon it, quiet, beautiful, German, fragile.
“It is truly a beautiful view, your majesty,” Hermann Goring announced, almost as if he were replying to a thought unspoken, “I always enjoy our meetings here.” Wilhelm paused a moment more to gaze at what had been his father’s kingdom, smiling briefly, before returning from the balcony to address the matter at hand.
“It was a fine inheritance Herr Goering, far more pleasant than the duty I also took on the day my father passed.” Looking through his gathered lieutenants at the opulence of former Kaiser’s study Wilhelm inadvertently thought back to the scene on his father’s death bed, his heavy throat bellowing, the grey, lethargic face, a withered hand. His mother had joined her husband soon after, she never truly recovered from the grief. He was yet another orphan of the Spanish Flu, one of millions in what had been the deadliest pandemic of the modern world, and yet he felt he was unique in having the power to change it.
His father’s abdication had been the ruin of Germany and almost the ruin of his family as well. It was a score that was yet to be settled.
“If my father had been here I feel the people would have taken to him in far greater numbers than they have taken to me.” Goering appeared hurt by this suggestion.
“They need you your majesty, they all do, and as this global crisis worsens the people are flocking to your message in greater numbers than ever before.”
“Even with the Bolsheviks assaulting our supporters and breaking up our rallies?” The Crown Prince asked sarcastically, a hint of venom being added to the mountain air. The riot in the Berlin stadtpark had been a humiliation for Goering, one that was recent enough to still sting.
“We soon won’t have to worry about brawls with the communists any longer your highness, not with the new supporters we are attaining. Soon the patriots of Germany will be able to bring their true power to bear.”
“Is he right, General?”
“I believe we have every reason to hope so, your majesty.” General Kurt Von Schleicher replied. A furtive man, he was loyal to the cause of the Crown Prince even if he preferred to keep it a secret given his role as Chief Advisor to the Ministry of Defence.
“The government has been hanging on by a thread ever since the Social Democrats walked out, they cannot legislate and they can barely hold onto power. With the right pressure we can force an election in months, perhaps weeks, and then it will be impossible to deny your God-given right to the throne.” Wilhelm beamed at Von Schleicher’s reverence, allowing him to cast aside any doubts that the officer might only be flattering him. Their shared contempt of those who had governed Germany ever since defeat in the Great War bound them together, although he couldn’t help but dwell on those who might also profit from a snap election.
“The Communists will also benefit from a snap election, won’t they? They’ve been preaching against American loans and foreign companies for years, and now they’re able to say they’ve been proven correct, perhaps loudly enough for the German worker to ignore that their alternative would lead to even greater ruin.”
“A strong performance from the KPD may actually work in your favour, majesty.”
Von Schleicher had to suppress a groan as both the Crown Prince and his errand boy, Goering looked at him with a mix of confusion and distress.
“It will prove to those who so far have lingered on the fence in regards to accepting our movement that we are the only alternative to continued communist subversion.”
“Ah yes, I see, very clever.” The Crown Prince smiled with a confidence derived from clarity., as ever Von Schleicher had made it so that even the temporary triumph of his enemies ended in a victory for the House of Hohenzollern. The man would make an excellent Chancellor once the Empire was restored.
“Take this recent violence between our blackshirts and their rag-tag bunch of hooligans.” Von Schleicher went on, “If anything, the riot in Berlin has helped to direct the attention of the state towards your warnings of the Communist threat.”
Wilhelm nodded in agreement but the episode still annoyed him nonetheless.
“I do wonder if we could claim some dignity out of the whole affair,” he pondered, “perhaps a martyr to underline the heroism of our actions?”
Goering picked up a neglected copy of the party newspaper, the front page proudly announcing Das Volk in a bold gothic font resembling pagan runes. The Crown Prince's deputy hesistantly leafed through to the report on the riot, and the obituaries of those who had fallen.
“What about this one?” He observed, placing the page on the table and pointing to one of the party ID photographs that represented those who had not returned from their battle with the Communists, before reading the obituary aloud.
“Group Leader Heinrich Himmler, last seen fighting off over a dozen Communists by himself as they attempted to attack a German woman. His willingness to sacrifice shall be dearly missed by our movement, but his heroism shall never be forgotten,”
The Crown Prince curled his lip at the scrawny, stubbled face gawking up at him.
“No, his appearance is too off-putting, we need a hero that our men can look up to and our women can mourn, not some frail curiosity.” Goering nodded knowingly and closed the paper.
“We’ll find someone else.”
The meeting between the would-be-Emperor and his council returned to more important matters, and throughout the discussion Kurt Von Schleicher managed to avoid strangling anyone as he comforted himself with plans of his own, and in the fact that patience was a virtue.
---
The painting is Eclipse of the Sun by George Grosz.
- The Red
- Word Count: 1.4k