Chapter 9: Truth
Joseph moved into a new apartment on the outskirts of Berlin.
Within a few short weeks, the freshly launched Progressive Newspaper began appearing on newsstands, in alley corners, and in the hands of bundled up paper boys shouting through the winter streets. Yet the public had no idea that, behind this unremarkable paper, a political party too small to notice had quietly been born among them.
What they did notice was something else.
Everything was becoming more expensive.
At first, the collapse of the currency had only existed as an abstract concept in the minds of a handful of financial journalists and economists. But by the end of the year, even the hooded boys selling papers in Berlin had developed a practical instinct: the moment they earned money, they exchanged it for bread.
Across Germany, political parties also began baring their teeth.
In Munich, a young man with a small mustache, energetic and feverish, led his self-organized Stormtroopers from one podium to the next. Wherever he went, his eloquent speeches drew cheers, raised arms, and shining eyes, as audiences were swept into his grand promises of national revival and quietly fed the poison hidden beneath them.
In Berlin, left wing radicals from different states gathered in cramped warehouses, wiping down newly delivered rifles while their leader, Stoff, stood by a microphone and calmly discussed plans that would soon stain the city with blood.
And Joseph, wrapped in a long coat and escorted by security police assigned by Jörg, moved through Berlin's streets in broad daylight, steadily expanding the influence of the Progress Party under the simple and effective disguise of distributing free food.
For ordinary people, and even for the policemen who still clung to some sense of morality in a decaying age, inflation only made life heavier.
The government watched all of it with practiced indifference.
It was not that they did not want to interfere. It was that France's dissatisfaction with being repaid in what was quickly becoming little more than waste paper had already consumed all their attention, all their energy, all their political cunning. They had no spare patience left for these tiny parties, these unimportant lower class people.
They did not even consider them worth deceiving.
…
Late at night, in a pawnshop lit by yellow gaslight, Vito carefully pulled the last remaining gold Papiermark from his pocket and placed it on the counter.
Still wearing his police uniform, he asked in a low voice, "How much?"
Behind the counter, a Jewish merchant wearing a gold rimmed monocle picked up the coin with deliberate slowness. His impatient eyes flicked over it once, then drifted to Vito's face, lingering on the anxiety there.
A smile flashed at the corner of his mouth.
As he reached for a magnifying glass, he smoothly switched the coin beneath the counter with another, a cheap gold plated counterfeit, and placed it in his palm before speaking at length.
"One thousand Papiermarks."
Vito's face changed instantly.
"How is that possible? That is real gold. On the black market it's worth at least five thousand."
The merchant gave a dry laugh.
"Officer, surely you must be joking. Please, take a proper look. This coin only has a layer of gold plating on the outside."
He picked up a small knife.
With one light scrape, gold dust flaked away under the blade, exposing the dull brown copper beneath.
Vito's eyes widened in disbelief.
"That's impossible. That isn't the coin I just handed you. Give it back. Give it back, damn you!"
Rage surged through him. He grabbed the man by the collar, raised his fist, and was just about to strike when the merchant barked back without the slightest fear.
"Go on then, hit me. I'm a legitimate businessman. Do you think I'd stoop to such filthy swindling? The moment you lay a hand on me, I'll report you to the Berlin Police Department and have that dog skin ripped right off you!"
Vito froze.
The threat was crude, but effective.
Seeing him hesitate, the merchant calmly straightened his collar, then went further, savoring the humiliation.
"As expected. Germans are nothing but beasts who only know how to use brute force. Put them in suits, polish their shoes, it changes nothing. A beast is still a beast."
He tapped the counterfeit coin on the counter.
"One thousand. Final offer. Take it or leave it."
"You…"
Vito's fingers trembled.
In that instant, he truly wanted to pull out his gun and blow the vampire's head apart.
But he couldn't.
He could not afford to lose his job in the security police. His newborn son was still lying in a hospital bed. Encephalitis did not care about pride, and medicine could not be paid for with anger.
So he swallowed the resentment, forced it down into his chest, and prepared to nod.
Then the door opened.
A gleaming silver revolver appeared first.
Its muzzle pressed directly against the merchant's forehead.
The brilliant insignia on the shoulder of the police greatcoat beneath it made the merchant realize the identity of the newcomer at once.
"Hand it over."
The command was flat, almost devoid of emotion.
The merchant instinctively raised both hands. In his panic, the real gold coin hidden in his cuff slipped free and fell to the floor with a crisp clink.
Even so, he still tried to struggle verbally.
"Are you a policeman or a gangster? How dare you point a gun at a legitimate German businessman? I pay taxes in this country. In other words, I support your police!"
Jörg ignored every word.
Click.
The cold metallic sound of the revolver's cylinder turning crushed all the noise in the room.
"Pointing a gun at you?" Jörg said calmly. "Wasn't it you who attempted to seize a firearm and take a Security Minister hostage, only to fail?"
He slightly cocked the weapon and looked at Vito.
"You saw it too, didn't you?"
The merchant's face turned white.
Realizing what Jörg intended, he dropped to his knees on the spot like a dog struck by a whip. His expression changed faster than a page turning in the wind.
"I was wrong, Minister, I was wrong. Please, forgive me. I apologize to you. I apologize to the entire Berlin Police Department. Tomorrow, no, not tomorrow, right now, I can donate money to the Berlin Police Department!"
He babbled faster and faster.
"Five thousand Papiermarks. No, ten thousand. Twenty thousand!"
Roman did not even look at him.
"Did I tell you to speak?"
Then he addressed Vito again, as if the man kneeling on the floor was already a corpse.
"Vito, if someone attempts to assassinate a Security Minister and is killed by that minister in self defense, does the minister bear any responsibility?"
Vito stared.
Only now did he fully react.
Then, with eyes full of admiration, he shook his head rapidly.
"Of course not, sir."
"Good."
Jörg's voice did not rise.
"Then I will ask you again. Did you see him trying to seize my gun?"
Jörg's gloved index finger shifted ever so slightly on the trigger.
The implication was obvious.
If Vito nodded, the man would die immediately.
"I saw it," Vito said.
Bang!
The gunshot exploded inside the cramped pawnshop.
Bright blood splattered across the counter, the wall, the merchant's own overturned ledger books. A moment ago he had been shouting and bargaining. Now he lay sprawled on the floor like a slaughtered dog, his dead eyes fixed on nothing.
Until the moment he died, he had not understood why Jörg had actually dared to fire.
Vito stared at the body.
Watching a living man die should have frightened him.
Instead, he felt something else.
A fierce, indescribable relief.
An excitement so sharp it almost made him dizzy.
All the frustration, humiliation, and helplessness he had swallowed over these past months seemed to vanish with that single shot.
Jörg casually handed the revolver to him.
Then he struck a match, lit a cigarette, and asked in the same indifferent tone one might use to discuss tomorrow's schedule,
"Vito, I have already paid your son's hospital fees. Encephalitis is not a serious illness if treated in time. Have you considered my proposal?"
There was not the slightest trace of agitation on Jörg's face.
He did not look like a man who had just killed someone.
He looked like a butcher who had merely slaughtered a pig.
The gratitude already swelling in Vito's chest, combined with his very real financial desperation, erased the last of his old resentment.
The minister had saved his son.
The minister had avenged his humiliation.
If such a man could do this much for him, then what reason did he have not to repay that trust with absolute loyalty?
Vito immediately lowered his head and said with fervor,
"No problem, Mr. Roman. Your words are my command. Official matter or private matter, my life is yours."
"Very good."
Jörg exhaled a thin stream of smoke.
"Do you remember what I just said?"
"I remember."
"When the criminal investigators arrive, you will repeat the following statement."
Jörg's tone became even colder, more precise.
"The gun is yours. He became greedy, attempted to seize it and rob you, and was shot in your counterattack. I happened to pass by and witnessed the entire incident. Do you understand?"
Vito nodded vigorously.
"Understood, sir."
The shift in address, from minister to sir, made Jörg give a faint nod of approval.
Then he continued:
"I will arrange for you to be suspended for a period of time. Your wages will continue to be paid. It will only be a superficial suspension. After that, I will give you a detailed plan, including who you are to contact and exactly what you are to say."
He paused.
"If this matter is handled well, my current position will one day be yours."
Vito's breathing grew heavier.
"Remember one thing," Jörg said. "The moment you notice even the slightest sign of trouble, report to me immediately."