Chapter 17: The Madman's Plan
"But they failed."
Hermann stood behind the short bearded man as he said it.
Dusk had already settled over Munich. Small stalls had sprung up across the square in front of the station, and Czech, English, and German mixed in the cold air until the whole place resembled a disorderly black market where scarce goods, gold, and stacks of American dollars changed hands in open defiance of the law.
As legal tender, the Papiermarks had already fallen so low that it was treated here no differently from waste paper.
Bundles of it were piled into iron barrels and burned for heat.
The October wind stirred the flames, making them rise and sink like Germany's uncertain fate.
The warmth of the fire allowed the short bearded man to remove his gloves. His left hand twitched slightly.
Not far away, men from the Workers' Party had already been waiting for him. Wrapped in overcoats and smoking cigarettes, they quickly moved to open the car door for their leader the moment he approached.
The two men entered the rear seat side by side.
As the car began to move, the streets of Munich passed before their eyes one after another.
Homeless people.
Shuttered shops.
Freshly replaced price boards.
A loaf of bread that had cost five hundred thousand Papiermarks in the morning now cost one and a half million.
The short bearded man watched it all in silence, his eyes dark and burning, like a painter staring at the outline of some great work only he could fully see. After a long while, he finally spoke.
"But they almost succeeded."
His voice was low, yet filled with conviction.
"Even if those leftists are weak by nature and destined for compromise, the Berlin riots are still worth studying."
He turned slightly.
"I am preparing a new plan."
Hermann gave no immediate answer.
He understood very well that the Workers' Party's current strength was nowhere near enough to secure a true foothold in Bavaria. The only reason they had gained as much room as they had was because the former Chief of Staff, Erich, had placed his endorsement behind them. Under that banner, they had been able to build ties to wealthy businessmen and powerful men. Only through those ties had they managed to reach figures like Lossow, commander of the Reichswehr stationed in Bavaria.
Even then, their entire position rested on fragile support.
The Bavarian state army, the police, and sections of the local government all leaned toward their cause, yes, but that support was conditional. With enough patience, perhaps they really could have replicated the Italian model and seized power more smoothly one day.
So why the urgency now?
Unless something had changed.
Unless something had gone wrong.
The short bearded man seemed to read the concern in Hermann's face.
Hermann was one of the few men he truly trusted.
Not only had he contributed large sums of money to the Workers' Party, he had also helped build one of the strongest armed groups in Bavaria under their banner.
That was their real foundation.
Their only true confidence.
"Lossow has been dismissed," the short bearded man said. "We can no longer expect help from the Reichswehr. Yesterday, the governor and the police chief sent me a telegram. Their language was evasive. They are already starting to wriggle away from the proposals we laid before them."
His expression hardened.
"There is no more time, Hermann. We must accelerate the plan. The longer we delay, the greater the chance that everything will be exposed. These politicians are all selfish opportunists."
He almost spat the words.
"They will never support us forever, because in the end they serve only themselves, not any ideal."
He reached into his coat and withdrew a sealed letter.
"The original plan is canceled."
Hermann looked at the paper.
"A week from now," the short bearded man continued, "the governor, the police chief, and several other senior Bavarian officials will be attending a speech on peace and stability at the police station."
His eyes shone.
"That will be our great opportunity."
Hermann stared out the window for a moment, thinking.
Then he nodded.
"Should we inform Mr. Erich of the change?"
The answer came without the slightest hesitation.
"No."
The short bearded man's tone was absolute.
"To avoid leaks, the former Chief of Staff will be informed only once the operation has already begun."
The vehicle soon rolled to a stop before a private club.
The short bearded man adjusted his collar in the rearview mirror one final time before stepping out.
Outside, men in gray uniforms and beige trench coats, rifles in hand, immediately greeted their leader.
…
A week later, early morning, outside the police station.
A man in a black suit stood at the center of the podium, wearing the sharp, practiced expression of someone who had spent long years in administration. His features were alert, capable, and polished.
He was Karl, governor of Bavaria.
And today, he was the main speaker at a public address on peace and social stability.
Karl wore his customary smile.
He had no idea that, in the corner of the square, a man holding a newspaper had already slipped one hand quietly beneath his trench coat.
Karl tapped the microphone lightly.
"This address," he began, "is, on the one hand, intended to reaffirm the Weimar Republic's commitment to the maintenance of public order. The problems of frequent gang activity and social unrest must improve, and they will improve."
As he spoke, he raised a wireless telegram recently received from Berlin.
His tone was stern, uncompromising, and full of official gravity.
The riots in Berlin several weeks earlier had clearly terrified the fragile machinery of the Weimar state. That great administrative structure, barely held together with steel, paper, and nerves, had caught a glimpse of its own possible collapse.
And once it had seen that possibility, it had reacted with unusual force.
Berlin's directives had been harsher than usual, not only warning officials at every level of government, but also threatening parties, organizations, and the people financing them from behind the curtain.
Karl continued for some time in that same grand, elevated manner.
Then, after enough rhetoric had been spilled, his tone changed.
The administrator who had been solemn and righteous a moment earlier became, in an instant, more like a businessman tending his own ledger.
"At the same time," he said, "the war has left unimaginable scars on both Germany and Bavaria. But we must still express our gratitude to those soldiers who sacrificed for the nation."
His voice softened just enough to sound humane.
"Without them, perhaps this very beer hall would once have been reduced to rubble under French artillery. And yet many of these returning heroes have not received the treatment they deserve. Many cannot even find proper work. They wander the streets and endure hunger."
As he said this, attendants began moving among the front rows carrying donation boxes marked Charity Fund.
"This, too, is one of the central themes of today's gathering," Karl declared. "To contribute your share for these displaced heroes."
No one present was a fool.
Everyone understood that if even a single loaf of bread from this money reached an unemployed veteran, it would count as a miracle. More likely, Bavaria's treasury was leaking again, and Karl intended to use this occasion to plug several holes with public generosity.
In other words, it was not so very different from a gang collecting protection money.
The only real difference was that here the names were grander, the setting more respectable, and the governor's presence draped the entire act in the borrowed clothing of charity and patriotism.
"To the heroes!" someone shouted.
"To the heroes!"
Applause broke out. One by one, checks slipped into the boxes.
Karl smiled.
As he watched the donations pile up, his eyes shone with the private satisfaction of a man warmed by both money and power.
He was just about to continue his speech.
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