Chapter 18: Gunshots and Rewards
The sudden chaos of hurried footsteps shattered the stillness around the podium.
The man with the short beard looked up at once and saw several armed members of the Workers' Party moving in from different directions, tightening a ring around the crowd.
The moment the police spotted the guns in their hands, they understood that something had gone wrong.
What had begun as a routine public speech turned, in an instant, into a tense armed confrontation.
The governor, Karl, saw that familiar little mustache and his face immediately darkened.
The police chief standing beside him stared in bafflement.
"Why are you here?" he demanded. "I certainly do not recall inviting you to this address."
The bearded man answered coldly, "Governor, the streets are open to the public. I do not recall any law that forbids an ordinary citizen from attending a governor's speech."
Even as he spoke, his eyes flicked now and then toward the pocket watch in his hand, as if confirming that time itself was keeping pace with his intentions.
The police chief's disgust sharpened the instant he saw that repellent face up close.
He leaned in and lowered his voice.
"In a situation like this… you cannot."
A hard, cold object pressed against his waist.
A revolver.
The muzzle dug into his side so firmly that he had no choice but to take a step back.
"What exactly are you trying to do?" he hissed. "Madman! You're a complete madman!"
The bearded man burst into a wild, feral laugh.
"Situation? Madman?"
His eyes shone with an almost feverish light.
"This isn't a conference chamber. This is the street."
His voice grew harder with every word.
"I contacted you. I gave all of you a chance. But every one of you ignored it. You treated me like some rabid dog that could be kicked aside whenever convenient."
He jabbed a finger toward the podium.
"You turned your promises to me, and your promises to Germany, into one charity box after another."
Then his tone turned murderous.
"So today I'm giving you a second chance. Either support me, and support Mr. Erich, in making one final attempt for Germany's future…"
He pressed the gun more firmly into the police chief's side.
"Or everyone here leaves lying down."
On the podium, Karl's face went cold as stone.
He could feel the eyes of the crowd on him from every direction.
Yes, he had once made promises to this mad dog.
But he had also assumed that the heightened vigilance after the Berlin riots would have been enough to crush whatever ambitions had grown inside him.
Clearly, he had assumed too much.
The Berlin affair had not frightened the man.
It had inspired him.
He truly was insane.
Even if Erich, the former Chief of Staff, had appeared in person today, Karl still would not have bowed before this lunatic.
"I do not recall promising you anything," Karl said flatly. "You have no standing to speak to me in this tone. Bring Mr. Erich here. I will listen only to him."
The bearded man knew very well that Erich would never support such a plan.
And he had never been the sort to place his life in another man's hands.
The police would not follow him.
The government would not follow him.
But there would always be someone who would.
Then came the sound of marching.
Uniform footsteps broke the deadlock.
He looked up.
Soldiers in neat formation were moving toward them. Behind them rolled an armored vehicle, repaired and serviceable once more.
For one brilliant moment, the bearded man thought the Workers' Party men stationed near the Reichswehr outpost had succeeded. Certain that the army had now come over to his side, he seized Hermann's arm, overwhelmed with sudden triumph, and moved as if ready to take personal command.
He had no idea that, after the Berlin riots, the Weimar Republic, terrified of being overthrown, had already issued new standing orders.
Any state level revolt could now be suppressed without waiting for authorization.
The soldiers drew closer.
Then the muzzles of the rifles trained on the Workers' Party men made the truth impossible to ignore.
Bang!
The first shot cracked through the morning air.
Fierce fighting erupted in the street.
A moment ago, the bearded man had been only a step away from what he imagined was victory. Now, like a startled rabbit, he threw away his pistol and dropped low, scrambling madly toward the nearest car.
Before William could follow, bullets stitched across the vehicle.
The windows burst with blood.
The men inside were either dead or dying before they could even scream.
The Leader had run.
Hermann froze.
That one sight stunned him more deeply than the gunfire.
Then two bullets tore into his calf and upper arm.
The pain was so sharp it seemed to tear his body apart from the inside. He collapsed immediately, blood pouring from both wounds. And with the Leader already fleeing and the armed men around him breaking apart, the remaining Workers' Party members scattered like birds startled from a tree.
Within minutes, the scene changed.
What had begun as a gunfight became a pursuit.
A hunt.
Hermann tried to rise, but the agony in his leg made it impossible. To save his life, he could only raise both hands and surrender.
"Is that Hermann?"
He looked up.
But before he could see clearly who had spoken, the pain had already hollowed out his thoughts.
He nodded instinctively.
A large hand grabbed him, hauled him up, and dragged him into a nearby alley amid the confusion.
Then he was thrown into a waiting car like a sack of spoiled meat.
…
The gunfire in Munich could not reach Berlin.
It certainly could not reach the garden sanatorium in the suburbs.
In the early morning, a pale mist hung over the vast forest surrounding the grounds. A deep breath of the cold, clean air brought with it a natural clarity, the kind that made a man briefly forget the filth of politics and gunpowder.
At the center of the grounds stood an old castle like building.
Its black, white, and red flag still flew from the roof, as if defiantly reminding the world that before King Wilhelm departed, this had once been royal property.
At the main gate, the changing guards stood stiff and straight, rubbing their chilled noses only when no superior was watching.
Then one of them looked up and saw a figure emerging along the leaf strewn path.
A young man in a black overcoat, wrapped in a beige scarf, led a black horse at an easy pace.
His short golden hair caught the light like polished metal.
His eyes were deep as sapphires.
In the old days, before the monarchy fell, a guard might have instinctively taken such a figure for a prince. But now that the kingdom had given way to the Weimar Republic, there was only one young man qualified to stay in this sanatorium.
"Good morning, Mr. Roman!" the soldier called out respectfully, raising his hand in salute.
"Good morning, Bora," Jörg replied. "How is your mother's illness?"
At the same time, he handed over a cigarette.
Bora, already used to this unusually approachable figure, chuckled and accepted it with obvious warmth.
"Thanks to you, the surgery went very well."
"That's good."
Jörg stroked the black horse's mane absently.
Though he had spent the past several weeks in the sanatorium recovering, Cardolan and Joseph still visited from time to time to update him on the Progress Party and the company's affairs.
But one thing continued to trouble him.
His commendation still had not arrived.
Neither had the official documents.
He did not believe he had been exposed. Everyone who truly knew the full story was already dead.
The only remaining survivor, Vito, had even sent a letter just yesterday informing him that he was on the verge of being promoted to Berlin Police Chief.
So what about him?
Would he become chief?
Or had Hindenburg already arranged another path for him, perhaps through the army?
Jörg drew in a slow breath, trying to clear away the tangle of questions.
Just as he was about to walk on and wait for the next piece of news, Bora suddenly seemed to remember something. He hurried into the guardhouse and came back carrying a wax sealed letter.
"Mr. Roman, your letter."
Jörg thanked him quietly and broke the seal.
A long official document unfolded before his eyes.
He read:
"Mr. Jörg von Roman,
In recognition of your outstanding service to the Weimar Republic, and in light of your heroic conduct and your loyal devotion to the nation, I hereby formally invite you, in the name of Germany, to enter the ranks of the Reichswehr.
Hans von Seeckt."
That document alone would already have been enough to surprise him.
But when an Iron Cross slipped from the envelope, followed by a second handwritten letter, that surprise rose to an entirely different level.
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