Chapter 33: Christmas Meeting
In the heart of Berlin, in a modest single story apartment near the police station, Jörg hung up the telephone after a brief exchange of pleasantries.
Seeckt had only said that he would reserve the position of Division Commander of the First Logistics Armored Division.
He had not explicitly said the post would be given to him.
Jörg was not disappointed.
He understood the reason immediately. It was not reluctance. It was rank.
In the army, officers whose rank exceeded the office they held were common enough. Men whose office exceeded their rank were another matter entirely. Those were rare.
Deputy division commander was already the upper limit for a captain.
A full division commander, if not held by at least a field grade officer, would invite criticism from every corner of the Reichswehr.
As long as the Fate military reform plan passed, however, the matter would resolve itself. With that achievement in hand, promotion to major was only a question of time.
And once that happened, the First Logistics Armored Division would fall naturally into his grasp.
More importantly, the abolition of the logistics military inspectorate had given him something even more valuable.
A First Division without supervision.
Leaning against the window, Jörg allowed the corner of his mouth to rise slightly, like a whimsical painter who had finally acquired the brush he wanted most.
His breath misted against the glass, and the white fog blurred the street beyond, where life had already grown noticeably livelier since the worst of the inflation.
Still, Seeckt's treatment of Naz had genuinely surprised him.
From papers and historical accounts, Jörg had always imagined Seeckt as a cold, ruthless machine built for reform.
But history on paper was one thing.
Standing inside it was another.
Seeckt was still human.
And more than that, he was an old man.
He was too lenient toward conservatives of his own generation, men who, whatever else they had become, could still be counted as old comrades.
He could have used Naz's arms dealing as the pretext for a broad purge of the conservative bloc.
But in the end, he still stopped short.
Jörg's eyes darkened.
Reform was never the work of the soft hearted. It offended people by its very nature.
If the Fate plan passed and those old relics of a previous era continued blocking the road, and if Seeckt still refused to cut deeply enough, then Jörg would not hesitate to do what was necessary himself.
"Master."
Cardolan's voice broke his thoughts.
"The police have sent over fresh information. The government has formally ordered an investigation into the arms trafficking."
"Find a few scapegoats from the streets," Jörg said at once. "Pay them enough to confess. Then give the credit to Vito."
He wiped the condensation from the window with one hand.
"It's time he moved up."
Outside, a truck bearing the Cardolan Investment Company emblem rolled to a stop in front of the police station. Former policemen, now members of the Progress Party, climbed down and began unloading Christmas trees and steaks smuggled in from America.
Trucks like that already moved regularly through Berlin.
Soon they would move through Munich and Hamburg as well.
And as Cardolan Investment Company expanded, they would one day move through city after city across Germany, carrying not merely aid, but influence. Bread, meat, gifts, and quiet loyalty. Under the flag of charitable relief, the Progress Party was sinking roots into police forces and municipal life one district at a time.
That was the future.
For now, Jörg wanted only two things, more military theory, and more profitable business plans for Cardolan to execute.
The inflation window was closing.
Simple smuggling and opportunistic trade would no longer be enough. He would need to turn his historical foresight into something larger and more durable.
In his eyes, Cardolan Investment Company had never been just a business enterprise making cars and handling ordinary commerce.
Its ultimate shape was something else entirely.
A military research and development company, wholly under his control, capable of feeding him both money and technology.
Once radar came out, it would be time for Cardolan Investment Company to move formally into alignment with the Reichswehr.
…
A few weeks later, at the Élysée Palace in France, the annual Christmas dinner unfolded beneath chandeliers and polished gold.
After the Marseillaise, representing the spirit and pride of France, the orchestra shifted naturally into a lighter Christmas melody, softening the stiffness of the glittering hall and giving the gathering a festive warmth.
Then, as the bells rang out, every invited guest looked up toward the second floor.
There stood President Raymond Poincaré, his heavy white beard lending him an almost patriarchal dignity. He raised his glass, and the guests below answered by lifting theirs in return.
"Merry Christmas, everyone," Poincaré declared. "Long live France. And may the heroes who sleep eternally for France in war enter the hall of honor."
The Marseillaise rose again.
"Long live France! Merry Christmas, Mr. President!"
Poincaré pursed his lips.
Originally, his Christmas address should have ended there.
But he could not help himself.
He added one more sentence.
"May their sacrifice never be forgotten, and may the spirit of devotion to the nation continue ringing in the ears of our soldiers, urging France onward into the next war."
The response this time was noticeably less unified.
The prospect of another war, even when wrapped in patriotic ceremony, clearly touched a nerve.
Poincaré did not care.
After a faint nod, he emptied his glass, and the smile on his face faded into a colder seriousness.
For the public, the coming year was only a number changing by one.
For him, it meant something more final.
The compromise over the Ruhr in 1923 had effectively marked the end of his true authority. Next year, he would begin descending from the summit of power. And before he left it, the one thing he remained uneasy about was Germany.
Or rather, the peace faction within France itself.
The compromise in the Ruhr had strengthened the voices of those who preferred negotiation to force. Their arguments had begun spreading not only through politics, but through the wider public as well.
Poincaré hated that.
He intended to make one last effort.
He crossed into the inner presidential office.
David Morr, the current chairman of the Allied Control Commission, and Aristide Briand, the incoming Foreign Minister, both rose and greeted him.
"Merry Christmas, Mr. President."
"Merry Christmas, gentlemen."
Poincaré waved away further ceremony.
"I'll spare us the pleasantries. You know perfectly well what the parliamentarians call me, a barbarian who only knows how to send troops, a beast consumed by revenge."
A faint smile touched his mouth.
"To be honest, I rather like both titles."
Then his tone sharpened.
"Because Germany must be treated like a tiger. Even if the beast is caged, it remains a tiger."
He sat down on the sofa and got directly to the matter.
"So I want your views on Germany. Should we strengthen our garrison in Berlin? Or withdraw our forces and leave only the Military Commission in place to supervise them?"
The two men exchanged glances.
It took only that glance to show that their thoughts were already aligned.
"Begging your pardon, Mr. President," Morr said, "but I no longer believe Germany's military strength poses a genuine threat."
He placed several photographs on the table.
"These are from one of their divisional exercises."
Poincaré glanced down.
Cardboard tanks.
Kites standing in for aircraft.
A spectacle closer to a child's game than a modern army maneuver.
Morr continued.
"It is absurd. And beyond that, the internal struggle inside the Reichswehr appears severe. They are not united, not in doctrine, not in authority, not even in their pursuit of power."
Poincaré gave the photographs only a passing glance before looking up again.
"That is your view. What is yours, Briand?"
Briand answered without hesitation.
"My view is the same."
Then he reached into his case and produced a telegram.
"The Foreign Ministry received this from Britain a week ago. I doubt you would believe it if you had not read it yourself."
He handed it over.
"The Reichswehr was selling military equipment into London."
Poincaré's gaze hardened.
Briand continued in a tone that was measured but clear.
"An army willing to sell national interest that way can hardly be called effective in any real military sense."
.....
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