Chapter 169: Cake
Two days later, while the German populace was still immersed in the afterglow of the German-Austrian annexation, brutal news arrived from the Sudetenland.
One color photograph after another appeared on the front page of the Progress Party newspaper.
Streets choked with corpses.
Homes burning in thick black smoke.
Armored vehicles rolling over flesh and stone alike.
The images were gruesome, almost cruel in their clarity. They possessed a morbid power that made people unable to look away, and the article that followed, personally written by Joseph, struck the public like a hammer against dry gunpowder.
More than a thousand Germans had become casualties.
The suppression in the Sudetenland could no longer be described as a security operation. It was a massacre.
In a single morning, the Czech government was dragged beneath the harshest spotlight in Europe.
Internationally, under the operation of the New York Times, or more accurately, the American Progress newspaper, the news spread with alarming speed. For a brief moment, it even overshadowed the American veterans' march on Washington and Roosevelt's surging approval ratings, becoming the most discussed international event in the world.
Yet France seemed to have gone deaf.
Paris selectively ignored the bloodshed and quietly accelerated construction of the Maginot Line. Britain, meanwhile, repeated its usual line, expressing its hope for a peaceful resolution and its willingness to provide a platform where the Czech national issue could be properly discussed.
But everyone understood what those words meant.
There were more than a million Germans in the Czech region. To speak of resolving the national issue under such circumstances was nothing more than thinly veiled favoritism toward Prague.
Within Germany, public fury was already boiling over.
Since the Treaty of Versailles had lost its binding force years earlier, many citizens no longer acknowledged the legitimacy of the Czech state at all. Petitions, speeches, newspapers, and street gatherings all repeated the same sentiment.
The Sudetenland was German territory by history, by culture, and by blood.
The people of the Sudetenland, whether formally German citizens or not, were potential members of the German nation. They had lived under German and Prussian influence for generations, and their fate could not be abandoned to a foreign government that answered political demands with bullets.
All Germany was waiting for Jörg to speak.
At that moment, Jörg von Roman had just concluded a discussion with representatives from Hungary and Poland regarding territorial interests.
Although Poland had nearly severed diplomatic relations with Germany after the Battle of Danzig, nearly was not the same as completely. In politics, morality was often a decoration. Interest was the true measure of all things.
The economic crisis had sharpened internal conflicts across Poland, and Warsaw urgently needed an external breakthrough to divert pressure at home.
Coincidentally, both Poland and Hungary had set their eyes on Czechoslovakia.
Czechoslovakia was a strange country, almost stitched together by force. Its ethnic composition was exceedingly complex. Germans, Czechs, and Slovaks together barely maintained the dominant position, and even then, their combined presence accounted for only around thirty percent of the population.
The rest consisted of various minorities, among them Hungarians and Poles, mainly concentrated in the Slovak region.
This gave both Budapest and Warsaw a reason to regard Czechoslovakia as a cake waiting to be cut.
For Jörg, bringing these two countries into the game carried a clear benefit. It would accelerate the annexation of the Slovak region.
He was confident that Germany could seize the Czech region through sudden initiative and rapid military advantage, but Slovakia would be more troublesome. It would require time, administration, and political handling. Worse, if Germany moved too greedily, it might push Poland and Hungary to the opposing side.
Then Berlin would have to face three enemies at once.
There was no need for that.
For now, giving Poland and Hungary each a slice of the cake would not hurt. In the end, all of it would return to Germany sooner or later.
Jörg stood before the polished conference table, his tone calm and measured.
"My demands are simple, gentlemen. The northern part of Slovakia may go to Poland. The southern part may go to Hungary. Germany requires only a narrow corridor leading toward Ukraine."
The Polish and Hungarian representatives exchanged a brief glance.
Neither showed surprise. They had not come to Berlin expecting charity, but neither had they expected Jörg to be so direct.
After a moment, one of them rose and bowed slightly.
"That will not be a problem, Herr von Roman. We will convey your demands to our governments."
The other followed suit.
Jörg shook hands with both men. Their smiles were polite, reserved, and carefully measured, the kind of smiles exchanged by men who knew that today's partners might become tomorrow's rivals.
Once the two representatives left, Joseph quickly entered and approached Jörg's side.
"Führer, the radio speech is ready."
Jörg nodded.
Without delay, he went downstairs, entered the waiting car, and drove through Berlin toward the broadcasting room where he had once delivered his Danzig speech.
The city outside the window was tense and expectant. Flags hung from balconies. Crowds gathered near newspaper stands. In the faces of workers, veterans, clerks, students, and officers, there was the same waiting silence.
They wanted a command.
They wanted an answer.
They wanted Germany to stop merely enduring history and begin writing it.
Soon, Jörg stood before the microphone.
The red light came on.
He spoke his first words.
In Berlin, Erich Maria Remarque adjusted his radio.
Since the Progress Party came to power, it had not openly strangled literature, but it had imposed a clear line that writers were not permitted to cross. Certain themes were tolerated. Certain sentiments were frowned upon. Certain voices simply found it increasingly difficult to survive.
Yet for the author of All Quiet on the Western Front, censorship was not even his most immediate worry.
What troubled him more was the public mood.
Under the combined weight of propaganda, economic turmoil, and global unrest, the German people had become increasingly indifferent to antiwar sentiment. Appeals for peace sounded pale against hunger, humiliation, unemployment, and national pride.
Under such circumstances, watched by the Progress Party and ignored by readers, Remarque's life had grown financially unbearable.
The royalties from All Quiet on the Western Front had vanished into the stock market. The two books he had written afterward were received coldly, and after a brief period on the shelves, publishers withdrew them because of poor sales. Instead of earning money, he had lost a considerable sum.
If he did not write something soon, he might truly starve.
Thinking of this, Remarque sat before his typewriter.
The soft music playing from the radio was suddenly cut off.
A deep, steady voice replaced it.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I have heard of everything that has happened in the border regions. I have seen the tragedies that should never have been allowed to exist."
Remarque's fingers froze above the keys.
From countless radios across Berlin, across factories, schools, barracks, taverns, and family dining rooms, Jörg's voice spread like iron flowing through the veins of the nation.
"Germany will not allow Germans, people alienated from us by artificial borders yet bound to us by blood, to be massacred and executed merely for expressing their demands."
His voice grew heavier.
"This is a challenge against humanity. This is an insult to the national dignity of Germany. It is dark, shameless, and bloody."
In the streets, people stopped walking.
In workers' dormitories, men lowered their cups.
In officers' clubs, old soldiers straightened unconsciously.
"The Czech government must provide an explanation to the German people. If this problem is not resolved, if no attitude of apology is shown, then Germany will not sit idly by while people of our blood are slaughtered."
A pause.
Then the final sentence fell like a drawn sword.
"The German government and the Wehrmacht will demand that explanation with their fists."
Silence lasted for only a second.
Then his voice rose.
"Forward, Germany!"
The next day, in Prague, President Tomas sat behind his desk, his face dark with exhaustion.
After fiercely reprimanding the Sudeten Military District for its reckless actions, he leaned back in his chair and fell into deep thought.
Germany's threat was already unmistakable.
But the Sudetenland could not be surrendered.
That region was not merely a borderland. It was one of Czechoslovakia's industrial lifelines. More importantly, its rugged terrain formed a natural defensive barrier against the German Army. If the Sudetenland was lost, the road into the heart of the Czech lands would be torn open.
Yet what could he do?
As Tomas weighed his options, Beckert, his chief of staff and Minister of Foreign Affairs, approached with several telegrams in hand.
He lowered his voice and reported, "Prime Minister Baldwin says Britain is willing to provide a platform for us to discuss national issues. Germany has also stated that it is willing to resolve the matter peacefully, but on the condition that no further aggressive actions occur in the border region."
Tomas closed his eyes for a moment.
Then he asked, "When is the meeting scheduled?"
"Tomorrow afternoon. The German Minister of Foreign Affairs will attend."
"And the French?"
Beckert hesitated.
"France claims it can offer us a military alliance agreement. However, they will only provide diplomatic assistance. They will not dispatch the army, nor will they take any action that might escalate the conflict."
Tomas's expression grew colder.
He disliked both choices.
Britain wanted negotiation, which meant concession.
France wanted an alliance without soldiers, which meant paper.
After a long silence, Tomas finally made his decision. If the matter could still be resolved peacefully, then perhaps conceding a portion of the border territory might be enough to calm Germany's anger and end the incident before it became a war.
"Are you certain the Germans will appear?" he asked.
"Yes, Mr. President. Germany will be there."
Tomas nodded slowly.
"Prepare the special plane to London. We leave tonight."
Beckert's face changed slightly.
"Tonight? Mr. President, with the current situation, I believe it would be better for you to remain in Prague and preside over affairs personally."
Tomas shook his head.
"We are already at a disadvantage in public opinion. If I do not attend, the Germans will use that as another accusation against us. Besides, even if I am not in Prague, you are."
Beckert lowered his head.
"Yes, Mr. President."
Of course, Tomas did not know that the moment his special plane rose into the night sky, artillery units stationed along the border had already begun their provocative shelling.
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