Election (5): The Red Prince's Victory Fanfare
After the first shooting incident, public reactions were sharply divided. Some raged that the prince had been targeted by Polish nationalists, while others sneered that the reckless royal had brought it on himself. But everything flipped the moment that photo was released. In an instant, the fractured public opinion swung decisively to one side. The image of him rising, bloodied, and that single phrase he was said to have shouted.
"That's the courage befitting a Prince of Prussia."
"See? He really is a prince."
The officers were the first to react. They hailed his unyielding stand before the terror of death, proclaiming his convictions, as the very embodiment of the Prussian spirit—wiping away their lingering doubts. Even those who couldn't trust the SPD vowed to trust Joachim forever.
"Now he's earned it."
"A prince is born that way. We can't all be born socialists. Socialism is made, not born."
"Right, right."
Meanwhile, SPD supporters trusted the prince for different reasons. They'd joined riding the coattails of the Reichstag's largest party, so doubts about the prince had lingered. But seeing him rise after being shot and declare he wouldn't stop? To them, it meant Joachim wasn't acting as a prince, but as a citizen of the Republic boldly voicing his beliefs.
Each group interpreted it their own way, but the assassination attempt paradoxically solidified trust in Joachim.
It was a lazy afternoon, with people chatting in cafes or outdoor terraces as time slipped by. Then, a sound began from the end of the road. Tables shook, cups rattled, and some startled at the familiar noise, peering down the street.
"The Königsgrätz March?"
"A military band?"
"Where would East Prussia even get a military band?"
To Germany's men—many veterans—the Königsgrätz March was etched in memory. And soon, a column appeared, marching in perfect formation like the band itself. But some lacked an eye, covered by patches; others bore deep scars. Even in the trailing ranks, men marched with one arm missing.
They were veterans. All draped red cloth like capes, and the lead standard-bearer held the black-red-gold tricolor.
People gaped at the red capes, finally speechless.
"No way..."
"You don't think...?"
"Has to be the Red Prince's doing."
Then the rear standard: a red flag. To distinguish from the Independent Social Democrats or Communists, the SPD used both the red banner and the tricolor as their unique symbol. Those flags fluttered amid the military procession.
"...That's a lot of money down the drain."
No matter that it was a band of hired veterans, the cost had been staggering. Sure, the money would be worthless in a few years anyway, but watching the expenditures still stung. The effect, though, was tremendous.
Otto Wels had vehemently opposed it—"Too militaristic!"—but after fierce compromise, including disabled veterans, the march proceeded. The press hailed it as a "parade of victory," evoking a modern army returning triumphant from war.
Young officers especially went wild. To them, the "disabled veterans' march" symbolized a Germany that, though defeated, refused to bow.
"Not what I intended, but..."
I scanned the papers, relieved by the unexpected bonus.
"You approved that? Without consulting me? Are you insane?"
Hermann Müller crossed his arms, face flushed with fury as he bellowed at Otto Wels. Wels raised both hands placatingly.
"Hear me out. In East Prussia, this works."
"And if militarists hijack the party, you'll just play dumb? We never should have let the prince in!"
Müller gestured wildly, incredulous. He wasn't wrong. In East Prussia, we weren't just rallying supporters—we were creating new ones. But the mainland was the problem. Papers there only reported "Prince hires military band for propaganda," stirring militarist vibes.
The SPD recoiled from anything militaristic, sparking fierce debate over the prince. Wels, who'd greenlit it, had no defense.
Then the door opened.
"Then you shouldn't have let me in from the start."
I stepped into the meeting room amid their escalating clash.
"Joachim, do you even grasp what you've done?"
"Yes. I survived an assassination and showed everyone how brave the Social Democrats are."
Müller stared, exasperated.
"So you're turning the party into a soldiers' playground?"
I shrugged. "No Stahlhelm members in the march. All combat veterans, carefully vetted."
"Then consult the party!"
I met his shout calmly, glancing at Wels. He stood arms folded, lips tight.
"...What now? Papers from afar say you're ruining the party. You've split us again!"
Müller eyed me challengingly.
"That's why I'm here—to stop it."
He clutched his forehead, incredulous. Unfazed, I pulled a sheaf from my briefcase and handed it over. He read silently, then removed his glasses and started over. Eyes wide, he stared.
"You're serious? Start to finish?"
"Dead serious. This should quash the infighting, no?"
Speechless, he just stared at the papers.
Calls for party split over the prince plagued SPD ranks daily. Scarred by the Independent split, the party reacted viscerally to division, fueling endless debate.
Then every member received a mailing from party HQ.
I Will Not Stop.
The letter was an open appeal from the Red Prince to members. Its contents read:
To my fellow Social Democratic Party members,
I know full well what the gun aimed at me signifies. It is not mere hatred for one man, but a mirror to the path this nation treads.
We have grown too accustomed to deeming each other enemies: noble versus worker, soldier versus citizen, German versus German.
But I ask: Is it the external foe that will destroy this country, or our own hands turned upon one another?
I was born a Prince of Prussia. Yet today, I speak first as a citizen of this new Republic.
The state belongs not to any class. Not to the powerful, nor to those who bleed. It belongs to all who live within it.
Thus, politics must rest on consent, not command; power on responsibility, not blood.
I speak of freedom: to speak without permission, think without fear, persuade with words, not guns.
I speak of equality: judged by how we live, not where we were born; no one silenced by birth.
I speak of democracy: imperfect, yet the only attempt to honor every voice.
This path is not easy. Conflict will persist; we will fail again. But if we take up arms once more, we lose everything.
I rose after the bullet for one reason: I believe this nation is not yet finished.
Thus, I will not stop. They may steal my freedom, but not our direction.
May God be with us. May God bless Germany.
From Königsberg,
Joachim von Preußen
"You read this?"
The man with grease-stained hands nodded, flipping the letter.
"...A prince saying that?"
"Still rings true, though."
A moment of silence made them think.
"Thought he was nuts."
The one-eyed man in the eyepatch glanced at the letter in the tavern, then set it down.
"...But he seems to listen to us."
"Yeah, at least he won't ditch us like the hypocrites."
Glasses clinked, building trust.
"Dangerous man. Captured left and right in one go."
A man in a cafe murmured over his paper.
"...But."
He gazed at the letter on the table.
"Maybe exactly who we need now."
It strayed from core doctrine, prioritizing workers. Yet all thought: No one else had said what was needed now—nor would.
The pre-election infighting, on the brink of schism, vanished after the letter reached every member.
Four months to the vote. Four months remained.