Joseph Wirth Cabinet (1): The Collapse of the Fehrenbach Cabinet
Tick-tock—tick-tock—the house was silent at 5 a.m., filled only with the sound of the clock hands. I sat on the sofa, staring blankly at the steam rising from my small cup.
…I never expected him to say something like that.
Yesterday, I had met Friedrich Ebert in person. He made me a "proposal." He didn't demand anything or mention a deal. And yet, it was unmistakably a proposal. What he said to me:
"The Republic needs a prince. A prince of the Republic. Would you have garnered this much attention in the Empire?"
That was no different from telling me to abandon the monarchy. He wanted me to stand not as a "son of the imperial family," but as a "prince of the Republic." In other words, to act for the stability of the Republic.
I wasn't foolish enough to misunderstand his meaning. The current me was certainly not Joachim. But I, who had possessed Joachim's body, loved the Empire—and since the possession, I had never given up on my dreams for that Empire.
Yet, when I thought deeply about it, Joachim in the "Empire" had been utterly insignificant. Merely the Kaiser's youngest son, he could never have drawn the spotlight as "politician Joachim."
Tick-tock—tick-tock—the sound of the clock hands echoed again. The lamp's light was fading gradually, and the dawn's glow began filtering through the window. In the corner of the hallway hung my uniform. The imperial dress coat, which I no longer had occasion or permission to wear, and the few remaining medals—most sold off—reflected light back at me.
"…"
It was a dawn that left even a sigh feeling futile.
On the morning of March 8, the world ignited outrage across Germany overnight. The Allies had demanded a lump-sum payment of 226 billion gold marks as stipulated in January negotiations—naturally, Germany couldn't comply. Foreign Minister Simons proposed 50 billion gold marks as a compromise, but the Allies rejected it, leading to their reprisal: the occupation of Ruhrort, Duisburg, and Düsseldorf.
"This is a blatant violation of sovereignty!"
"We must retaliate!"
"With what force?"
The shockwave hit the Reichstag hardest. Regardless of right or left, everyone agreed the British and French actions were excessive. The problem was singular: Germany lacked both the power to retaliate and the means to pay reparations.
"Do they really want to destroy the German economy before they're satisfied?"
"Damn imperialist bastards!"
Even the SPD wasn't much different. But the anger didn't last long.
"So what can we do about it?"
"This debate is pointless. The answer's already set."
"Let's go home."
Politicians who had initially united in fury gradually succumbed to apathy as time passed. Now, fewer than 100 deputies remained in the plenary hall, and Chancellor Konstantin Fehrenbach read the full text of the British and French demands to the bitter end.
"…This is the politics of a defeated nation."
Paul Löbe said this, gesturing toward Fehrenbach, who steadfastly read on with hands in his pockets. A handful of Center Party deputies, along with some Democrats and People's Party members, listened to the end. But the Independent Social Democrats and Nationalists, who held the majority, had already left. Even SPD deputies were scarce now.
"It shows the future of this cabinet."
"No matter who sat there, the result would be the same."
As Löbe said, I watched the Center Party deputies who had listened to Fehrenbach's recitation to the finish. Their faces were uniformly lifeless. They must have entered politics dreaming of hope or to change an unjust reality, yet now they were mere followers of party lines, blocked by the wall of reality. That's all they seemed.
"What can Germany even do right now?"
Hands in my pockets, I gazed at them. Löbe merely shook his head and left.
After the occupation of Ruhrort, Duisburg, and Düsseldorf, the Reichstag was chaotic for days. But the uproar didn't endure. First came anger. Then shouts. Then silence.
"We must retaliate!"
"With what?"
The moment someone countered like that, the chamber went as cold as a corpse. Germany couldn't fight back, yet politicians couldn't simply submit. Everyone knew it.
Days turned to weeks, weeks to months. Deputies began abandoning sessions one by one; even when plenary convened, absences multiplied. The hall emptied progressively, left with only papers, exhaustion, and evasive glances no one wanted to own.
Yet Chancellor Konstantin Fehrenbach mounted the podium daily. He read the Allies' demands, reread them, read them again.
"…This is the latest final version received."
It was a phrase repeated dozens of times, yet he never skipped it—as if reading were his sole duty.
But the remaining deputies dwindled. Only a few Center Party members, some Democrats, and People's Party holdouts stayed till the end. The Independent Social Democrats and Nationalists had turned away. Even within the SPD, opinions fractured.
"We can't accept this."
"Then reject it and let the occupation expand?"
"This government holding on won't solve anything."
Debates circled endlessly. No decisions, no accountability. Only time passed.
Meanwhile, resignation letters piled on the Chancellery desk amid unsigned documents. First, a few ministers. Then People's Party ones. The once-stable People's Party-Center coalition shattered under Stresemann's verdict branding the Center's foreign policy a "disaster." No one collapsed first, but none intended to endure to the last. The government lost function bit by bit.
No more anger echoed in the Reichstag.
"It ends like this, after all."
I said this, eyeing the Reichstag corridor where cleaners, unpaid properly, couldn't even pick up scattered papers. At my words, Wels silently bent to gather the discarded sheets.
"Fehrenbach made his final choice. But it came to nothing."
As negotiations crumbled, Fehrenbach's last gambit was requesting U.S. mediation. The reply: firm rejection. By May 5, the Fehrenbach cabinet could no longer be called a government.
"He held out decently long. The previous Müller cabinet collapsed without even forming."
"Same end, though."
Wels chuckled wryly at my remark. I looked at him, picked up some papers myself, and asked,
"So who's the next chancellor?"
"It's settled with the Democrats. Finance Minister Joseph Wirth will take over. That was our condition."
I handed him the papers I'd gathered and inquired further.
"SPD participation in the cabinet?"
"…We'll join."
Despite party backlash, Wels showed resolve to participate this time.
"Having accepted London's demands, we must bear the responsibility."
I could only muster an awkward smile at his words. I knew from history what bitter lessons the SPD would learn in this cabinet: hyperinflation, Ruhr occupation, Munich Beer Hall Putsch. I couldn't view Wels's decision kindly.
I fell silent for a moment. Wels said no more, organized the gathered papers, and stood.
"We'll be busy soon. You should prepare too, Deputy."
His tone was quiet, but the implication heavy. A cabinet change meant more than a new chancellor: shifting policies, shifting blame, shifting failure's owner.
I stared down the corridor. The empty Reichstag building remained silent, papers still scattered unattended on the floor. The anger and clamor that had filled it moments ago had vanished without a trace.
"I hope it works out."
At my words, Wels glanced at the corridor's end, then turned back.
"If it can."
Hearing that, I bit my lip slightly and followed him wordlessly.