The Mad Prince Awakens
Joachim von Preußen. Joachim von Preußen. He was often compared to one figure among the people: the tragic Archduke Rudolf of Austria, infamous for his untimely death. It made sense. Born the youngest son of the imperial Hohenzollern family, he had no outstanding qualities compared to his brothers. To them, he was just another son.
When the First World War broke out, he went to the front lines as a Prussian royal should, leading by example. The results were disastrous. He took a bullet to the thigh, leaving him with a permanent limp, and the wife he married during the war kept trying to run away at every opportunity—even abandoning their son. And amid all this, Germany lost the war. Stripped of all noble and royal titles, the prince struggled with poverty, and his wife seized the chance to flee and demand a divorce.
Wilhelm II, who had fled to the Netherlands, berated his weak son with empty shouts. His brothers either pitied or scorned their feeble sibling. In the end, he succumbed to mental illness and, at the tender age of 29, ended his short life in poverty with suicide.
"Do you ever feel a strong impulse? Ah, of course you do. They say you tried to kill yourself yesterday."
"No, that's all behind me now. Yesterday, I just wanted to handle the pistol. It went off accidentally, and it was so close it hurt my ears, that's all."
Robert Eugen Gaufe, the psychiatrist, stared at me in astonishment. Just days ago, this prince had been raving mad—facial tics, violent tendencies, the works—and now he was calmly explaining himself. Gaufe muttered under his breath.
"Why the sudden improvement? Have you decided to die after all? That's not your intention, is it?"
Even Gaufe, who had been smiling kindly, ready to understand anything, now looked at me with bewilderment. After some thought, I replied.
"I'm going to live again—for my son."
I gave Gaufe a convenient excuse. He gazed at me with impressed eyes and signaled that I could leave. This was the era of Freud and Jung, but psychiatry hadn't advanced much yet. Gaufe saw it as a textbook case of a depressed patient finding purpose and turning their life around. Waiting outside was Prince August Wilhelm von Preußen, my fourth brother, glaring at me with displeasure.
"Why the commotion?"
"I told you. I was just looking at the pistol. It was all a misunderstanding. I'm going to live straight from now on."
August looked at me as if he didn't buy it for a second.
"Cut the crap. For Karl Franz's sake if nothing else, join the Stahlhelm. Your eldest brother is getting torn apart by the press just to secure a pension—what are you doing?"
I looked at him, somewhat surprised. In truth, this man would later join the Nazi stormtroopers, worship Hitler fanatically, and hope for a royal restoration—a fact well-known even in far-off Korea to anyone who cared. I gave a vague answer.
"Once my son gets into gymnasium. We can't afford it yet."
"I'll hold you to that."
As August stormed off, I finally let out a sigh of relief.
"Time to go see that son I barely know."
"Daddy~."
A mere four-year-old toddled over from the nanny's side.
"Karl Franz, have you been well?"
"Fun-fun!"
The little boy, not yet able to express himself fully, beamed innocently at his father. Though he'd lost his mother young, his bright smile made me grin back. The nanny stared in shock, as if she'd seen a ghost.
"What's wrong?"
"N-no, it's just... Your Highness smiling at the young master—it's been so long..."
"Ah."
Joachim's madness must have been severe. Even smiling at his own son was a rarity. This poor child had grown up without a mother's love and a father's smiles. My heart ached for him.
"Seeing Karl has made me rethink everything. Here's my reason to live."
"Oh my goodness..."
The nanny teared up, moved. Joachim, what kind of life did you live? I couldn't help a hollow chuckle.
"Nanny, do you know today's date? I haven't checked a calendar lately."
"July 19th, Your Highness."
"1920, right?"
"...Yes?"
Racking my brain: In my memory, July 1920 Germany had already lost the war. The Spartacist uprising was over, and the Kapp Putsch had erupted months earlier. The country was in the grip of nationwide strikes—especially in occupied areas like the Ruhr. If I joined the Stahlhelm now and became their figurehead, I might reclaim some royal assets, pay the nanny properly, and live a middle-class life—not quite imperial, but stable.
But in the end, the Nazis would ruin Germany, and all assets would be seized by the federal government. Knowing the future, as long as I existed in this world—and especially as a Hohenzollern—I had to change it.
"Y-Your Highness, if I may be so bold..."
"Yes, speak."
"The baby food for the young master has gotten more expensive than expected. Could you spare another 100 marks?"
I boldly rummaged in my pockets. Empty. Hiding my panic, I went to the desk. In the drawer sat a single, precious 100-mark note.
"...Here."
If a prince treasured a single 100-mark bill like this, how dire had the poverty been? I was on the verge of starvation before even thinking of changing history.
"At least the house is sorted..."
This place had belonged to my late aunt, Princess Charlotte, who died last year, so it counted as royal property. We could live here, but income? Zero. My war wound left me limping slightly—hard to find work like that. And being Prussian royalty? Workers and capitalists alike shunned it. Jobs went to able-bodied nobodies. With strikes ravaging Germany, jobs were like stars in the sky. No place for me.
Most royal capital was taken by the Kaiser and brothers; the rest seized. No pension for "royal personnel." "Even beggars last three generations"—we were broke beyond that.
"No money in sight. How is a prince this poor?"
Joachim had scraped by on savings, but now even 100 marks was enshrined. Add mental illness, and suicide made sense. Strikes fueled inflation; rye bread for three was 50 marks now. Hyperinflation loomed until the Rentenmark. Maybe no money was a mercy.
"Sell the pistol for 1,000 marks cheap... and the Pickelhaube?"
Desperation makes you sell your own stuff first. The pistol that misfired, the uniform decorations, Pickelhaube, dress clothes, medals— all for sale. But hyperinflation would drown that anyway.
"This isn't what I had in mind..."
Changing history sounded grand. But people need a base. How does someone penniless survive?
"Damn this republic..."
Clutching my face in thought, my eyes caught a crumpled newspaper on the desk corner—about to sell that too. The front-page headline jumped out.
Friedrich Ebert—bitter victory in the parliamentary elections!
That's it. The only path I could see. How did I not think of this?
I slammed the desk and checked the clock: 3 p.m. Everyone still at work. To people, I was still the mad prince. Any action drew stares. Fine—I'd play the madman.
I dressed, hunched my shoulders dramatically, and strode out elegantly.
"I'd like to join the party."
"Yes, your ID please."
"Here."
The clerk's eyes bulged at the ID. No one ignores "von Preußen" after that long name. Chaos erupted. He dropped the ID in shock.
"Joachim... Jo... Joachim von Preußen? I-Is... is this name r-real?"
The stammering clerk. A colleague rushed to phone someone. The office turned into pandemonium.
"Von Preußen?"
"The Kaiser's son?"
"What's he doing here...?"
Not just the clerks were stunned. Minutes later, a man bounded down the stairs, eyeing me with utter disbelief. I know that face. Otto Wels—last stand against Hitler, SPD leader, final resistor to the Enabling Act.
And here I was, joining the SPD for survival.