Berlin Treaty (3): The Red Prince's Dawes Plan
Berlin Treaty (3): Plan Dos An. A name that didn't yet exist in this world. But its framework was already fully formed in my mind.
The Versailles reparations system was simple. Set a total amount first, then squeeze Germany dry. The problem was that there was no viable method to do it. Industry had collapsed, finances were at their limit, and the currency was losing trust by the day. Forcing payments in that state would lead to one inevitable outcome: default, followed by coercive enforcement. Ruhr occupation, production shutdowns, strikes, currency collapse. I knew how that story ended.
So I would change the approach. First, put Germany in a position where it could pay. Revive industry with American capital, build a foundation the currency could endure. In other words, don't squeeze it all at once—make it flow. A simple shift in thinking. But the cost was clear: Germany's economy would end up tethered to America. And when the Great Depression hit in 1929, it would all come crashing down.
Still, better to buy time this way than collapse immediately. It would at least give us room to think ahead.
"...Well then, Your Excellency. Please explain. How exactly does America plan to help with your reparations?"
While I gathered my thoughts, Dresel spoke first. I took a breath and replied.
"Under the current system, Germany cannot pay reparations on a sustainable basis. That's why we need to create conditions where Germany can pay them sustainably. With America's help."
Sweat beaded on my forehead, but I kept my hands clasped and continued calmly.
"Only after restarting industry, recovering tax revenues, and stabilizing the currency can we set reparations."
Neurath and Rosen inhaled sharply as they stared at me. Dresel watched with keen interest. Everyone's attention was on me, and I was so tense I rehearsed my words mentally several times before speaking.
Dresel stroked his chin thoughtfully.
"...You're reversing the order."
I nodded.
"Until now, we've set the money first and tried to fit the country to it."
I held his gaze.
"I propose we revive the country first, then fit the money to it."
A brief silence. The corner of Dresel's mouth twitched upward ever so slightly.
"...Intriguing."
I caught my breath and pressed on.
"That said, the total amount isn't something to discuss now."
Dresel's eyes narrowed. I continued without pause.
"As I mentioned, what we need right now is a sustainable framework."
As he focused intently, I spread all my fingers.
"Let's set a reparations schedule that increases stepwise over the next five years, scaled to Germany's recovery."
Locking eyes with Dresel, I delivered the clincher.
"And to ensure smooth payments, America provides the loans."
His expression shifted subtly.
"...Loans."
Dresel murmured, then immediately followed up.
"How much, then?"
His piercing gaze hit me, and my mind went blank for a split second.
...How much?
I didn't remember the exact figures. But that wasn't the point right now. I kept my face composed, refusing to break eye contact. Instead, I bought time with a thoughtful pause.
Then I spoke.
"Th-that... isn't for us to decide."
My voice trembled slightly, but the message landed clear.
I continued.
"Germany can propose the needs. But judging if they're realistic falls to the ones providing the funds."
Dresel's mouth curved faintly again. I added the final touch.
"America is best positioned to assess the scale accurately."
Dresel fell silent, just staring at me. Then he chuckled softly. He made a pondering face, picked up his pipe from the desk—filled with tobacco—and put it to his lips. He pulled a matchbox from his sleeve, struck it once, and held the flame to the leaves. He puffed short bursts until the ember caught, then exhaled thin wisps of smoke.
Those 30 seconds lighting the pipe felt eternally long. Finally, he tamped the ember lightly with his finger, removed the pipe, and exhaled a deep plume of white vapor—like steam. It was as if even this situation was just another routine day for him.
At last, he asked me.
"...So Germany has no major objections to the reparations payments themselves?"
Dresel inquired amid the smoke. But it wasn't me who answered—it was Rosen.
"We've simply recognized the reality that reparations can't be avoided."
Dresel nodded at the veteran's measured words.
"...Then I'll relay this proposal to the homeland. And I'll make it clear."
He set the pipe down briefly amid another puff, then looked at me.
"That it's the idea from the 'Red Prince' here...."
I blinked at him in surprise. It might not come to fruition. But the board was in motion.
In the Berlin Chancellery, Joseph Wirth quietly read the report, turning pages one by one. The only sound in the room was the rustle of paper. I stood silent, awaiting his reaction.
He closed the final page and pondered with downcast eyes. He rubbed his forehead.
"...So that's what happened."
I looked up at his words.
"Revive the country first, then make reparations sustainable on top of that—not set the money first and force the country to fit."
I nodded curtly. He tapped the desk lightly with his fingers, then stopped.
"You know this is a dangerous choice, right?"
His tone was even.
"I do. The moment American capital flows in, our economy gets tied to them."
I didn't hide it. But he showed no surprise or rejection—just accepted it.
After a moment, he exhaled deeply.
"But."
His gaze met mine.
"It's better than collapsing now. If we don't buy time, we'll crumble tomorrow."
I said nothing. He didn't press for more explanation. The decision seemed already made.
Wirth leaned back in his chair and murmured low.
"To break through, sometimes you have to shake hands with the devil."
His voice was quiet but firm.
"I'll take responsibility."
Short words, heavy with meaning.
"Keep raising diplomatic achievements."
I bowed my head.
"Yes, Chancellor."
As I turned to leave.
"Ah, Your Excellency."
I turned back at his call. Wirth paused thoughtfully, then met my eyes.
"...This part."
His voice lowered.
"It's not official."
I stayed silent. He tapped the desk again.
"Don't mention it to the party or parliament."
I blinked at him.
"Better they don't know yet."
He added flatly.
"We're a nation swayed by public opinion, after all."
I met his gaze, then nodded quietly and left the office.
"...That's all."
As I finished my report, applause broke out. News of the peace treaty signing with America had spread, and parliament reacted faster than expected.
Paul Löbe sighed in relief.
"At least we've averted a diplomatic disaster."
Müller pulled a cigarette from his pocket.
"If America had turned its back too, we'd really be done for."
Scattered sighs of relief echoed. Some nodded, others leaned back, tension easing. Amid the isolation since Versailles, restoring ties with America was a victory in itself. At least it wasn't one of the old imperialist powers.
They thought that way. Some called the treaty a "diplomatic recovery," others a dodge of the worst. But no one probed deeper. No reason or info to do so.
"Well done. Must've been tough on you, Your Excellency."
Löbe extended his hand. I felt like I was deceiving him, but figured they'd learn eventually. I nodded and shook it.
I just hoped this achievement would give Germany some breathing room.
The White House, United States. A report from the U.S. Embassy in Berlin lay on the desk. President Warren Harding read it in silence for a while. Only the sound of turning pages filled the quiet.
Finally, he closed the last page.
"...The Red Prince."
He murmured low, a faint smile playing on his lips. He tapped the desk lightly, lost in thought. Then chuckled.
"Nice nickname, at least."
The proposal from Germany barely registered; he was more intrigued by "Red Prince." His eyes returned to the papers. Skimming once more, he pushed them aside.
"Secretary, take this to Secretary Hughes."
The secretary quietly took the documents and left. The American president had no further interest in the matter.