Social Democratic Party of Germany (1): Political Bombshell
The leader's office of the SPD, the number one party in the Reichstag, was quite impressive. Not quite on the level of an imperial mansion, but luxurious enough for even a head of state. And this from a party that called itself the workers' party. The scent was subtle, and the sunlight filtering through the windows was just right—not blinding, but a glow that lifted the spirits.
Such radiance was overshadowed by an approaching giant. A man of truly German proportions slammed his coffee cup down on the desk with enough force to make it seem like the desk might collapse. Coffee splattered across the surface, but he paid it no mind. Broad shoulders, thick neck, massive build paired with just the right amount of flesh—it was the sturdy physique typical of a politician from laborer stock. His gaze pierced right through me.
I asked in a calm tone, “You don't seem too keen on talking.”
“We're not at that point yet, are we? I'll be direct: why our party, of all places? There's the Center Party, the Nationalists—parties utterly opposed to your kind. Why come to us? Why not the Communists!”
Otto Wels's voice boomed, filling the room. Hearing it in person, it resonated just right—appealing, yet steady, befitting a democratic chancellor material. Though he'd never actually become one.
I shrugged at him. “What other reason could there be? Visibility. A Prussian prince joining the workers' party. How captivating is that? The Communists would slam the door in your face from the start, but the SPD? There's at least a chance they wouldn't. The ripple effect would be massive.”
At my composed explanation, Otto Wels gulped down his scalding coffee as if exasperated. But that wasn't the only reason.
To a politician, visibility is lifeblood. Few knew the name Joachim von Preußen. My fourth brother August Wilhelm and second brother Eitel Friedrich had already cornered the far-right connections. As the youngest son, I didn't even have that novelty—our family had a beloved baby sister for that. Had I racked up heroic feats in the Great War? All I got was a bullet in the thigh and came home empty-handed. Even Germans barely registered me as “Oh, that guy exists?”
The SPD was different. A workers' mass movement distinct from other radical leftists. If an actual royal joined the party that had choked the empire—and aimed to enter politics? The impact would dwarf anything from the Center or Nationalists.
“...Just to be sure—you're not a spy, are you? For real?”
“What spy acts this conspicuously?”
Otto Wels clutched his forehead, groaning softly as if deep in thought. The SPD needed a turnaround too. They'd boldly ushered in the republic, but Versailles' war guilt clause kept pushing them back. Just months ago, in March, the Kapp Putsch had erupted. In the June by-elections that followed, left-wing votes fled to the SPD's rival, the Independent Social Democrats (USPD), who snagged second place in the Reichstag. A nightmare for the SPD. Coalition government? Failed. Despite being the largest party, they handed the cabinet to the Center. A total rout.
From Otto Wels's view, “Joachim von Preußen” was a tantalizing, dangerous card—a way to partially lure monarchists into their creaky machine.
“Then one question.” He glared at me after his deliberations. “What do you want out of this? Short-term goals, long-term—anything. Chancellor? President? Or emperor?”
I blinked, then answered. Saying “to change history” would be awkward, and any grand ambition would get me the cold shoulder. After ten seconds of thought, I spoke.
“...Money. I'm broke right now. I'd do anything for my son.”
Twenty seconds of silence after I finished. Otto Wels stared blankly, then furrowed his brow deeply and unleashed a thunderous scolding. I dodged a flying coffee cup only thanks to his aide rushing in. Apparently not the right answer.
I'd made headlines that rocked Germany. Otto Wels, after venting a lifetime's worth of insults, shoved thirty 100-mark bills into my hand—his personal funds—and told me to get lost. They'd notify me of the membership decision after internal meetings. And never come back.
Rejection was obvious. But at least I'd scraped enough for the nanny's wages—no zero income there.
“The worrying part is...”
A brief visit yesterday afternoon, and by morning it was front-page news everywhere. How far had this spread? Predictably.
Riiiing! The phone rang ominously. The caller was who I thought.
“You goddamn bastard! Do you even have a brain in that skull of yours?!”
A resonant elderly voice thundered through the receiver. I waited for it to quiet before putting it to my ear.
“...Is that you, Father?”
“Yes! I thought you'd gone mad, forgotten your own father! Your mother's collapsed now! And from what I hear, you did this sane? You must be—”
A shallow groan cut him off, as if clutching his nape. News had reached the Netherlands already?
“We should be restoring your father, not you cozying up to socialists? You, you... argh! Stupid fool! Never contact me again!”
The line went dead. Milder than expected. Brothers would come soon—especially August Wilhelm, whom I'd just told I wasn't mad anymore. Trouble brewing already.
“Otto Wels's doing, no doubt.”
Rumors don't hit front pages without orchestration. This was party-leaked to test the waters. If SPD views on a Prussian prince weren't too negative, it'd be a killer card.
“Let a prince into the Social Democrats? Insane.”
“Think about it. If he's genuine about social democracy, the military might at least listen to us.”
“I'm not sure...”
Even inside the SPD, massive conflict brewed—and among supporters too. The recent election debacle had shocked them deeply. They bitterly resented the military under Hans von Seeckt for not crushing the Kapp Putsch. With strikes, revolts, chaos looming, no military support? The fledgling republic felt on the brink of collapse after mere years.
A royal the military followed—whether they liked it or not, he was needed. He'd walked right into their laps.
“A royal socialist? He's never even imagined poverty.”
“Heard all his assets were seized.”
“A prince broke? Ridiculous!”
And the whispers spreading: Joachim von Preußen was so hard up he lacked pocket money. Imperial medals and plaques flooding auctions—all from him, rumor had it.
'Joachim's broke—and a socialist.' Spreading like plague.
“That's what everyone's thinking.”
Even a casual coffee outside let me gauge public sentiment. Especially here in socialist-leaning Potsdam, the talk poured in.
“A noble too exalted for poverty, yet dirt poor in reality—hilarious to them, right?”
“But it's true. What can we do?”
An unexpected visitor. The “Red Tsar of Prussia,” Otto Braun—Prussian liberal prime minister and devout social democrat—came to see me personally over this.
“I figured you'd view me negatively.”
“Until the other day, yes. Never thought you'd show up at party HQ—and the poverty rumors seem real. You spread them?”
“I am poor. Auctioned some items before applying.”
Braun looked skeptical. I leaned in quietly. “You came for a deal, I assume. What do you want?”
“Sharp as ever, Prince.” He leaned back casually, spreading his neatly folded hands persuasively. “As you know, Prussia—Prussia proper—still has tons of monarchists and military backers.”
“Same hope as the citizens?”
He grinned, nodding eagerly. The snowball kept rolling. From mad prince with mental illness to mediator between socialists and military—exaggerating a bit, a focal point for constitutional monarchists in the party. All in days.
I had no intention of playing that role, nor had I thought that deeply. Politics was convenient. People saw what they wanted.
Otto Braun, having heard the buzz, glanced at me and chuckled. “Joachim.”
“Yes.”
“Thought you were truly mad...” He laughed lowly. “Now German politics seems crazier.”
I sipped my coffee. “Isn't madness mutual?”
Our eyes met over our cups. I said no more.