Social Democratic Party (2): Joining – Smack!
“I knew it... you bastard.”
I'd never been properly slapped in my life, but today I got an earful that rang loud and clear. August Wilhelm's fury burned hotter than even Wilhelm II's—less betrayal, more the glare of a zealot staring down someone defying his convictions.
“This is the only place where money's coming from these days. Why don't you join up too, brother?”
Smack! This time it was a fist. My jaw throbbed like it had been wrenched out of place, and I worried for a second if it was cracked.
“We're done, you and I. I'll watch you crash and burn. Fall into the abyss and wail forever. See if those traitors save you!”
Bang! The door slammed shut.
I wiped the blood trickling from my lip and rubbed my stinging jaw.
Inferiority complex... that's what it is.
August Wilhelm von Preußen. The Hohenzollern family's poster child for headaches—even Wilhelm II couldn't stand him. Timid personality, only one friend in Hans Georg von Mackensen, the kind of guy who'd be a total loner in modern terms. Constant rumors about his relationships with men, divorced right after the war ended, marriage in ruins.
As the possessor, he didn't even feel like a brother to me, so whatever happened to him was none of my concern.
“Ow...”
My lip was split pretty bad. The blood soaking my fingers was downright chilling.
“Alright then...”
I sifted through the pile of letters that had accumulated since morning with those bloody fingers. Interview requests from various papers, letters from my brothers, pleas from monarchists to reconsider, even welcomes from some SPD members.
A sudden bombshell in the political world. Everyone was watching me.
“Thank you so much for granting us this interview.”
“No trouble at all.”
The first outlet desperate for an exclusive was Berlin's Kreuz-Zeitung, the conservative daily aimed at the elite, running since 1848. They covered everything royal and imperial without fail, and their “no-commentary” policy gave them real clout.
The reporter, pen and notepad in hand, leaned back casually.
“First question. We've heard you've applied to join the Social Democratic Party. Rumor or fact?”
“Fact, obviously. Yes, I submitted my application over the weekend.”
The reporter's pen paused on the paper. He stared at me.
“Uh... you're not denying it?”
“No.”
I answered without a smile.
“As you heard, exactly that. I've applied to the Social Democratic Party.”
The reporter was speechless for a moment. Probably his brain was overloading with scoop headlines: fallen empire, Prussian royalty, Wilhelm II's youngest son, a prince—joining the SPD.
He finally got the pen moving again. “Next question.”
The scratching sped up, but his voice stayed calm, eyes cautious.
“Your Highness... forgive the impertinence, but may I ask: do you reject the monarchy?”
The question I wanted. I pretended to ponder, chin in hand, staring at the floor. Then slowly:
“Wrong premise. How do you ask a citizen of the republic about supporting monarchy?”
His eyes widened. Sensing a bombshell, he pressed: “Isn't that essentially denying His Majesty the Emperor?”
I chuckled. “The only thing I acknowledge is the era.”
I nodded toward the window. Morning sun filtered into Berlin streets where carriages faded and cars multiplied, workers' overalls replaced uniforms, even homeless folks sported flat caps.
I continued quietly. “The German Empire is gone. His Majesty is in the Netherlands, the parliament declared a republic. Germany is a republic now—that's the flow of the times.”
I tapped the desk. Tap tap.
“If I, a symbol of the old era, deny the republic in this situation...”
I met his gaze. “That wouldn't be politics. That'd be delusion.”
His pen stopped. That line would make the paper verbatim. A Prussian prince calling monarchy a delusion—pure irony.
Soon: “Then why the Social Democrats, specifically?”
“Simple.” I shrugged. “They're the best reality for Germany right now, the path to the future.”
“For power?”
“For reality.”
I pointed to the newspaper on the table. Bold letters: Republic government, SPD, Friedrich Ebert, parliament. No denying it—the hottest party was the Social Democrats.
“Politics starts with reality,” I added slowly. “Even for royalty. I'm pursuing it too.”
He eyed me, then cautiously: “...Does that represent the entire royal family's stance?”
I burst out laughing. “No.”
I waved it off, still chuckling. “Not at all. Not even close.”
Then flatly: “I'm not a kid hiding behind the throne anymore, and this isn't that era.”
He forced an awkward smile, then dropped his pen. Ink splattered the floor, but I leaned down calmly, picked it up—ink on my hand be damned—and handed it back.
“Careful there.”
“...Thank you.”
His hand shook as he took it, staring. Silence lasted less than two minutes.
“...Rumor has it you're broke, joining for money. True?”
I'd expected it, just not this timing. Awkward laugh: “Membership itself has nothing to do with wealth. But yes, I'm in dire straits. Most royal assets are seized.”
He scratched his head, then scribbled.
“Final question. What's your ultimate goal with the SPD?”
I smirked, arms crossed. “A free, just republic.”
The Kreuz-Zeitung's exclusive next day sold out every newsstand—no extras left. Nobles, officers, officials, businessmen, diplomats: their core readers, niche but influential. Usually foreign news and monarchist domestic stuff.
But today? Workers, capitalists, intellectuals, farmers—everyone grabbed it for the headline alone. Reporters from rival papers bought the most.
“Has the prince lost it?”
“He’s got a history of mental issues, right? Figures.”
“But this reads straight enough. Guess even crazy from a good education is polished crazy?”
“You call this polished? Massive fallout!”
Reactions boiled down to bafflement at the prince's stance. Even SPD members were thrown—confused by the sudden words from him.
“What now?”
SPD co-chair Hermann Müller slammed the paper on the table at an executive meeting, demanding resolution.
Executive Gustav Noske spread his arms. “He's our only link to the military. We must bring him in.”
To the ex-Defense Minister from the Kapp Putsch, he was a guardian against future coups.
But Eduard David shook his head. “Who knows how it'll split the party? With the Independent Social Democrats already gone, another fracture?”
Müller agreed. “Right. Our base? They'll say we're desperate, pulling in royalty after proclaiming republicanism. Communists and Independents will pounce.”
Noske countered: “Then how do we control the military? Scarcely any republicans there, even monarchists are rare. They only heed soldiers' words. We need to sway the monarchists at least.”
Voices rose, no clear answer, until they fell silent, awaiting Otto Wels.
Wels sighed. “Accept him.”
Short and firm. “If he wants to use us, we'll use him. If one prince can topple the party, it wasn't worth saving anyway. We're that desperate now.”
Müller and David didn't argue. He was right. Post-Kapp, the SPD teetered on the edge. A prince wouldn't make it worse.
That afternoon's decision would shake German politics.