A Crown from the Emerald Isle
August in Korea would have been shrouded in sweltering heat, but in Germany, the weather had begun to cool the opposite way. The morning air was quite chilly. With highs barely scraping twenty degrees, Germany's summer was already fading.
"Packed full again...."
On his way home with groceries in hand, he stuffed the pile of letters overflowing from the mailbox into an envelope. Setting it on the table, he picked up a rolling apple, took a bite, and began sifting through the letters one by one as usual.
"Michael Collins?"
Among them was even a letter from overseas. Written in German, no less.
Sehr geehrter Prinz von Preußen
Dear Prince of Prussia,
Michael Collins
I write to you, Your Highness. You communicated with us during the Great War, and I believe you remember. It was because we sent a letter proclaiming you our king in our struggle against Britain.
We have learned of Your Highness's socialist leanings and are deeply impressed. We boldly assume you would support our 'Irish' independence.
Through Your Highness's great decision, you can further solidify the cause of national self-determination. Please lend us your voice just once....
If the British demand a king as a concession in negotiations, we are even willing to proclaim you as such. The reason is your social democratic stance and support for republicanism.
Britain's struggle? Proclaiming him king? What on earth was this? Barely holding back his blank mind, he read on.
No way. It was the Irish fighters. Right, now he remembered. Michael Collins. The man who would later be called the father of Ireland. The one who would soon negotiate with Britain, securing partial independence as a dominion and laying the foundation for full Irish freedom.
But proclaiming him king? He looked back at the letter.
"Hold on."
Ireland wanted to make him their king?
"...Too many thoughts." He couldn't read aloud any further.
This wasn't just a request for a statement of support. The latter part explicitly mentioned their willingness to proclaim him king if Britain insisted on one for negotiations—because he was a social democrat who favored republicanism.
He knew Germany had indirectly aided the Irish Easter Rising during World War I, but... His head throbbed.
"You came to ask me about that?"
"I figured you'd make the right call on something like this."
In a quiet Potsdam café, he slid the letter across the table. Otto Braun read it and chuckled softly.
"Irish independence movement, eh."
"You know it well?"
"No, not really."
He skimmed the letter again before adding, "But the story that they nearly made you their king? That's new to me."
A moment later, he set it down and handed it back.
"I get why you're asking me. But my advice is simple."
He said flatly, "Don't get involved. Not if you're a politician, at least."
"Even with the election coming up?"
He set down his coffee cup. "You'll probably head to East Prussia."
"Likely."
"Lots of officers there."
Braun said calmly, "Prussian spirit still lives on."
He mulled it over. East Prussia. With all those military officers, anti-British sentiment wouldn't be low. Mentioning Irish independence might play well—sound refreshingly bold to them.
"Joachim."
Braun said, "Idealism is fine."
He paused. "But in elections, only the idealism that wins votes survives."
"So, just talk?"
Braun nodded.
No one in Germany wanted war now. Politicians stoking obvious losses or pointless conflicts weren't welcome. But words? Different story. The public was always ready to cheer politicians who criticized "our enemies" with gusto.
The international-obsessed Kreuzzeitung ran the prince's statement verbatim.
"Kuhaha! The Brits must be fuming right now!"
"A prince is still a prince. He's on our side!"
Not front-page, but officer readers grinned wide at the back-page news of the prince backing Irish independence. It felt like he'd given those Versailles negotiators—who tore up Prussia under "self-determination"—a proper smackdown. Vicarious thrill.
Not everyone laughed, though.
At SPD headquarters in Berlin, Wels set down the paper and rubbed his forehead.
"...Stirring up trouble again."
Wels propped his elbows on the desk, face etched with worry. "Not wrong, though, is it? Feels good after so long."
Müller beside him chimed in.
Wels sighed. "Truth doesn't make it politically convenient."
"He's not even an MP yet. Let him be. He'll handle it. If he wins, great; if not, cut bait."
Müller laughed heartily, unconcerned it'd blow up.
Wels folded the paper, muttering, "...This prince is learning politics too fast."
He worried at how rapidly the prince's political weight was growing.
Party reactions split: fears of provoking Britain into harsher reparations; others glad they'd recruited him for the satisfaction.
Britain stayed silent, though. They wanted to keep the Irish issue from going international.
Days after backing Irish independence, he walked Potsdam streets again. Passing a bakery, a familiar building caught his eye—newspaper stand out front.
A few papers had a familiar name on page two: Joachim von Preußen.
He paused. "...Spread this far."
No need to buy; he knew the content. His statement verbatim: Britain denying Irish self-determination, criticism thereof. Mere words, yet papers framed it as a weighty political declaration.
He stared a moment, then turned away.
Then—
"Prince Joachim, isn't it?"
Someone called from behind. Turning, an officer in uniform stood there. Older, but ramrod posture screamed active duty.
He smiled as Joachim turned. "Saw the paper."
Joachim said nothing.
The man shrugged. "Felt damn good. Keep giving us more like that."
With that, he walked off.
Joachim watched his back, then resumed walking.
Politics was strange. He hadn't even run yet, wasn't an MP. Yet people took his words as politics.
"...Braun was right."
He murmured softly. In elections, only vote-winning idealism survives.
His statement had landed well.
Sitting in the park briefly, he pulled a crumpled paper from his pocket.
"Damn, shouldn't be wrinkled...."
He smoothed it hastily with his palm. Train ticket to Austria and a crumpled telegram.
Elections needed money. Jobless, loans were out; had to borrow from someone trustworthy.
Trustworthy person.
He thought, sighed. Family was for times like this.
Beloved little sister still around. Though as non-Joachim, he barely knew her.
Letter got no money, just a telegram back. One line.
Komm vorbei. Sag’s mir selbst.
Come over. Tell me yourself.
Short, simple. True-to-life big-sister reply.
He pocketed the telegram. No choice anyway.
Head to Austria, humble himself before beloved sister, beg election funds.
...A prince borrowing money. He looked skyward, chuckled.
Politics ain't easy.
Checked the train ticket once more, stood.
Still time before the Austria-bound train departed.