German Social Democratic Party (6): Kurt Schumacher
A few days had passed since returning to Potsdam from Kurt Schumacher. With the East Prussia election looming, he was frantically preparing to relocate there entirely, staking his claim. It left little room for anything else. Perhaps because of that, the newspapers had stopped hounding the prince who no longer provided fresh fodder.
A headline caught his eye: Russian forces discovered in East Prussia—is Russia in defeat? The war between them—the still-nascent Soviet Russia—and Poland had seemed on the verge of a Russian victory just days ago. But Poland's shock troops had pulled off a miraculous win, shattering the Russian offensive in an instant. Word came that some Russian units had crossed into East Prussia and been detained by German forces. Newspapers blared daily reports of Russian defeats and Poland's improbable triumphs, some already mocking it as the "Disaster on the Vistula." But the ripples didn't stop at those two nations.
In Upper Silesia, false rumors of Warsaw's fall had sparked right-wing nationalists' violence against Polish residents. Unable to endure it, Polish workers rose in revolt. The British, French, and Italian commission sent to resolve the crisis couldn't even agree among themselves, leaving it to fester. The flames of violence grew, engulfing all of Silesia in uprising.
Rrring! Just as he set the paper down, the phone shattered the silence. He picked it up.
"Joachim speaking."
"Your Highness Joachim, incoming call from SPD headquarters. Shall I connect you?"
"Yes, please."
"Joachim, it's Wels."
"Yes, Chairman. To what do I owe the call?"
"Have you seen the papers?"
His words sent a chill down the spine. He'd just been reading them. Glancing around reflexively, he replied, "...Yes, just now."
"Party directive: We don't support the uprising, but we can't endorse violence either. And we absolutely can't openly criticize the Allies."
What a fence-sitting stance. But he got it. The SPD was a workers' party, after all—internal labor disputes from uprisings weren't good. They couldn't side with Polish workers or their political opposites, the right-wing militias. And slamming the Allies would hurt Versailles revision talks. It wasn't satisfying, but he had no choice.
"Understood."
The call ended.
"Not worth worrying about for now."
Berlin party headquarters. He arrived right on time for his meeting with Otto Braun. But as he entered, a raucous debate echoed.
"No, we must support Poland's workers! How can we sit idle while anti-state elements run rampant?"
A contentious young voice rang from within. The back of a man in his early-to-mid twenties, facing another around Joachim's age with a troubled expression, both staring down two party members.
"What's all this commotion at headquarters?"
Otto Braun approached from behind, straightening his suit jacket.
"Ah, Premier."
The man Joachim's age finally relaxed. One of the young members turned. No right arm, but the venom in his expression didn't yield even before Braun.
"Massacres are happening in Silesia right now. If a workers' party like ours doesn't speak up, who will represent them?"
His voice was logical yet fervent.
"We're the German workers' party. You want to make German voters our enemies?"
"But they're our German workers too!"
He pushed back argumentatively despite Braun's words.
"Looks like party consensus isn't going as smoothly as hoped."
Limping forward, Joachim spoke up. Braun shrugged.
"You're..."
The stocky young member beside him stared, words failing.
He knew what they meant.
"Yes, I'm that prince everyone's talking about."
They exchanged subtle glances, then looked back.
"Kurt Schumacher."
The one-armed youth extended his left for a shake first. It figured—and it was true. The man who'd rebuild the SPD from postwar ruins, chase Konrad Adenauer to the wire as West Germany's first chancellor contender, all with one arm.
"Joachim. Call me that."
Shaking his hand, he turned to the plump one.
"And you?"
"Erich Ollenhauer."
Bingo. Schumacher's successor, who'd lead the SPD until Brandt, masterminding the grand coalition.
"I'm Wilhelm Hoegner, legal aide at the Bavarian First Prosecutor's Office."
The one handing over his card from behind was familiar too. Not as deeply as the others, but the man who'd govern SPD-weak Bavaria as minister-president.
They were ordinary rank-and-file, not yet party heavyweights. While eyeing the card, Schumacher asked,
"You're running in East Prussia, right, Joachim?"
His eyes said he knew without asking. The prince's novelty would play well in Prussia's origin land, East Prussia.
"That's right."
"So you'll stay silent on the Silesian uprising? What's your take?"
He reignited the debate. The abrupt question flustered, but Braun's look said answer it.
"I follow party guidelines too. But I have my thoughts."
"Care to share?"
He pondered. This raw, passionate youth—who'd become a seasoned politician—deserved to hear them.
"...I don't think this is mainly about class."
Braun, Hoegner, Schumacher, Ollenhauer—all stared in surprise.
"As you know, they weren't targeted as workers. As Poles. It's ethnic, not class."
"So we stay silent?"
His tone sharpened.
Joachim shook his head.
"Just see it clearly. This isn't a strike for rights, wage fight, or nationalist revolt."
Pausing to choose words,
"It's resistance to violence. Germans and Poles distrusting, labeling each other enemies, dividing within Germany."
Braun looked intrigued. Schumacher's face unchanged.
"...And shouting 'workers' solidarity' makes them drop guns?"
Schumacher stared silently.
"What the SPD—no, Germany—must do is simple: Stop the violence first. Instability crumbles foundations."
"Does stopping violence solve it?"
Ollenhauer asked. Silence—he wasn't sure. But to conclude firmly, tilting his head,
"...Killing Poles or attacking Germans—both are unnecessary, not up for debate."
Silence fell. Then a low chuckle from behind.
"So Joachim, it's beyond party lines or left-right from the start."
He nodded at Braun.
"That's my view."
Quiet lingered. Schumacher broke it.
"...Pragmatic."
Arms crossed, staring.
"But it's not that simple."
Joachim met his gaze. Schumacher stepped forward.
"Who's holding guns in Silesia? Right-wing militias, right?"
He gestured, wobbling slightly, but pressed on.
"If politics stays silent, they take it as approval. Condemn them, cut the root. Before stopping violence, eradicate its source."
Breathing,
"That's why I ask:"
Staring straight.
"If the SPD says nothing, who stops that violence, nips that bud?"
A small sigh beside. Braun.
"Young comrade. If you're interrogating Joachim, end it here. We're not gathered for debate."
Schumacher eyed Braun, fell silent. But his gaze stayed fixed.
Braun shook his head slightly.
"Joachim, we had business."
Gesturing upstairs.
He wanted more talk with Schumacher, but duty called. Nodding, he headed up.
"Joachim!"
As he followed Braun, Schumacher's voice echoed. He approached.
Ollenhauer and Hoegner's shocked faces behind, ignored.
"What is it? More to say?"
"...Your leg—from the war?"
He glanced down.
"Ah... yes, gunshot."
Left hand rummaging jacket pocket, Schumacher offered his card.
"As a fellow wounded, let's talk sometime. Many like us."
He leaned in, staggering—balance off from missing arm.
Joachim watched. Overly combative, logic-driven. Raw fighter's tone, unpolished but ironclad conviction. Politics as war fit him perfectly.
Smirking, he extended his left.
"Fine. Hope we meet again. Enjoyed this."
"Yes. Me too."
Shaking, he smiled. Earlier unsure. Now clear: To rise higher, he needed this man.
With that, he followed Braun upstairs.