In Search of Goebbels
Leaving Princess Alix behind in Potsdam, Waldemar started for home. It was on that road that the truth of it settled over him: in every sense that mattered, he had become an independent man.
There was no parent left who could interfere in his affairs.
Independence.
He turned the word over as one might a coin of uncertain mint, a complicated feeling gathering in his chest as he considered the road ahead. His greatest immediate task was not business. It was the construction of an image capable of winning the people's love. Money he already had in abundance — more than he could spend — and there would be no shortage of chances to make still more.
To that end, Waldemar decided it was time to lay his hands on the press.
Even Hitler — the dictator who would one day close his fist around the whole of Germany's power — had ridden to success on a popular image manufactured by Alfred Hugenberg's formidable media empire. Without Hugenberg, Hitler might well have remained just another far-right politician among a crowd of them. He was the textbook case of a man the press had made.
Waldemar meant to follow that example. Like Hugenberg, he would use the power of the newspapers to craft a public image of his own. He held every advantage over the future Führer. He had never evaded taxes or embezzled a pfennig, and his standing in society was more than respectable. The sole respect in which he lagged behind Hitler was the absence of a Hugenberg — some towering ally in the world of the press.
That, I can solve with money.
If a problem could not be solved with money, it only meant you had not offered enough.
Waldemar sat down with John Connor and surveyed Germany's newspapers. Together they compiled a list of papers whose leanings aligned with his own, and with whose proprietors he already enjoyed some acquaintance in society. He made no attempt at outright acquisition this time. Should trouble ever arise, he did not want his political enemies digging through the ownership of the press.
When you control a newspaper, shares don't mean much. What dominates the press isn't equity. It's money.
Waldemar offered the papers enormous sponsorships and corporate advertising contracts, and arranged separate payments to individual journalists in the form of reporting expenses and manuscript fees. Bind the proprietor and the reporters at a single stroke, and that newspaper became, for all intents and purposes, Waldemar's own mouthpiece.
Faced with the mountains of cash his people put on the table, the journalists could not even bring themselves to refuse.
"I — I would be honored to accept Your Highness's patronage."
Waldemar then created a special department to manage these newly bound newspapers, along with his existing friends in the press — Baron Hammerstein and the rest. He named it the Press Research Society.
And the man to run it...
A name drifted up from some YouTube video he had once half-watched.
Yes. He'll do nicely.
Waldemar put men on the streets of Berlin to find him.
"Maximilian Harden? Who is this man, that Your Highness would go to such lengths to find him?"
John Connor had no idea what that meant.
Some time later, Waldemar's people reported that they had found Harden in a rented apartment in Berlin's Friedrichstadt. Waldemar went there at once and knocked on the door.
"Who is it?"
Harden opened the door — and froze at the sight of a prince. Even at a glance, the man's watch and clothes looked more expensive than the deposit on Harden's apartment. This was clearly the son of someone from the very highest circles.
Harden could not make sense of it. He had given up acting and now scraped by writing criticism of theater and the arts. What business could someone like this possibly have with him? Had he offended someone with a review?
While Harden's mind raced, Waldemar asked, with perfect courtesy:
"I have come a long way to see you, Herr Harden. If it would not be an imposition, might we speak inside?"
Harden could hardly refuse so polite a request. He showed them in.
"Ah — yes. Of course."
He offered the prince and his bodyguards glasses of cold water.
"I'm afraid that's all I have to offer."
"On a hot summer day, water is no poor thing."
Waldemar accepted the glass without the slightest hesitation and drank. Harden hesitated a moment, then asked the purpose of the visit.
"I should like to know, sir, why you have come to see me."
"Ah."
Waldemar realized he had not introduced himself.
"My name is Joachim Friedrich Ernst Waldemar of Prussia. I am of the House of Hohenzollern, in the direct line."
At this grand introduction, Harden shot to his feet.
"Y-Your Highness?!"
"There is no need for alarm, Herr Harden."
"How could I not be alarmed?"
Harden could scarcely believe there was a prince standing in his room.
"If you mean to do great things, you cannot afford to be startled by this much."
Waldemar slid a cheque across to him.
"What is this, Your Highness?"
"Payment. For the privilege of engaging your services."
"You're... hiring me? What on earth have I done to deserve that?"
Harden felt distinctly uneasy. Objectively speaking, he was a twenty-six-year-old critic of no particular distinction, hanging about theaters and writing reviews to get by. His name was so little known that he drifted from one playhouse to another. What could this prince possibly see in him?
Waldemar looked him straight in the eye.
"No. You are a remarkable man."
A prose style honed to a razor's edge by years of criticism. A sensibility, trained by a life on the stage, that read power with exquisite precision. A mind that understood the psychology of the crowd. Waldemar believed in the future he had seen — the Harden who would one day hold the German Empire's press in the palm of his hand.
"I am not the man Your Highness imagines. I am only an ordinary critic."
"That is only because you have not yet been polished. Herr Harden. Give me one chance. The chance to employ you."
Waldemar asked again, lowering himself still further. A prince, coming in person, asking more than once to hire him — this could not be a joke.
If a prince truly needs me...
Harden met Waldemar's gaze for the first time in earnest.
"If Your Highness means what you say, I will accept."
"I mean every word."
Waldemar offered the cheque again. Harden took it, glanced at the figure — and nearly dropped it.
Engagement fee — services of Herr Maximilian Harden
— House of Hohenzollern —
"A hundred thousand marks?"
The average laborer earned seventy or eighty marks a month. The sum was beyond imagination.
"The amount is negotiable, if you find it insufficient."
Harden shook his head hard.
"No, no. It's more than enough. Far more."
"Then I may consider us colleagues?"
"Of course."
Waldemar held out his hand.
"I look forward to working with you."
"And I with you, Your Highness. Though — if I may ask — what exactly is it you wish me to do?"
Waldemar smiled faintly.
"Nothing extraordinary. You will wield a pen."
"Ah."
Harden thought, vaguely, that he understood.
The next day, with the help of Waldemar's people, Harden moved house.
"This will be your residence from now on."
Waldemar had found him a fine apartment in Dorotheenstadt, where the newspapers clustered. His fortune could easily have bought a grand mansion, but the prince judged that excessive. Harden, he thought, would be better off not drawing too much attention.
Once Harden had unpacked, he made his way to the offices of the Press Research Society, also in Dorotheenstadt. There he found four young women to handle accounts and clerical work, and four trainee reporters Waldemar had brought in. When he was told the office was his, Harden was startled all over again.
"So I am to be in charge here."
"Precisely."
"And my work here will be... criticism?"
Waldemar laughed.
"Yes. Criticism of me, to be exact."
"Of Your Highness?"
Waldemar walked to the window.
"What sort of man is the Prince Waldemar you know?"
"From what I have gathered since Your Highness's arrival — a romantic. A man in love with Princess Alix."
"And besides that?"
"A celebrated figure in society, I am told."
"Anything else?"
"A model of virtue, diligent in his charities."
Waldemar smiled and took it up.
"A reasonably decent image."
"Yes. I think so too."
"But it is not enough. That is why I need your criticism."
"You want me to write about Your Highness?"
"More precisely — I want you to see to it that the world comes to regard me as a prince worthy of its love."
Only then did Harden understand what the prince wanted of him. An image. A popular image, built by his pen, by his criticism. It sounded rather interesting. And it was not, in truth, an unreasonable demand. The prince genuinely possessed the character and reputation to earn a nation's affection.
"To meet Your Highness's requirements, these resources will not be sufficient."
Harden had lived in a small world, but that did not mean his vision was small. Waldemar nodded.
"Of course a single office is nowhere near enough. Which is why I have prepared some friends for you."
At Waldemar's gesture, one of the young women handed over a document. Harden took it — and was considerably surprised.
"This is..."
Newspapers bound by sponsorship and corporate advertising contract.
Journalists receiving reporting stipends and manuscript fees.
All parties instructed to cooperate, without reservation, with Herr Maximilian Harden of the Press Research Society.
He realized then that the prince was a far more powerful man than he had vaguely imagined.
"These are the friends and newspapers on our payroll. All of them will cooperate with you, Herr Harden."
Harden felt the weight of power in the paper in his hands.
"Can you do it?"
Harden opened his mouth.
Waldemar was satisfied with the confidence his Goebbels displayed.
"Good. Then I shall trust entirely in your abilities."
Waldemar and Harden shook hands, firmly.