The Boy's Leap
Recruiting an illustrator wasn't hard at all. In this era of Weimar, where the unemployed wandered the streets like zombies, there was nothing cheaper than human labor. In other words, even skilled illustrators could be hired on the cheap.
The illustrator we recruited was named Hans Klaushwitz. He was a graduate of the legendary Vienna Academy of Fine Arts in Austria—a place even Hitler couldn't get into. Hailing from the Ruhr, he'd returned home after the war, helped his parents with the farm, and applied after seeing my recruitment ad. In the end, he became my subordinate employee. Catalina, of course, covered his salary.
"So... this is really different from the newspaper I had in mind."
And that was our first issue: The Boy's Leap.
The Boy's Leap. It sounded more like a comic magazine than a newspaper. Anyone quick on the uptake could probably guess the inspiration. Of course, since it was part newspaper and part magazine, we did include proper articles. We covered the news Catalina brought in... but comics took up most of the space anyway.
Still, the comics couldn't be pure entertainment. Otherwise, they'd get dismissed as "kid stuff" and flop. So we made the exterior look enough like a newspaper—at least on the surface.
"There are hardly any articles. It's all comics!"
"The flower of capitalism. It'll be huge in America soon enough."
Action Comics hadn't even debuted in the US yet. Which meant we could lead the comic business. Er, I mean, the newspaper business.
"This... still doesn't feel right."
"We printed it anyway. Let's sell it and see."
I tapped the stack of 50 first-edition copies piled in the corner. Klaushwitz watched with satisfaction. For him, selling his art mattered more than the money.
"Fine. But clear all 50 by end of day. Fail, and he's fired—and you'll have to run a normal newspaper. Major von Falkenrain."
Catalina laid down the law. No soup for failures...
Against Catalina's worries, the papers sold out. In just two hours of sales.
How? Simple: I wore my uniform, stood on the street, and sold them cheap. Cheaper than the competition. I even took goods instead of cash sometimes—selected carefully, mostly metalware or utensils.
A newspaper you could buy with goods instead of money. That unique pricing made The Boy's Leap fly off the shelves, leaving us with sacks of items and some cash.
"So... how do we turn this into money?"
"Why turn it into money? Look at this."
I couldn't understand. With the mark about to plummet dramatically, swapping goods for paper currency would've been insane. Instead of trading for marks, I dumped the goods cheap to a Ruhr export firm—for foreign currency, not marks.
Then I reported back to Catalina.
"Pounds?"
"Trust me. Stock up on pounds from now on."
"Why hoard British money?"
"You'll see in a few months. Anyway, we sold out, so keep your promise: more print runs."
True to her word, Catalina approved additional issues. I converted most marks to coins—easy to melt down and sell when they lost value.
Time passed. Half a year since we started selling The Boy's Leap, and we'd amassed plenty of goods and foreign cash. And most importantly...
"How much for one paper?"
"Twelve hundred marks."
"Here."
The mark started its dramatic crash. Now a single newspaper cost thousands of marks. Some customers arrived with baskets stuffed with bills. Astonishing.
I had another idea: 'Paper's getting expensive anyway—perfect.'
Insane, but brilliant: bleach mark notes and recycle them as paper. After trial and error, it worked. We stopped buying paper and started printing on bleached marks bundled up.
The profits? Converted back to foreign currency and goods. Wealth snowballed. Holding goods and forex meant money multiplied on its own. My cut skyrocketed too.
And...
"Major von Falkenrain! Look! A printing press! We finally got a new one!"
We upgraded the press. American-made. Britain led printing tech then, but US presses were solid. Americans took newspapers seriously.
The new press fueled our booming business. Explosive growth. I made a killing too. We'd renegotiated: I got a profit share. As the business grew, so did I. More money bought more forex. Then I dumped all the pounds for dollars. Made connections with British financiers in the process—gifts and quiet persuasion, German-style. Built overseas partners. Trips abroad increased. Returning to chaotic Weimar always drew a sigh.
"Incredible..."
Still brawling over commies, capitalists, monarchists. Blaming each other for defeat. Blind to crisis as opportunity.
Thus, 1920 arrived.
America's economy bubbled into a massive boom. No one knew yet it'd burst into the Great Depression. Britain, rebuilding postwar, printed pounds like mad; France did the same with francs. The pound's gold standard teetered. Why I'd dumped all pounds for dollars.
Meanwhile, The Boy's Leap kept growing, entertainment ramping up. People preferred heroes crushing villains over grim reality. Hired a story writer, an art assistant, a printer.
But I couldn't forget my goal: 'I need to enter politics.'
Money wasn't the point. If it were, I'd have bolted to America before WWI even started, with my foreknowledge. No—my aim was Germany's salvation. Making her victorious. Clearing Hearts of Steel 4 and returning home. That was the endgame. No time to waste on business.
"Catalina. And sir. I have something to say."
Enough cash earned. I packed and visited Catalina and her father.
"I'm stepping down as editor-in-chief."
"Lucas, what's wrong?"
"It's time for my real purpose. Thank you for this opportunity."
"Wait, Falkenrain. What happens to the paper without you?"
"The system's in place. People love The Boy's Leap regardless. It'll keep printing without me."
I bid them farewell. Left the Ruhr without regrets. Took a carriage to the nearby station, hands full of gold and forex. Plenty. Headed to politically volatile Bavaria to start my party.
As I boarded the train...
Catalina came running. How'd she get here?
"Lucas!"
She called me Lucas now—we'd grown close lately. A year and a half in business; odd if we hadn't.
"Catalina."
"You can't just leave like this! Where's that in the rules?!"
She threw herself into my arms. What the...? This money-obsessed taskmaster, who'd whip employees mercilessly?
Maybe my sudden exit sparked some whim.
"Don't talk like we'll never see each other. I'm just heading to Bavaria for my dreams. Not off to war or the slaughterhouse."
"...Then I'll come too."
"Pardon?"
"I'll follow you."
She pulled out a train ticket. When'd she get that?
As I gaped, she glared daggers.
"Told Dad. Said I'm going with you."
"What about your reporting?"
"Quit, obviously. We make comics, not news anyway."
"..."
My fault, sure. But dragging her to Bavaria? Time was tight for my goals. She'd be baggage, in crude terms.
And...
"Catalina! What are you doing? Come back now!"
Her father—the boss—spotted us. Catalina shuddered, startled, then grabbed my hand.
"I have permission, right?"
"I'll explain later."
She shoved me onto the just-arriving train, hand in mine. Before the boss could board, the doors shut.
"Falkenrain! Give her back!"
"I'd like to, sir."
"Damn it! Catalina! Catalina!"
The train pulled away; the boss receded. I turned to Catalina, dumbfounded. She grinned.
Sniffling moments ago... all an act? What a brazen hack...