Channeling the People's Rage

People in unprofitable businesses all look alike. When life gets tough, they blame someone else and vent their anger and hatred. It's the same in South Korea. When things get hard, some blame the progressives, others the conservatives. The younger generation, gender, region—whatever. People get especially furious and hateful when they feel like they're the ones suffering. A life without margin breeds aimless rage.

Then comes one person who gathers that rage into a single point and gives it direction. Offers a clear solution. Presents a straightforward path to improvement. "If only those guys were gone, we'd be fine.""Kicking them out is true social justice." That was all I had to do from here on out.

"We must be angry! Be ashamed of your past self who didn't rage! Be ashamed of the apathy that left you listless and inert! The German people must unite in fury! That is our strength! The pure power to resist the invaders seeking to shatter and destroy us from within!"

I deployed gestures, footwork, and body language just as I'd studied. I tensed my face, veins bulging. Oratory. But not ordinary oratory. I perfectly replicated Hitler's.

I'd calculated every detail to mimic the Hitler I'd seen as closely as possible. His signature gestures. The compelling appeal that stirred hearts. Arm angles, leg positions, how I'd appear from the audience's gaze—I connected it all seamlessly. That's why I'd practiced speeches endlessly. In oratory, at least, I had to resemble Hitler.

"Those singing songs of our division—they're the invaders destroying Germany and your lives! The enemy is within! So why aren't you angry? Be angry! Without anger, we are weak!"

I clenched my fist and thrust it slightly toward the sky as I spoke. The speech wasn't over.

"The Social Democrats are the same! I'm not saying support them! The Great War's defeat crushed our economy, culture, and lives at the root! Who did it? Who shoved us into the pit of defeat?! Who ruined your hard lives!? Internal division! Whoever sows division is the invader defiling the purity of the German race!"

"Right on!"

"Well said!"

I hadn't even hired shills, but one by one, they started stirring. Time to drive it home.

"So be angry! That is patriotism! Your purest strength for the nation and the German people! Be angry! That indifference without rage is the most loathsome plague! Be angry!"

I wielded the keyword "rage" masterfully in my appeal. Be angry, German people. Rise against injustice and rage. Not at each other—unite and rage. The message worked. Applause erupted the instant my sudden speech ended. I sensed it had landed.

But the crowd's reaction wasn't the main goal. I was aiming elsewhere. This entire speech was a staged scene for one person here.

I slipped away quietly as soon as it wrapped. And as expected, someone followed.

"Uh, Mr. Lucas von Falkenrain. Care to talk a moment?"

"You're the one who was sitting in the corner of the beer hall earlier?"

"Your passion impressed me. Quite intriguing. Any interest in politics?"

"Politics..."

"Ah, if ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠you're in the military, feel free to ignore me."

"No, I'm a veteran, so it doesn't matter."

"Then consider joining our party."

The man who followed me was the one I'd scouted ahead: Anton Drexler. Founder of the German Workers' Party. The man Hitler would later wrest power from. He proposed membership right on cue.

Of course, I couldn't accept outright. I said I'd think it over, took his card, and left.

Anton Drexler. Memories of him lingered even from my past life. Though he wasn't that memorable a figure. By the time he met Hitler after World War I's end, he was already sidelined in the party. And since they were near-strangers then, maybe even more so.

But drawing on historical knowledge, he founded the German Workers' Party—the precursor to the German Socialist Workers' Party, which became the Nazi Party. I might rely on him for a while. Even if he was a sidelined nobody with no real talent, he was undeniably the party leader now.

I turned his ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠business card over in my hands and let out a low hum.

"So it comes to this after all..."

"..."

"Lucas!"

"Catalina? When did you get back?"

"Just now. What's that, anyway?"

Catalina pointed curiously at the card I was fiddling with. I chuckled and replied.

"My new business venture."

"Business? You really love business, Lucas."

"Of course. You can become the top dog in the industry."

The business I was starting wouldn't make money. But depending on circumstances, it could grant overwhelming power. In other words, the power business. That's how I'd aim to dominate the industry.

If it failed? Well... on to loop four and try again.

"By the way, Lucas. How do I look?"

"In what way?"

"Jeez... I bought new clothes today. Take a proper look."

"Pretty. Suits you well."

"Properly look."

I swallowed a sigh inwardly and glanced at Catalina. Her outfit was simple. But alluring. A knee-length skirt with a shirt on top. The shirt strained awkwardly against the pressure from her midriff, creating enticing protrusions. A magnificent figure that made me itch for an encirclement just looking at it.

"Well..."

"Pretty, right?"

"Pretty, but you could stand to be a bit more prim."

I draped ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a coat from the closet over her shoulders as I said it. She giggled.

"Embarrassed?"

"As if."

"You're the embarrassed one... Wanna go on a date?"

"A date? Where?"

"Opera house."

She pulled out two tickets quietly as she spoke.

"Where does all this money keep coming from?"

"Rude. I do work, you know."

"Work?"

"I cover stories or snap photos of rich folks."

She proudly waved her camera as she said it. Uh-oh...

"Catalina."

"What? Worried?"

"Be careful, please. You know that's your entire fortune."

"Nag... Anyway, you going or not?"

She set the camera on the table and crossed her arms. I pondered briefly, then nodded. Honestly, nothing pressing right now. A mood-changer with this era's crude opera wouldn't hurt...

"How much were those tickets, anyway?"

"70,000 marks each."

"Insane."

Forget not. Hyperinflation is the Weimar Republic's time-honored tradition...

She photographed the opera with her camera. And various spots in the lavish opera house. That was her way of enjoying it. Zero interest in the music or drama.

"You're unique."

And amid that, I discovered her unexpected talent. She had a natural gift for photography. The same scene could look grand or cute depending on her intent. Through unique angles, moments, and compositions, she subtly infused her emotions into the shots without realizing it. She called it "recording."

Photography is the art of record-keeping. Sure, recording facts, but also—like a diary—capturing the feelings and vibes of the moment.

"Catalina."

"How's my photography? Wanna take some of us? It's a date, after all."

"Could you take my photo?"

"Of course. Together?"

"No, not that. Me giving a speech."

"...Pardon?"

Catalina had found her use. Keeping her just as a pretty girlfriend would be a waste. What I needed was staging. Staging builds the dictator's image. Sometimes grand. Sometimes resolute. Sometimes humbly caring for struggling masses—all converging on "staging."

Propaganda and ideology were exploding, but agitation, promotion, and staging were still primitive. With Catalina, though, she might pull off the staging I knew.

"Join my ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠business."

"Oh right, the business. What kind?"

"Politics."

"Ah, politics... Huh?"

"It's why I left the Ruhr for Bavaria."

My business was nation-building. And for that, I needed Catalina.