The Storm of the Third Germany
It had been about five months since I joined the German Workers' Party. In that time, the 'DAP' had grown steadily. Our membership had swelled to three hundred, and among Bavaria's minor parties, we were starting to make a name for ourselves. Among the new recruits was Yahn Krichz, once my subordinate.
I didn't remember it myself, but apparently I was his lifesaver. He'd told me I'd stopped him from stumbling into a poison gas puddle back when he was green. Anyway, Krichz followed me faithfully in every way. The problem was, even before the war, he'd been a rough character from the Bavarian back alleys.
"Brother Falkenrain. Let me introduce you. This here's a good buddy of mine—ah, don't give me that look. He might look like a mobster on the outside, but he's solid and hardworking inside. You think I'd run with a guy like this otherwise?"
"Where do you keep finding these types?"
"All old connections, right? Hey, say hi. This is my lifesaver and the hero of the Great War."
"Pleased to meet you, sir. Brother Krichz has told me all about you."
The 'old connections' he brought to introduce to me were all like that. Krichz included, they were all bigger and bulkier than me, built like tanks. Each one could stand toe-to-toe with Ernst Röhm... And naturally, the new members funneled in through Krichz began forming their own faction.
"Brother Falkenrain. How about we form our own 'Steel Helmets' group while we're at it? This guy's got some military experience too. If we round up my boys and all your contacts, we could have ourselves a proper paramilitary outfit."
And Krichz was a godsend to me like that. He delivered exactly what I wanted without me saying a word.
Of course, I opposed forming an open paramilitary group and using outright violence right now. Not yet, anyway.
There's a saying: bide your strength and conceal your ability. This isn't the time.
Violence isn't something you flaunt. The novice grabs the tool of violence and chases immediate gains—bullying the weak for a quick high, making enemies left and right until they collapse. The middling sort uses it for petty profits, threading the needle carefully to avoid too many foes, wielding it safely at least. The master goes further. They keep the power hidden... until the enemy underestimates them completely. Then they flip the board in one stroke, reshaping everything through force.
What I wanted was the master's violence. Hide it as long as possible. Then seize total control of the party in a single blow.
With Krichz's arrival, my name was already buzzing in party circles. We had to hold off on openly militarizing private armies... But that didn't mean we could waste these fine talents doing nothing.
"Krichz, your idea's too risky. As you know, we can't draw any more unnecessary attention in the DAP. But what if we built a quiet group without formally enrolling them?"
"Brother... you mean..."
"Yeah, something like that. The time will come—just hold tight until then."
"I'll give it my all. For Germany."
"For Germany."
There was one more reason Krichz followed me so loyally: he'd fully absorbed my ideology. Sure, I'd saved his life, but that wasn't the end of it. He'd been captivated by my speeches from the start. He truly believed I was the one to save Germany. Calling himself a patriot, he trusted me as much as he loved the Fatherland.
He probably wouldn't betray me for a while. At least not anytime soon...
My standing in the German Workers' Party rose day by day. At first, I was just assisting Anton Drexler from the sidelines during speeches or kicking in occasionally when I got a slot. But before long, I was handling nearly every speech in the party.
When people said 'a DAP speech,' it meant a Falkenrain speech. Folks came to DAP rallies to hear me; some even traveled from other regions to Bavaria just for that. And my oratory skills sharpened with every outing—far better than scribbling in magazines or practicing alone in trenches.
"Germany's economy is collapsing! The incompetent Social Democrats and their horde of spineless minor parties are ruining our nation! Who are the real invaders!? The true enemy isn't out there—it's inside! Who are these traitors scheming to divide us, shatter our economy, and ensure the German people never rise again?!"
"SPD! Social Democrats! Separatists! Reds!"
I redirected the hatred from Jews to the Reds. Of course, I targeted separatists and politicians too, making them all objects of scorn. We needed hate figures, after all. But it couldn't fully replace antisemitism's appeal—Red-bashing was default for every right-wing party in Germany back then.
"This morning, I had to shell out five hundred thousand marks for a single loaf of bread! The people starve, and your lives plunge deeper into misery's abyss!"
"..."
"I've taken this stage to expose how your lives are crumbling in this nightmare! Because my dream is the rebirth of a great Germany! Passion and rage burn in my breast! Yet my heart is heavy—my dream slips further away."
Sometimes speeches weren't about dry facts; you had to go poetic, abstract. People latch onto emotion over information in vague words, stirring their hearts. Even those who fancy themselves cool and rational start to soften. Humans are emotional creatures, after all.
"Germany's economy lies in ruins! Your lives are being gnawed away bit by bit! Because our society crawls with parasites devouring us! What did Germany do so wrong?! What did you do so wrong?! Is your misery your fault!?"
Words alone aren't enough, of course. In conversation, people weigh nonverbal cues heavily: the speaker's emotion, the mood, tone, nuance, context. They absorb dialogue not just as logic, but as a full scene, etched in memory. That's why staging matters. That's why eloquence exists. Humans aren't walking logic circuits or algorithms.
Dig deep. Exploit their emotions, their irrationality. For we are slaves to feeling.
"It's not your fault! This wretched routine—emerging from your crumbling shack to buy bread for your children while you starve—isn't your fault! Who could blame us!? You've merely toiled diligently day after day! If that's punished so cruelly, how is that normal!? How can we stay silent!?"
I bellowed into the microphone anyway. Even the cheerleaders I'd planted everywhere fell mute, transfixed. Silence descended.
And I milked that silence. It builds anticipation, twists the knife in their suspense.
"How fiercely has our German race endured in the past! I ask you: if we don't raise our voices here and now against this cruel punishment, who will!? Who will speak for us!? Let us unite and speak! Protect our lives! Shield ourselves from the invaders within!"
Then, a dash of hope. Raise your voices together. Resist. Escape this absurdity for a normal life. We can do it united. Convey it not in words, but feeling. We shape our lives. So...
"For the great lives we'll reclaim! For Germany's purity restored! We will become one storm! The third wave crashes! The third wind blows! The third Germany dawns! Now choose: flail in despair and distrust's pit? Or unite as vibrant workers building the new Germany!? Will you raise your voices with me!?"
I roared.
And the crowd roared back.
The power of oratory was immense.
"That was incredible, Lucas. You're such a natural orator."
"Nothing special, Catalina. Plenty of people speak better than me."
Even knowing Hitler was a villain, I'd felt his speeches move me. I didn't buy in—I knew what he was. But most Germans didn't, and they fell for it. I'd seen it up close.
So I had to be even more meticulous than him. Lacking his raw talent, I'd make up for it with effort.
"Catalina, any word on that favor I asked?"
"First print run's about to start. But... I never pegged you for a political type, Mr. Lucas."
"I told you—I'm in Bavaria for business. And if it's big enough to leave the Ruhr... what else could it be?"
I shrugged. Catalina hurried to my side with a pout.
"Anyway, you're my boss now. Your subordinate did good—take me on a date tonight."
"As you wish."
Still, I couldn't afford to lose my composure. I placed a hand on Catalina's head as she drew near.