Ernst Hanfstaengl
Ernst Hanfstaengl. He had come to a DAP speech rally with a friend and left utterly inspired. As a businessman, he firmly believed he had a knack for stirring people's emotions. But right before his eyes stood a demagogue far superior to him.
"Lucas von Falkenrain, you say?"
"That's right. Quite the character, isn't he?"
"Just a little polishing, and he'll be a big shot."
Hanfstaengl found himself completely immersed in Falkenrain's oratory. The way he built the narrative slowly, layer by layer, only to unleash it in a cathartic explosion—it gripped the soul and shook it to its core.
If I were German, there's no way I wouldn't be moved by that speech...
"He's mad... utterly mad. When you, a Jew, suddenly insisted on going to a German far-right rally, I thought you were the crazy one. No. He's the mad one."
Ernst Hanfstaengl said this while pointing at Falkenrain on the podium. His speech had already crested the crisis and was surging toward its climax.
As the climax peaked and flowed into resolution, the crowd rose as one, mirroring a single gesture. Cheers erupted, and countless voices shouted "Heil Germany!" Thousands moved in unison—a scene that seemed like collective madness one moment, perfect fusion the next.
Hanfstaengl didn't know the gesture's meaning but mimicked it anyway.
"You seem quite taken with him, Hanfstaengl."
"I have to meet him."
Hanfstaengl was already fully converted by Falkenrain's words.
After wrapping up the rally, I pored over the party ledger with a sigh. The speech had brought in some operating funds, but individual donations weren't enough to make a real difference.
"Party Leader. What's troubling you?"
"Strasser."
Gregor Strasser. He'd joined via the Wave Corps recently and handled tasks so efficiently he'd risen quickly through the ranks. He called out to me as I stared worriedly at the books.
"It's nothing. Just personal matters."
I quietly closed the ledger before he could see and stuffed it into my bag.
"Party Leader, there's someone here who wants to meet you."
"Me?"
"Yes. Says he's interested in the DAP. Shall I let him in?"
"Yes, bring him."
Strasser nodded and left my office. Moments later, he returned with two men.
One was...
"Theodore Morell."
"You know me?"
"Get him out of here."
Theodore Morell. The quack who turned Hitler into a junkie. The moment I saw his face, I had him removed. Fate loves its jokes— this time, he'd come to me instead of Hitler, and I erased him from my sight without a word.
And the other...
I'd seen him somewhere before. Not someone I knew well, but definitely from the second loop.
"And you are...?"
"Pleased to meet you. Ernst Hanfstaengl."
"Ah, Mr. Hanfstaengl. Pleased to meet you. Have a seat."
Only after hearing his name did it click. He was one of Hitler's early backers. Of course, he'd later split over Hitler's expansionism and extremism, but he'd been a huge help to the early Bavarian micro-party NSDAP.
I smiled and offered him a chair.
"Who was that guy you just kicked out on sight?"
"Call him a quack doctor. I hear he plays vet around here and has killed a few strays. No point meeting such an immoral sort."
Pure bullshit, of course. But he is a quack. Hitler got wrecked because of him—I had to deal with the bunker mess at the end of the second loop thanks to that.
"Dreadful."
"Well, Mr. Hanfstaengl, badmouthing others on a first meeting isn't ideal. Let's talk business. What brings you here?"
"Truth be told, I was deeply moved by your recent speech. Mr. Falkenrain, if you're amenable, I'd like to be your backer..."
He was a businessman. And as one, he knew exactly where to invest. His "support" wasn't just from my speech—it was about building connections. Betting on my political rise. Even if I didn't become Fuhrer, a tie to me would smooth his business in Germany.
"Straight to the point. Are you in business?"
"Hahaha. You saw right through me. Yes, I run a modest little operation."
"May I ask what kind?"
"Mostly financial transactions. I sell some basic insurance on the side."
Lies. His real game was printing. Though it didn't overlap with Catalina's Bavarian Workers' Newspaper—we did news, he did books.
Anyway, his outright fib meant he didn't fully trust me yet. Trust isn't one-way. It's mutual. One-way trust is just "admiration." And admiration has no place in business.
Now it was my turn to offer trust.
"Truth is, I've been waiting for a backer like you. The party's funds are tight right now."
We raise our hands in greeting. What does that hand gesture mean? Showing vulnerability. Proving "I mean you no harm" by exposing a weakness. Revealing I carry no weapons.
Exposing a weakness carries risk, but it can also build trust. A weakness, wielded right, becomes a card.
"Is it wise to share that with me? Exposing the party's finances to an outsider isn't smart."
"That's how badly we need trust right now. Does that answer your question?"
Hanfstaengl got it late, smirked, then burst into full laughter.
"You're a riot. I saw it in your speech, but you're crazy in all the right ways."
He stood, gesturing for me to do the same.
"Let's take a walk."
I shrugged and followed. He pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit up.
"Care for one, Mr. Falkenrain?"
"No thanks. Not a fan of the smell."
"Pity. Anyway..."
As we strolled the party headquarters, Hanfstaengl stopped before the flag. It bore the emblem of the Third Wave.
He tapped it with a finger.
"Great design. You feel the meaning instantly. Bold colors too."
"We agonized over it for ages."
"You designed it yourself?"
"Yes, I came up with it."
"Hmm... Mr. Falkenrain, I'll make you famous. More than Marx."
He'd once said that line to Hitler, not me. He glanced at me and nodded.
"I'll tweak the design a bit. It can go further. And... Marx makes you think mustache. But you don't need one, Mr. Falkenrain. You're handsome enough—your face alone is an image."
"You're too kind, Hanfstaengl."
"No. In politics, looks matter more than you think. Plenty will vote for a pretty face. Seriously. I could suggest a boxy or triangular mustache... but clean-shaven suits you better."
Boxy mustache... that guy was probably fertilizer meat chunks on the Western Front somewhere. Triangular? Never crossed my mind.
"Anyway, what do you say, Falkenrain? My business instincts never fail. Partner with me."
"What do you want?"
"Rise in politics. And look after my interests a little."
Classic Hanfstaengl. Always self-serving. In the second loop, he fled to Britain when Hitler, Goering, and Goebbels fucked everything up.
"Deal. It's done."
"Bold as ever, Mr. Falkenrain."
"You make an offer I can't refuse and call me bold?"
The deal was sealed.