Bomb Terror
"Falkenrain! Falkenrain! Falkenrain!"
My turn. As I stepped onto the podium, the crowd's ecstatic cheers erupted. They clenched their fists and thrust them toward the sky, chanting my name. I strode forward amid the roar of thousands. I gripped the microphone. Static crackled through it, and I used that noise as my cue, extending my fist in silence.
"... "
With a single gesture, the audience fell quiet. Those who had been shouting my name now mirrored my action in perfect unison. This was power. This was fanaticism. This was winning hearts and minds.
I owed Hitler a personal debt of gratitude. Without him, I'd never have tasted this.
"Today, Germany brims with hope. The Treaty of Versailles has laid our lives so low, made us seem so wretched. Yet you fight on to the end. I'm immensely proud that you're here today."
Every gesture, expression, action—it all became information feeding back to the crowd. I wielded them all to stir their souls once more.
"Look! The ones you should see aren't me—it's yourselves! Your fellow citizens right beside you!"
I gestured to the audience as I spoke. Their gazes turned quietly inward. I flashed a grin.
"This is the power of unity! Togetherness! We all stand here as one! Our voices will become a wave, and that wave will carry defeated Germany to the glory of the mighty Third German Reich! Let us unite! Fuse! Stand together! Don't play their games, the reds and the capitalists—become one!"
The cheers exploded again. All I'd done was toss out a few words. That's the value of a name—it makes them applaud even your shit.
Of course, this was more than enough. Not many could hold a crowd of thousands from a podium with such eloquence.
I waited for the roar to die down, then leaned back into the mic.
"A heavy burden always weighs on my heart. I feel endless remorse toward you, the patriotic citizens of Bavaria."
Sometimes a speech had to feel like opera. Especially here in an opera house for the party convention—I leaned into it hard.
"You don't live for yourselves. You live for family, friends, the fatherland. Without that foundation, you couldn't endure this wretched existence."
"... "
"So what?!"
I hurled the question at the silent crowd. Speak softly, then crank the volume—snatch their attention in an instant.
"You live for family, friends, the fatherland! No room left even for yourselves! So what's the problem?!"
I thumped my chest with my fist as I bellowed.
"The defeat Versailles brought upon Germany stings! But paradoxically, that's how you've learned to live for the nation! In the catastrophe of the Great War, you learned to live for comrades and friends! Now, for family and kin!"
"... "
"How noble! How proud! Every German must realize it themselves! Serving the nation! That patriotism binds us! Unites us! Makes us stronger!"
I drew a breath. Even that brief silence was deliberate. All calculated. Silence packs a punch.
"How long must we remain losers? I can't answer that! Neither can Hanfstaengl, the Social Democrats, or the Communists! Only you! You can end Germany's defeats!"
In the end, I just add the spoon.
"How great! How magnificent! Who can compare to our people's resilience in overcoming this harsh defeat? We deserve pride! To break free of failure's chains and stand as victors once more! We must!"
Offer hope to turn eyes from grim reality. Can't forget to bash the reds, of course.
"Yet there are those lurking behind us, eyeing our weakened state from past defeats. They fear our unity above all, scheming to divide Germany—the invaders at our backs!"
Same old script. But effective.
"They hate our rebuilding! They want Germany in chaos! To dismantle order, the state! Ready to multiply tragedies for profit!"
"... "
"Don't your teeth chatter at their vile strength? Who are they? The ones disrupting our bonds, betraying German purity! The Communists! The Marxists! They want your lives miserable!"
The speech crested from crisis to climax.
Then—
Boom!
My words halted at the massive thud.
"Kyaaak!"
"Gasp!"
"...!"
"Leader! Get down!"
Kaboom!
A huge explosion rocked the podium side of the opera house. Debris rained down.
Ferril Hofstein. A Bavarian-born Communist. Like any red, he envied Russia's revolution next door. Germany needed the same, he firmly believed. Communism was the tide of the times.
"The SPD are traitors anyway. Defy Lenin and go it alone? Ridiculous."
Hofstein saw even the left-leaning German Social Democratic Party as reactionaries—his pro-Russian ultra-left bent ran that deep. He truly believed capitalists and any defense of old justice or order were reactionary. Nation, capital, people—relics of the past. In late-stage communism, everyone would thrive. Why resist?
They're all just pawns in the capitalists' game...
"Ferril Hofstein. We've been waiting for someone like you."
"Pleased to meet you. You won't regret taking me in."
He joined a Communist party in Bavaria. With over fifty minor parties, even weirdos like him fit somewhere. For six months, he toed the line as a diligent member.
Then Bavaria's mood shifted. Extreme-right splinter groups got swallowed by this sudden "DDRAP," swelling its ranks to second-largest in the provincial assembly. They always sneered at Communists as "reds."
Hofstein knew action was needed. A dangerous idea brewed: kill the "agitator," and it all ends.
Without telling his party, he jury-rigged a bomb and snuck into the DDRAP convention. As the crowd fixated on the agitator's speech, he triggered his planted explosive.
"Die, Falkenrain."
Nothing. Perfect timing, yet...
A mechanical glitch—bomb failed to detonate on cue. And just as Falkenrain shifted position for dramatic effect—
Boom!
The small detonator finally fired—
Kaboom!
No harm to Falkenrain. The bomb blew up alone.
But he wouldn't quit. He'd hidden a pistol for this. Chaos from the blast let him draw and aim at Falkenrain.
"For the workers and people!"
Bang!
Miss. Before a second shot, a bullet pierced his skull.
"That was close. You nearly got badly hurt."
"I'm sorry, Leader. I'll straighten out the Wave Corps."
I wasn't hurt, but they dragged me to the hospital anyway. After the doctor cleared me, party officials bowed in apology.
"Hanfstaengl, thanks for worrying. Straßer, Krichz isn't your subordinate, is he? I'll handle the Wave Corps—stay out of it."
"...Understood."
"And Goebbels—tell him I'm sorry. He'd prepped hard for his speech."
Yes, the bomb terror canceled all remaining speeches and events. This year's year-end convention was a bust.
And finally...
"Falkenrain. Since you've taken the party reins, I'll bow out. I wanted to announce it in a speech before leaving, but no chance now."
"Anton Drexler. If you want, I can keep you as honorary chairman."
"No need. It was born in my lap anyway—treat it well. I'm heading home."
The terror prompted even Anton Drexler's retirement. Petty loss, really. We'd averted worse—call it luck.
As I chatted with officials from my hospital bed, two young men rushed in late: one a top cadre and my closest friend, Yahn Krichz. The other, current editor-in-chief of the Bavarian Workers' Newspaper, Max Amann.
"Heard things went wrong. Does your wife know...?"
"She doesn't, and don't tell her. Unnecessary worry."
"Brother, you okay?"
"Fine, Yahn."
"Investigating the perp delayed us, brother."
Krichz handed me a sheet of paper, eyes blazing with rage.
"Summarized the intel inside. Perp's profile."
"... Bavarian Marxist Party?"
Bavarian Marxist Party
The paper bore one party's name.