My Struggle
February 21, 1924. Bavarian courtroom.
I was sentenced to three years in Landsberg Prison. The seven others tried alongside me were all acquitted and released on the spot. Even I got a conditional release after six months if I paid a bail of two million marks—effectively pardoned for high treason. It was absolution in all but name, a guilty verdict wrapped in forgiveness.
And so I was transferred to Landsberg Prison.
"Never thought it'd turn out like this, brother. Did you really see all this coming?"
"Yahn, I don't know the future. It was a gamble."
"Too risky, brother."
"No— for the nation, this much risk is nothing. I'll pull Germany out of the abyss, Yahn. Whatever it takes, no holds barred."
"That's another reason I respect you, boss."
Krichz shrugged with a wry grin. Unfortunately, our talk couldn't last. Visitation ended right after, and he headed back to the party.
"Herr Falkenrain, this is your solitary cell. We've prepared paper and a pen for journaling, and you can exercise in the yard. A guard will serve as your secretary. Anything you need, just say the word."
"Appreciated."
"No need to act like you're in a dungeon. The warden and I are both fans. Can't believe you're paying for what you did for Germany... but we'll do everything we can within our power."
The guard who escorted me said that, then quietly left. Solitary cell? It was better than the attic Catalina and I first shared—practically hotel quality.
"Even the bed's softer than mine..."
Thinking back, even after moving once, I'd never paid much mind to my living conditions. To me, this Germany was like boot camp. A place to endure discomfort. Not my daily life, not my home. With South Korea waiting as my real homeland, life here wasn't precious.
Maybe that's why. I swept back the plush white sheets and sighed deeply.
"I've lived longer as a German than as a Korean now..."
Bitter, but I steeled myself. This was the real start. Everything before? Just the prologue.
What did I need to do to make Germany victorious? Run through the mud as a grunt? Lead a handful of men in operations? No.
To save Germany, I had to become Germany. And to do that, I needed to wield the nation like an extension of myself.
I summoned the guard who'd be my secretary and requested a typewriter and ink. And someone to take dictation.
"It's been a while, Chairman."
"Amann. Too long. How's DDRAP faring?"
Max Amann, editor of the Bavarian Workers' Newspaper and now a propaganda chief in DDRAP. Prisons don't usually allow private outsiders, but the warden made exceptions. As long as I stayed inside, I could meet freely—even Catalina.
"Strasser’s acting chairman. Ludendorff's still in but skips meetings—worrisome. Otherwise, solid."
"Good enough."
"Oh, more good news: Our Third Reich German Workers' Party officially registered candidates for parliament."
"Faster than expected. Thought they'd renege, but they kept their word."
"They know what happens if they don't. You're the most famous man in Germany now. That courtroom speech and march boycott? Massive ripple effect."
"Too easy. Almost scary."
"All thanks to the momentum you built. The whole country's chanting your name. Overnight star."
I nodded at Amann's words. This put me in the spotlight, but not as a true leader. Hitler had faced the same crossroads here—from star to leader.
"Amann, I need your help. While I'm locked up, I'm writing an autobiography. Could use assistance."
"Autobiography?"
"Title... My Struggle."
Yes. Hitler's turning point: Mein Kampf. The mad tome that drove a nation into fascist frenzy, packed with his insanity. Now, I'd write it in my words.
"Understood. Anything I can do."
And so I began My Struggle.
Tap—clack—tap-tap—
The typewriter echoed softly in my cell. When it paused, I'd dictate again.
"My boyhood in one word: a fool who romanticized war. Maybe the ancient Prussian Junker blood ran too strong. But after experiencing it, I stopped calling myself a Junker. Ah, Amann—delete that whole bit."
I'd spit out lines, revise, scrap. Good thing I'd practiced my prose beforehand. Otherwise, it'd be a disaster. Without practice, I wouldn't have spotted the weirdness.
"Wrong order. Restart. Even before the war, I doubted the Junker bloodline. Nobility meant nothing. Those who bled for me, braver, tougher, more patriotic, more sacrificial—they weren't Junkers. Just Germans. From that day, I shed the label."
Clack—tap—
"As part of that, I launched the newspaper Junker's Defecation, distributing it to my devoted subordinates and company. War was hell, but my life's brightest moment. Far from the romance I'd imagined, yet thrilling to contribute to Germany's victory."
Tap—clack—ding!
"Germany needs this national vitality. With a vibrant people, what can't we do? I want the German people to rise again, vigorous..."
Clack—ding!
"The world brims with hate. But without proper targets, it turns inward—tragic. I hope..."
Ding!
"To change the world, we need unwavering, nonpartisan unity from the German people. It doesn't have to be me. I just yearn to see a unified German Empire—the Third German Reich."
Ding!
"I don't want to be emperor. Or rule anyone. That's not my role. I just want to help Germans. Jews, non-Jews, south, north, women, men. Help them all. Germans are made to help themselves. That's the myth of the living German people."
And so, a My Struggle utterly unlike Hitler's took shape.
April 11, 1924. My Struggle draft complete.
May 1, 1924. Received the first edition print.
Not officially released yet.
May 19, 1924. My Struggle hits bookstores nationwide. Priced cheap—anyone with will could buy and read.
And nine days later, May 28. The Dawes Plan—called "Dosan" here—passed faster than in my timeline. With U.S. loans, Germany staved off hyperinflation.
May 30, 1924. Amann suddenly stepped down for "health reasons," handing off to his successor.
I knew him well: Rudolf Hess.
Originally under Yahn Krichz, he'd proven loyalty to me and risen fast. Now he'd handle my letters and papers in Amann's place.
"Sharp kid... but a bit dim too. Hess, you into any... substances?"
"No, sir. Wouldn't dream of it."
"Right... sure?"
"Yes. No need to suspect."
"Just... don't go flying to Britain, crash-landing, and getting arrested, yeah?"
"What're you talking about, Chairman?"
Rudolf Hess—exactly as I remembered. No changes.
Is the butterfly effect even real?
At this point, with Hess, Amann, Hanfstaengl, Ludendorff, Goebbels all twisted my way... maybe I'd just get a Jew-hate-free dark Nazis. Who knows.