Chapter 62: My Germany
"They intend to unveil it during this year's Nobel Peace Prize ceremony. If my calculations are correct, it will be before Christmas. Mr. Dawes has also invited you and Herr Mandor, the Minister of Commerce, to attend the ceremony in Norway."
"I did not accept immediately. Master, do you wish to go?"
Cardolan refilled the teacup with practiced care.
Although he had now become the financial steward of nearly all Germany, and in Berlin was already known as the formidable Mr. Cardolan, in front of Jörg, in front of his master, he was still the same private butler who would stand vigil at his bedside and run errands without complaint.
If one day the master were to reclaim everything and ask him to return to being nothing more than his butler, Cardolan would not feel the slightest grievance. On the contrary, he would consider it an honor.
Jörg took a sip of the red tea.
The delicate fragrance slid down his throat and into his chest, carrying with it the distinct aroma of the East.
Noticing the faint satisfaction in his expression, Cardolan hid a smile deep in his heart.
This tea had been purchased at a steep price from a teashop. It was said to come from the mother tree of red tea. The cost had been outrageous, but so long as the master liked it, the money meant nothing.
"The Nobel Peace Prize?"
Jörg's lips curved upward in spite of himself.
This was perhaps the most aptly named Nobel Peace Prize in history. After all, Dawes Stock really was doing its part to preserve world peace.
"Of course I'll go," he said calmly. "I also need to make another trip to Soviet Russia. It is on the way."
He set down the cup, wiped the remaining moisture from the corner of his mouth, and rose to his feet.
The river before the manor shimmered under the sun. A few perch broke the surface now and then, throwing up quick flashes of silver, a vivid contrast to the frost and iron cold of winter not long ago.
"Uncle Jörg, can I go fishing?"
Little Guderian had long since lost the shyness he showed when they first met. His face was still boyish, but the outline of the man he would one day become was already visible, and over the past year he had grown noticeably taller.
He already looked like a youth.
"Of course you can."
Led by two maids, the delighted boy dashed toward the riverbank with a fishing net in hand.
Watching his son so happy, Guderian turned back. The warmth on his face vanished, replaced by instinctive respect.
"Do you have orders, Herr Colonel?"
Guderian had always been strict about separating private feeling from official duty. He was not one of those hidebound conservatives who buried themselves in sand tables and yellowing manuals, mistaking stale doctrine for wisdom.
Ever since he began following Jörg, he had increasingly come to understand one truth.
Military affairs could never be separated from politics.
And success in politics and economics meant the army would soon undergo massive, thorough change.
If Jörg had summoned him at such a time, then something significant was about to happen.
Seeing the fire in Guderian's eyes, Jörg smiled faintly.
"You're excited," he said, half in jest.
"Of course I am, sir." Guderian answered without hesitation. "There was a time when I thought Germany had already fallen into hell, and that the Reichswehr would follow it into the grave. But now I see a steel rope hanging down into the abyss, leading back toward dignity, toward freedom of action. We have finally begun to climb."
The words came from the depths of his heart.
He had seen many gifted men in his life.
But a genius who combined diplomacy, politics, and military vision in one person, there was only one, and that was the young black eagle standing before him in a tailored suit.
"Yes," Jörg said softly. "It is time to climb out of hell."
Then his expression changed.
"But you got one thing wrong. We have not yet taken the first step."
He watched little Guderian kneeling happily by the riverbank and continued in an even tone,
"History makes one thing very clear. Revolutions are never bloodless. The Paris Commune. Chancellor Bismarck's iron and blood reforms. Every one of them proves the same truth. If progress is to be forced into existence, someone else's heart must be cut out first. Someone else's beliefs, maintained for half a lifetime, must be broken."
He lit a cigarette.
Smoke drifted upward as he looked at the white clouds moving across the sky.
"And nowhere is that truer than in the army."
His tone, casual only moments earlier, became grave.
"Suppose, and I do mean suppose, Guderian, that reform within the Reichswehr meets fierce resistance. Suppose even Herr von Seeckt refuses to stand with us when the crucial moment comes."
He turned and looked directly at him.
"Will you still stand with me?"
Guderian snapped to attention without the slightest hesitation. He raised his hand in salute.
"Your command is my direction, sir."
Jörg exhaled slowly, then his expression eased.
"Is the list finished?"
"It is, sir."
He drew out the document Jörg had requested.
Behind every name was a notation describing the officer's political instincts. Some were self descriptions, others were Guderian's own observations based on conduct, conversation, and temperament.
Jörg flipped through the pages one by one.
Then a particular name caught his eye.
Erwin Rommel.
If memory served him correctly, Rommel should still have been serving in Stuttgart as a company commander in 1924. There was no obvious reason for him to appear on the First Armored Division's internal list.
Guderian seemed to sense the question before it was asked.
"As armor doctrine developed, I considered it necessary to retain a small number of infantry commanders with real field leadership. After comparing records and personal reports, only Rommel openly affirmed the feasibility of our tactical concepts. He also expressed sympathy for the political direction you have laid out."
Guderian's voice became firmer.
"I believe his inclusion in the academy would benefit not only the Reichswehr, but Germany itself."
Jörg said nothing at first.
His eagle sharp eyes scanned the brief remarks written beside Rommel's name. Guderian, misunderstanding the silence, thought he had perhaps overstepped and was about to apologize.
Then Jörg laughed quietly.
The tension broke at once.
He closed the file, uncapped his pen, and marked a small check beside Rommel's name.
"Is he already in the First Armored Division?"
"No, sir."
Guderian tucked the papers back into the inner lining of his black uniform.
"Then go to Stuttgart and bring him to me."
The instruction came so abruptly that Guderian needed a moment to process it. Transferring a company commander across military districts was no small matter. He was already running through possible obstacles in his mind when the ringing of the telephone nearby broke in and dispelled his concern.
Jörg gestured to a servant, picked up the receiver, and said evenly,
"This is Jörg von Roman. Put me through to Herr von Seeckt."
...
At the same time, in Moscow, Stalin had just finished a meeting with Zinoviev and Kamenev.
If all went according to plan, the chaos that had gripped the Soviet state for nearly half a year after Lenin's death would finally come to an end before Christmas.
He had made promises. He had spoken many words.
But in the end, there was only one fact that mattered.
He had won.
Trotsky was about to be swept into the dustbin of Soviet history.
At the thought, Stalin could not help recalling that German viper who had once insisted on meeting Lenin. To be honest, events had advanced so smoothly that even he had to admit one thing.
Without that young man named Jörg, his victory would have been far more troublesome.
He wondered how matters stood in Germany now. The payments for the military academy and weapons research center had been delayed for long enough.
"Comrade Stalin, this is the latest report from Germany."
He lit his pipe, accepted the report from his secretary, and after skimming the contents, smiled and shook his head.
"Dawes Stock," he murmured. "Quite a little scheme indeed."
.....
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