Chapter 144: Bird in a Cage
Of course, relying solely on the banner of the "Yellow Peril" was not enough.
Anti-Polish, anti-Spanish, and hostility toward every non-German ethnic group had to advance at the same time.
And in Berlin, there was only one street that perfectly fit his requirements.
Kant Street.
The avenue stood far from the city center. Most of those living there were East Asians and West African laborers, while the far end of the street connected directly to the Scandinavian immigrant quarter.
The nearest police station was a full five kilometers away.
It was an ideal target.
Thinking of this, Hill made his decision.
As for being arrested, he was not worried at all. On the contrary, he was even looking forward to a clash with the police.
If that happened, then in the eyes of his supporters and the wider public, the Workers Party would appear to be fighting to expel foreign immigrants and create jobs for Germans, only to be violently suppressed by the police.
That would allow the Workers Party to present itself as a beacon of the nation.
At the same time, it would marginalize the Progress Party. The public would begin to believe that the police were traitors who protected foreigners rather than Germans, indirectly weakening trust in the Progress Party itself.
Of course, while such a method could be used against immigrants, breaking into the residence of the Minister of Foreign Affairs for an extreme demonstration required far more control.
There absolutely could not be bloodshed there.
Therefore, the two operations naturally had to be handled by two different groups.
After considering it carefully, Hill decided to entrust the operation on the immigrant street to Rommel's Brownshirts, while the infiltration of the Foreign Minister's residence would be handed to Hermann's Youth League.
Compared to Rommel, Hermann, his old comrade who had followed him since the Beer Hall Putsch, was clearly more trustworthy.
With that thought settled, Hill picked up the telephone.
On the other side of the city, Hermann, dressed in his party uniform, sat in the passenger seat of a car and gestured for the driver to stop outside an Italian restaurant.
The car halted smoothly.
The driver, long used to this routine, stepped out and opened the door for him. He had been Hermann's driver for almost two years, and his employer came to this Italian restaurant nearly every week, always alone.
At first, the driver had been puzzled.
But after all, it was an Italian restaurant.
Eventually, he thought he understood.
Hermann pushed open the door, went upstairs to the second floor, and entered a small private room near the storage room with practiced familiarity.
A young man dressed as a waiter saw him arrive and immediately asked, "Is there news?"
Hermann nodded and took several photographs from the inner pocket of his uniform.
"The British spy you asked me to watch finally appeared. This time, Hill personally received him. This evidence should be enough to convict him, shouldn't it? I don't want to live another day like this, always afraid of my own shadow."
Hermann spoke from the heart.
The feeling of betrayal made him despise himself.
Once this operation ended and Jörg's favor had been repaid, he would never return to Berlin.
Karin had already chosen a house in East Prussia. With their savings from the past few years, the two of them would have enough to live comfortably for the rest of their lives.
In his earlier years, Hermann's ambition had burned fiercely. He had wanted to achieve something great, to carve his name into the age.
But after narrowly escaping death in a gunfight, and after being manipulated by Jörg into becoming the greatest traitor within the Workers Party, he finally understood something.
This era did not need heroes.
Jörg was like the sun, looking down upon all things equally. One moth after another, drunk on power and ambition, flew toward that light and vanished into the flames.
Now, Hermann desired only stability.
Peace.
A life without fear.
"Oh, and Hill asked me to break into the Minister of Foreign Affairs's residence," Hermann added. "Should I do it?"
"Relax, Mr. Hermann. This will definitely be your final mission."
The waiter flipped through the photographs, put them away, and continued giving instructions.
"Do it. To prevent other extremist forces from retaliating after your retirement, the Internal and External Intelligence Department has prepared a perfect curtain call for you."
"At that time, we will eliminate everyone involved. Hermann will also die in the exchange of gunfire, and his wife Karin will commit suicide out of love."
The waiter then took several documents from his briefcase.
"At the same time, a wealthy German businessman and his wife will begin a new life in East Prussia."
The documents included a driver's license, passport, and all necessary identity papers. Even Karin's false identity had already been prepared.
"Thank you."
Taking the documents, Hermann let out a long breath.
"Do not thank me, Mr. Hermann. You should thank the Leader, and be glad you seized this opportunity."
The waiter's voice lowered as he watched Hermann prepare to leave.
"It is far harder to leave the chessboard than to step onto it."
Meanwhile, in Hamburg, inside the workers' shantytown near the coal mining district, a German-Russian man in a thick overcoat and scarf walked through a residential area heavy with the smell of sweat, damp clothing, and unwashed feet.
He headed toward a small lounge lit by a chandelier.
Thälmann of the German Communist Party, wearing worker's clothes and a black felt hat, was about to step forward and shake his hand, but several other high-ranking members of the party beat him to it.
"You must be the newly assigned comrade. I am Bilf Rahr. I am mainly responsible for propaganda work within the German Communist Party. Previously, I worked for Pravda."
"I am…"
Thälmann watched the scene helplessly.
These people had all been directly dispatched from Moscow.
Ever since his trusted comrade Viktor had been expelled from the party by Stalin over a corruption scandal, Thälmann's actual authority had been weakened almost to nothing.
His autonomy had been stripped away, and every important position had been filled by personnel reinforced by Soviet Russia.
He still approved of some policies proposed by the Progress Party.
But there was nothing he could do.
The German Communist Party had to obey Moscow's orders, especially after relations between Soviet Russia and Germany became tense.
Their friction with the Progress Party had also begun to increase.
But this was not the result Thälmann wanted.
"You must be Comrade Thälmann?"
The German-Russian man looked at him and smiled.
"I am Sika Monoachi. Considering the turbulence in German politics, Moscow believes this is an excellent opportunity to expand our supporters and seize political rights."
He did not waste time on pleasantries.
"Therefore, I have come to assign you the following tasks. Mobilize supporters in universities across Germany, using opposition to Jörg von Roman's dictatorship and opposition to the Progress Party as slogans."
"At the same time, mobilize the coal miners to strike and exert pressure."
Thälmann frowned.
"But Mr. Sika, Germany's economic situation is very poor right now. If we organize a strike, the coal miners may lose their jobs. They all have families. This… is not appropriate."
"This is a necessary sacrifice, Thälmann."
Sika's tone was cold.
"Not only Germany must make sacrifices. There are also sacrifices within Soviet Russia. Many people in Ukraine are hungry, but they have still selflessly donated grain to support industrialization."
He stared at Thälmann.
"Can Germany not make sacrifices?"
As soon as those words were spoken, the others began echoing the special envoy one after another. Their remarks subtly criticized Thälmann's weakness, his hesitation, and his lack of revolutionary resolve.
Under such pressure, Thälmann had no choice but to lower his head and admit his mistake.
He was clearly the leader of the German Communist Party.
Yet at this moment, he felt like a bird trapped inside a cage, able only to look at the world through the bars, stripped of all freedom and autonomy.
For a moment, Thälmann even felt a faint disorientation.
Was this truly a German party?
Or was it merely a Soviet Russian party wearing a German coat?
.....
[If you don't want to wait for the next update, read 50 chapters ahead on P@treon.]
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