Chapter 6: Loans
Wilhelmstrasse.
A pitch black Mercedes glided through the snow and came to a slow, steady stop before the mansion at No. 73.
A few moments later, a guard in a brown overcoat stepped forward and opened the rear door. Hans Bogg, dressed in a light gray suit and wearing black rimmed glasses, stepped out onto the freshly swept snow.
His secretary quickly circled to the other side, handed him a thin file, and lowered his voice.
"Mr. Mayor, would you like to extend your congratulations to Jörg von Roman in a private capacity?"
Bogg pulled the pen clipped to his suit, signed his name on the document titled Strengthening Berlin's Public Security, and paused to think.
In the end, he gave a small nod.
The Junker circle was only so large.
Although the Roman family was nearly ruined, certain courtesies could not be omitted. No one could say whether Jörg von Roman might, through some stroke of luck, catch the eye of an important figure and rise again.
"I remember Roger von Roman's military medal is still being kept at the Soldiers' Administration Center," Bogg said. "Have that medal sent over together with this document and my personal regards. Tell Jörg that I remain deeply moved by his father's heroic service in defense of the nation."
With that, he adjusted his collar and used a square handkerchief to wipe the snowflakes from his brow, making himself look as composed and presentable as possible.
In more than ninety percent of Germany, the title of Mayor of Berlin was enough to let him ignore such details.
But the brilliantly lit palace before him clearly belonged to the other ten percent.
Because this was No. 73 Wilhelmstrasse.
The Presidential Palace.
The very center of power in the Weimar Republic.
The Ministry of Economics stood less than five hundred meters away, and the nearest rapid response army force could arrive in under five minutes once mobilized.
"Merry Christmas, Bogg."
The moment the doors opened, warmth from the burning fireplaces flowed over him through the edges of his coat. President Albert's secretary extended a hand and gestured inward.
There was no Christmas tree in the middle of the hall.
Only a few sparse decorations and a lone Merry Christmas sign gave the place even the faintest trace of holiday spirit.
Following the secretary upstairs, Bogg soon caught the thick scent of tobacco in the open office. The room was brightly lit, and every face around the mahogany round table could be seen clearly.
Of course, he was not qualified to sit there.
A seat for observers had already been placed nearby. That was where he belonged.
At the head of the table, President Albert, a mustached man with a weary face, listened to the report from the Ministry of Economics with visible concern.
"Next year, we must pay more than five hundred million Papiermark in reparations to the United States, Britain, and France," the official said. "And that does not include the industrial goods France is still demanding as compensation."
Albert extinguished his cigarette in the ashtray.
"What about domestic obligations?"
As the first president of the Weimar Republic, Albert was disliked by both the left and the right.
Those two camps, which usually fought each other with almost religious hatred, managed to reach rare agreement when speaking of him. One side called him a traitor to the revolution, the other a traitor to the nation.
After all, he was the first politician in German history to both suppress the Hamburg workers' uprising by force and put a stop to the right wing Kapp Putsch.
But in Albert's own view, ideological disputes and factional quarrels were often nothing more than empty noise. He believed in practical governance. And because the Junkers still controlled most of the wealth and the army, what they needed was precisely a neutral president who could preserve stability.
That, more than anything, was why no one had yet removed him.
"The unions have repeatedly urged the government to open the exchange of national bonds," the economics official continued. "Combined with the subsequent burden of army pensions and other domestic expenditures…"
He trailed off for a moment.
His eyes swept over the several men with "von" in their names standing proudly at the back of the room. In the end, he did not dare read out the horrifying figure that followed.
"Is there a solution?" Albert asked.
The official hesitated, then slowly shook his head.
There was certainly a solution.
There always was.
Germany could push through economic reform, expand production, and redistribute the burden.
But the many "Mr. vons" of Germany were an obstacle that could not be avoided.
In plain language, it meant forcing the large landowners and aristocratic class, above all the Junkers, to pay.
But how could that ever happen?
Those people would sooner replace the president himself than allow anyone to touch the interests of their little circle.
"Since there is no money, then the answer is simple," said Mond Lohan, the representative of Jewish capital, who had remained silent until now. "Print more."
Albert's aide frowned at once.
"But printing money without restraint would exhaust national credit. The French are not fools. If they realize we are paying them in little more than waste paper, they are very likely to send troops into the Ruhr. And once inflation begins…"
Before he could finish, Lohan, wearing a gold rimmed monocle, cut him off directly.
"There is no point talking about inflation right now. The problem before us is the present, not the future." He folded his hands calmly. "As for France sending troops into the Ruhr, let them. At worst, we order a nationwide strike."
He gave a thin smile.
"Let the French smelt their own steel."
Silence descended over the room.
The men around the table exchanged glances, then one by one turned their eyes toward President Albert.
"Is there truly no other way?" Albert asked, still sounding as if he wanted someone else to speak.
But his father had been a saddler.
The fathers of the men around him had been Junkers, merchants, ministers, and financiers.
Naturally, they would only ever think from the perspective of their class. Even if the proposal came from a Jew they looked down upon, as long as it protected their interests, they were perfectly willing to accept it this once.
Their silence was answer enough.
Was there another choice?
No.
"Very well," Albert said at last. "Then we will do it that way."
He paused, then added, "But the matter of women's suffrage should not be delayed much longer. What do you think, Mr. Lohan?"
Lohan understood at once that this was an exchange of interests.
In return for protecting the structure that kept wealth and land in the same hands, some political concession had to be made elsewhere.
He nodded without hesitation.
"Of course. I support every German woman in her lawful pursuit of her rights."
"Good," Albert said. "Then this meeting is adjourned."
The chairs began to move. Men rose from the table and gathered their papers.
Then Albert suddenly looked past them.
"Oh, Bogg. Stay a moment."
Bogg, who had just begun to step away, stopped at once. Under the curious looks of those leaving the room, he straightened and asked respectfully,
"Mr. President, is there something you require of me?"
Albert leaned back in his chair, worry still faintly visible in his face.
"I heard the newly appointed director of Berlin's Public Security Department was murdered. Was there any involvement from political extremists or infiltrated organizations?"
The shadow of the Kapp Putsch had clearly never left him.
Bogg replied at once, "No. I already sent an investigative team. It was entirely a crime of passion stemming from the former Public Security Director's private affairs. The new director assumed office within a week of the incident."
Albert's brows relaxed slightly.
"And who is the new Public Security Director?"
Bogg answered, "He is Jörg von Roman, a former Junker."
…
At the same time, elsewhere in Berlin, Jörg von Roman signed the last stack of contracts.
With that, he officially mortgaged all of his assets to thirty banks and exchanged them for nearly ten million Papiermark, repayable over two years at an annual interest rate of one hundred percent.
To any ordinary man, the terms were ruinous.
To Roman, they were merely the price of arriving first.
Across the desk, the Jewish bank manager all but glowed with satisfaction, convinced he had just concluded a transaction of extraordinary profit. He eagerly extended a hand.
"A pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Roman. I wish you every success in your investments."
Roman smiled, tucked away the check, and took the offered hand.
"The pleasure is mine."