"Leader, this is the script I wrote. Please have a look."
The mont work was ntioned, the faint smile on Joseph's face disappeared. He imdiately straightened, opened his bag, and respectfully handed over a thick manuscript.
The cheerful atmosphere of Christmas dinner had long since transford into sothing else entirely.
An annual report.
A review of the year.
A private council disguised as a celebration.
Jörg gave a helpless little shrug, then opened the oilskin wrapped cover. Dense German text imdiately filled his vision. In truth, the story itself was simple enough.
A retired soldier's life collapses after Germany's defeat. After a string of half tragic, half comic incidents, he stumbles into the Progress Party and, from there, finds work, dignity, and a new direction.
Simple, yes.
But simplicity was not the sa thing as weakness.
In Jörg's eyes, the real value of the script did not lie in its plot, but in its timing. In an age when film was still treated primarily as novelty or entertainnt, very few people yet understood what it could beco. A cody that quietly planted ideas, softened resistance, and shaped public emotion without sermonizing was not rely unusual.
It was a weapon.
Still, what interested him even more than the story was Joseph's thod.
Every projected expense had been written down in detail. Certain plot points even had specific notes attached, explaining why they needed more spending, where audiences would respond more strongly, and which emotional beats were critical to preserve.
Jörg closed the pages partway and asked directly,
"What is the budget?"
"Two hundred and fifty thousand U.S. dollars."
At that figure, Jörg simply nodded toward Cardolan.
"If it goes over budget, that's fine. What matters is quality, and the effect of the promotion."
He tapped the manuscript lightly.
"Film is a soldier's rifle. It is one of the most important ideological weapons we can possess."
Joseph blinked.
"Ideological weapon? Leader, your evaluation of film is truly unusual. Most people still think of it as little more than entertainnt."
Jörg shook his head.
"That phrase wasn't mine."
He leaned back in his chair.
"Lenin said it. However flawed that new regi may be, many of the n shaping it are still more forward looking than we like to admit."
At the ntion of Lenin, Joseph's expression shifted subtly.
He had encountered Lenin's ideas before while studying philosophy in Munich, but only in fragnts and mostly through hostile retellings. Soviet émigrés in Germany rarely spoke of the man with warmth. Yet from Jörg's tone, the regard was unmistakably higher than he had expected.
Jörg, for his part, felt a slight ripple pass through his own thoughts.
He was going to Soviet Russia next year.
If matters went well, he would go not rely as an observer but as a negotiator. And sowhere in the back of his mind, there remained that strange question, one both historical and personal:
Would he have a chance to et the man himself?
He put the thought aside and shifted topics.
"Oh, by the way, Joseph. The people I asked you to contact at the Munich Academy of Arts and Design. Is there progress on the new military uniform designs?"
At once, Joseph pulled out his notebook, flipped several pages, and nodded.
"There is. Through my old academic contacts in Munich, and with Hermann's help, I made contact with two designers. One is nad Dibich, the other Joni. Both are very interested in the project."
He allowed himself a small note of satisfaction.
"They even said they would prepare draft designs for us free of charge. No design fee."
He then produced a roll of draft paper and spread it over the empty part of the dining table.
Dark uniforms erged under the light.
Compared with the Reichswehr's present yellow green field dress, these looked almost ceremonial. Solemn, severe, elegant. Less like re clothing and more like a statent of force and state.
Jörg's eyes brightened.
"Excellent."
He looked over the sketches, then added without hesitation,
"As soon as they produce samples, send them to . But rember sothing. A uniform made to be seen is only half a uniform."
He tapped one of the darker designs.
"I also want a uniform made to be worn by soldiers in the field. This one doesn't need to be beautiful. It needs to be practical. Warm. Durable. Resistant to cold."
He glanced up.
"If it looks ugly, that's acceptable. If it freezes n to death, it's worthless."
Joseph imdiately made a note.
"Yes, Leader."
He had only just finished speaking when two large n approached Jörg's side and reported in low voices,
"Sir, your guests have arrived."
Jörg nodded, took the Christmas gift he had already prepared, and walked quickly toward the door.
Little Günther Guderian, who had been peering about curiously from the mont he arrived, imdiately threw himself against Jörg's leg as soon as he saw him.
"rry Christmas, Uncle Jörg!"
"rry Christmas, Günther."
Jörg smiled and handed him the gift box.
"This one is for you."
The nine year old boy took it with visible delight and, under a servant's guidance, ran off imdiately to open it.
Jörg then turned his attention to the adults.
"rry Christmas, Mrs. Margarete. Dinner is ready. If you and Günther are hungry, please go in first. There are no aristocratic formalities in my house."
Then, with a slight smile, he added,
"Though I do hope you won't mind if I borrow your husband for a few minutes."
Margarete opened her own gift box as he spoke.
Inside lay a lady's wristwatch, silver white and elegant under the light.
A genuine surprise flashed across her face, followed by a warm smile.
"Of course not, Mr. Jörg. rry Christmas."
After thanking him, she withdrew with natural grace and allowed a servant to lead her and Günther toward the banquet hall.
Guderian followed Jörg up the spiral staircase and into the innermost study.
Jörg turned on the electric light.
The faint yellow glow revealed the room all at once.
Shelves cramd with military theory books lined the walls. On another side stood maps, notebooks, and marked folders. But what caught Guderian's eye most were the three frad Iron Crosses mounted beside the shelves, and, above them, another frad relic bearing Wilhelm I's personal signature over the na Baron von Roman.
Jörg noticed his gaze.
Looking at the old honors, he shook his head faintly.
"Old things."
His tone was calm.
"Aristocracy is long dead. In Germany, unlike Austria, we still keep the little prefix von, but that is about all that remains."
He turned away from the wall and toward the desk.
"Looking backward has never been my real talent. Better to create the future instead."
With that, he drew a prepared military reform docunt from a drawer and placed it before Guderian.
"Although the governnt has imposed many conditions, they agreed to the basic frawork. After Christmas, a first portion of the funds should be released to the Reichswehr."
He looked directly at Guderian.
"I'll speak with Commander Seeckt personally. Part of the budget will co to the First Division."
Guderian took the docunt at once.
Jörg continued,
"I also need you to prepare a list for . Select officers with real armored aptitude. Intelligent n. n who can learn. n who won't cling to cavalry fantasies or transport doctrine from the last century."
Guderian glanced over the plan, then raised his head.
"And you, Mr. Jörg? What about next year?"
He asked it carefully, but the aning was obvious.
Jörg saw at once that he had been misunderstood. He stepped closer and gave Guderian a light pat on the shoulder. Though he was significantly younger, there was a steadiness in him that made the gesture feel less like familiarity and more like command.
"What are you imagining?"
He smiled faintly.
"I'm going to Soviet Russia next year. If all goes well, we'll establish our own armored academy and air academy in the north. That is one of the central stakes in all this."
Then his tone sharpened, grew firr.
"While I'm away, you will act as commander of the First Division."
For a second, Guderian thought he had misheard.
Jörg did not give him ti to ask.
"Help make the First Armored Division worthy of its na."
He leaned one hand on the desk.
"I don't just want 'first' as a number in a title. I want it to an first in Germany. First in Europe. First in the world."
The trust in those words was so direct that Guderian's back straightened instinctively. He ca to attention and saluted.
"I will not fail you, sir!"
Yet even as he said it, another thought lingered in his heart.
Compared with military reform, what unsettled him more was the phrase Jörg had used, one of the central stakes.
A patron like Jörg, brilliant, daring, unpretentious, willing to learn, and even more willing to delegate authority, was not the kind of man one found twice in life. This was not rely an opportunity.
It might be the opportunity.
Jörg caught the concern in his eyes almost imdiately.
He chose not to answer it with solemnity.
Instead, he smiled and deliberately lightened the room.
"What, you don't trust ? You think I'm going to lose?"
He gave a quiet, amused shake of the head.
"Don't worry. Naz also thought he could suppress . He thought he could block reform, smother the First Division, and bury the future along with it."
His eyes glead under the study lamp.
"And yet, in the end, I'm still the one standing here with the First Division."
.....
[If you don't want to wait for the next update, read 10–50 chapters ahead on P@treon.]
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