Chapter 5: Banknotes and Waste Paper
The murder of a police officer in Berlin remained in the headlines for only two days.
That alone was enough to show what kind of city Berlin had become.
Its citizens were already numb to chaos. Between the endless street demonstrations, the political clashes, and the daily unrest that had become as common as the cold wind, the death of a police officer, especially one wrapped in the tired excuse of a lovers' quarrel, was hardly worth prolonged attention.
For the public, Shiloh's value had ended the moment he was buried.
For the City Police, however, his death became something far more useful.
It became the perfect excuse to squeeze the gangs harder than ever before.
That Christmas, the homes of City Police officers all across Berlin had something extra on their tables: fragrant roast goose, golden and glistening under candlelight.
Roman had managed to satisfy almost everyone.
Everyone except Shiloh, who was already underground, and the two trusted subordinates who had been dealt with afterward.
Outside the office of the Director of the City Police Department, the white nameplate had quietly changed.
Shiloh Ensi was gone.
In its place was a new name.
Jörg von Roman.
The black leather chair behind the desk had likewise found a new master.
Beneath the shadow of the double headed eagle, Roman sat with appointment papers spread before him, examining every line with meticulous care. A cup of hot tea stood at his left, steam curling upward in pale white strands. Beside the desk, Cardolan stood respectfully with lowered posture, reporting in a calm voice.
"Master, everything you requested has been prepared. The gangs have also begun making contact with the Trotskyists, just as you instructed. They are already providing support."
As he spoke, a stack of land deeds lay neatly arranged across the desk.
In addition to Roman's original assets, there were three shops that had been extorted from the gangs, along with two farms bought using almost all of his available cash.
At this point, Roman could almost be described as penniless.
Every Mark he had possessed had already been converted into fixed assets.
Just as he had predicted, as long as the arrangements were clean enough, nobody cared very much about whether a branch director of the City Police lived or died. The municipal investigation team had come, asked a few routine questions, and then sent over the appointment papers.
What they cared about was stability.
Nothing more.
A personal revenge killing was not enough to attract real attention.
If Shiloh had been assassinated by some radical faction or insurgent group, then even if it were Christmas Day, the streets would still be crawling with army patrols, and Wilhelmstrasse would likely already be under martial control.
The Kapp Putsch was still too recent. No one in power would joke about threats to state authority while the memory remained fresh.
"Have you spoken with the banks?" Roman asked.
His fingers brushed lightly over the land deeds, almost as if he were caressing a chest of priceless treasures that had yet to be opened.
The position of City Police Director looked impressive enough on paper, but to Roman, that office was only a step.
What he truly wanted was a firm grip over both politics and force.
Entering the army now only required the right opportunity, the right wave of history to push him forward.
As for political parties, joining one would be easy. Too easy. And because it was easy, it also meant allowing himself to be controlled by others.
That was not what Roman wanted.
What he wanted was his own political organization, a party built from the ground up under his absolute control.
Just as Hindenburg had the support of the right wing, Roman intended to cultivate a force of his own.
A Progress Party.
Even if it began as nothing more than a fragile sapling, he was certain he could one day raise it into a towering tree.
Of course, all of that depended on two things.
Money.
And an assistant with a first rate gift for propaganda.
And in all of Germany, there was one throat made for such work.
Roman's lips curved into a faint smile.
He stirred the tea in his cup with a silver spoon, the soft clink of metal against porcelain sounding almost delicate in the stillness of the office. In his mind, he could already glimpse the outline of the party he intended to build.
"Yes," Cardolan replied. "I contacted them all. The Jewish banks and the major German banks are all asking when you'll meet them to discuss mortgage terms. But… Master…"
He hesitated.
"Do we truly have to mortgage all of our assets?"
The concern in his voice was genuine.
In Cardolan's mind, banks were monsters that swallowed men whole, especially the Jewish financial houses, whose interest rates were infamous for their cruelty. He did not fully understand what Roman intended to accomplish, but the thought of placing everything into the jaws of bankers filled him with unease.
Roman did not answer immediately.
Instead, he looked up and asked, "Cardolan, have you read this year's papers? What is the current exchange rate between the Papiermark and the American dollar?"
Cardolan blinked, unsure why the question mattered, but answered at once.
"One American dollar now exchanges for one hundred and sixty Papiermarks."
Though not highly educated, his memory was exceptional.
Roman nodded.
"In 1920, that figure was sixty five."
He paused, then continued in the same calm tone.
"And what does that tell you? It tells you that the currency in our hands is losing value without pause, while the volume of Papiermark in circulation keeps rising."
His gaze drifted toward Cardolan's face.
He wanted to see how far this loyal subordinate of his could go. Whether the man's usefulness ended with obedience, or whether there was more to be drawn out of him.
Cardolan furrowed his brow.
He had already caught a fragment of the meaning, but uncertainty still lingered in his expression.
"That is normal, isn't it, Master?" he asked slowly. "The war just ended, and there's the debt imposed by the Treaty of Versailles. A weakening currency should be… a very normal thing."
The moment the words left his mouth, however, something seemed to click into place.
The confusion in his eyes vanished, replaced by stunned disbelief.
He stared at Roman and asked in a hurried voice, as if he could barely trust the conclusion forming in his own mind.
"Master… are you saying the government may deliberately print a massive amount of currency?"
Roman rose from his chair.
"Not may," he said. "Will."
He walked toward the window as he spoke.
"The Weimar Republic, in the end, exists to serve a small class of Junker nobles, merchants, and large landowners. If they wanted to address postwar debt honestly, they would have to increase revenue and reduce spending."
He stopped by the glass and looked out into the snowy street below.
"But that would mean offending the interests of those very people. And if they want to pay enormous reparations without touching the privileges of the Junker class, then there is only one convenient path left."
His eyes settled on a fruit seller still standing on the street corner despite the freezing night, trying to make a few more sales before returning home.
Roman's expression did not change, but there was something heavy in his voice when he spoke again.
"By doing this, they can wipe away prewar national debt with one hand, and satisfy France's demands for reparations with the other."
He looked at the ordinary Berliners moving through the snow.
"And the ones who will pay the price for all of it… are the common people of Germany."
Cardolan listened in silence.
The reverence in his eyes deepened with every word.
This time, it was no longer the reverence of a servant grateful for kindness. It was the instinctive admiration a man feels when standing before someone whose vision exceeds his own understanding.
At last, he exhaled slowly.
"I understand now." His voice carried genuine awe. "No wonder you want to borrow so much money. Once the currency collapses and banknotes become little more than waste paper, the principal and interest on those loans will amount to almost nothing."
Roman turned back and gave a small nod.
"Exactly."
Then his tone sharpened.
"So ten banks are still too few. Continue borrowing. Ideally, mortgage one shop to ten different banks if you can manage it. Don't hesitate. Use the money immediately. Acquire the company shares on the list, arable land, and more farms as quickly as possible."
His voice grew firmer.
"And above all, buy enough food."
"Do not care about the money," he said. "Money without credit is just a pile of waste paper. Assets and the means of production, those are real wealth."
Cardolan's eyes lit up instantly.
At that moment, he saw it clearly.
The future revival of the Roman family was standing right in front of him.
The Master before him was no longer the same man he had once known.
But whether Roman had been touched by a demon or blessed by an angel, Cardolan no longer cared.
As long as he was still his Master, that was enough.
"Yes, Master," he said at once. "Then should we establish a company specifically to handle and coordinate all these operations? Would you like it to bear your name?"
Roman shook his head without hesitation.
He had no intention of becoming a businessman.
Germany would not be saved through commerce alone.
To save Germany, one had to seize power and govern.
"No. Use your name instead," Roman said. "Call it the Cardolan Investment Company. From this day onward, you will manage it. I only want the shares."
He paused, then added, almost casually:
"Oh, and Cardolan, help me find someone."
The trust in those words struck Cardolan harder than any praise could have.
The corners of his lips lifted despite himself. He quickly suppressed the smile, but the excitement in his chest was impossible to hide.
"What is his name, Master?"
Roman gave a light chuckle, as if the answer amused him.
After a moment's thought, he said:
"His name is Paul."