Interwar Period – Sudetenland Crisis (2)

May 8, 1938 — Hjalmar Schacht’s Mansion, Berlin, Northern Germany

"Dietrich, my son, come in."

"Mother, how have you been?"

I greeted my "mother," Luise Sowa, kindly.

To be honest, at first I didn’t realize how young she was, and it took some effort to get used to that dynamic. But it was rewarding in its own way—to see how "he," who had once been a fool and a disgrace, now treated her with warmth and respect. And she responded to it.

But today wasn’t just a social call.

There were a few things I’d managed to do better than the real Dietrich, but I never lost sight of the original mission.

I swallowed hard, feeling the weight of the invitation tucked in the inner pocket of my jacket.

Leutnant Colonel Tresckow—whatever his opinion of me was—likely understood that the real value lay not with me, but with my father, Hjalmar Schacht. The von Kleist group, those 'high society' conspirators, were probably more interested in him than in me.

If I couldn’t bring him to the table, I’d lose all strategic worth in their eyes.

My father, Hjalmar Schacht, was a seasoned businessman, eloquent and brilliant. Even Roland Freisler—the so-called "Blood Judge" who screamed obscenities at defendants—had been rendered speechless in court by him.

Schacht had walked out of the war crimes trials with acquittal, proud and defiant to the end.

In the original timeline, I knew he’d eventually side with the anti-Nazi resistance. I didn’t know who had convinced him, but now, in this altered reality, that task fell to me.

I wasn’t a good person. But I could try to be useful.

While visiting home from the War College, I made small talk with my overjoyed mother on that quiet Sunday, but after dinner, I found myself alone with my father.

"What’s going on, Dietrich?"

My father had regained his usual cool, intelligent demeanor—so different from the disheveled man I’d first encountered months ago. He gave me a curt glance over his glasses.

"Um… how are you these days…"

I trailed off and mentally kicked myself. What was I even saying to a man who had essentially been fired and left with only an honorary title?

Schacht folded the Frankfurter Zeitung, set it aside, and looked at me squarely.

"Do you have something to say? Sit down."

"Yes..."

I took a seat on the sofa opposite him, sitting stiffly.

"So, what’s on your mind?"

"Have you heard of the von Kleist gathering, Father?"

"Yes."

Well, it wasn’t exactly a secret. In aristocratic circles, it was known as just another high-society salon. It would’ve been odd if he hadn’t heard of it.

"They’ve invited me… and you. I came to ask if you would consider attending."

"Yes."

"...Yes?"

"Aren’t we going together?"

"...Y-yes. That was the plan."

"Then we’ll go."

I was stunned.

In Dietrich’s memories, Schacht had been distant—certainly not supportive. They had no warm history, no heartfelt conversations. Just a frigid, professional relationship marked by mutual disappointment.

"...Excuse me, Father. Do you know what kind of meeting this is?"

"Isn’t it a meeting to rebel against Hitler?"

I nearly jumped out of my seat but caught myself.

How the hell did he know?

"I was invited back when I was still Minister of the Economy."

"Ah…"

So the lines had already been extended to him, even back then.

He paused. His fists slowly clenched, and then he spoke again.

"At the time, I believed Hitler and the Nazis were Germany’s hope. I thought they could lift us out of the humiliation of Versailles… that they’d restore our strength. We were a proud nation, reduced to watching the Ruhr—the heart of our industry—fall into foreign hands."

In some ways, my father had been right. Hitler did rebuild Germany—defeated France, resurrected industry, brought pride to a broken people.

But then he used that trust, that momentum, to lead Germany into destruction.

"So I stood behind him. Put my trust, my friends, even my family aside to support his cause. Looking back… I was a fool."

Hjalmar Schacht had indeed helped Hitler rise. Without him, the Nazi Party—once scorned by industrialists—would never have gained the financial and political clout it needed. Schacht had tamed hyperinflation, stabilized the economy, and even made rearmament economically feasible.

He tapped his fingers on the sofa’s armrest, then spoke in a quieter tone.

"I know what you’ve been up to lately. Luise has improved a lot, thanks to you... I’ll go to the gathering. But I have to tell you one thing."

"...Yes?"

"The German economy is already collapsing. There’s no way to stop inflation unless we cut armament spending immediately. But even if it weren’t Hitler, I doubt the other militarists would consider disarming just to save the economy."

...That was something I’d only vaguely understood, but now it hit harder.

Schacht had resigned because he foresaw this collapse. His rival, Göring, believed he could expand rearmament further—more guns, more planes, endless growth. It had already been six months since then.

Göring, the king of bluster, had promised the impossible. His boasts had even led to the miracle at Dunkirk—but miracles don’t fix economies.

It was now clear: the Nazi regime was running a wartime economy it couldn’t sustain. War wasn’t a choice—it was an inevitability to cover the unsustainable deficit.

"I don’t think very highly of you," Schacht said, looking directly into my eyes. "But I hope you’re not naïve enough to think that blowing away Hitler and the Nazis will solve everything."

"...Haha... yes..."

Last week, I'd seen Claudia, and for a while, I’d been in a good mood.

But now... reality had returned—and with it, a storm of pressure.

May 14, 1938 – East Pomerania, Schmenzin (now Poland, east of Stettin)

The "castle" of Sir Ewald von Kleist-Schmenzin, descended from a traditional noble family in Pomerania, struck me more as a large country manor than anything else.

In this day and age, if you're going to call your home a castle, shouldn't it at least resemble Neuschwanstein in Bavaria?

The French-style châteaux may look elegant, but they're hardly what one pictures when imagining medieval fortresses...

Regardless, reality seldom meets imagination.

The castle’s owner, Sir Ewald von Kleist-Schmenzin, had a name similar to Paul Ludwig Ewald von Kleist, who would become a Field Marshal in the Wehrmacht during World War II. Though from the same family, they were not the same person.

Sir Kleist-Schmenzin was an ardent conservative and monarchist who had been imprisoned more than once for refusing to fly the hakenkreuz over his estate. He was a gentleman with a slightly receding hairline and a well-groomed mustache.

"Thank you for coming, Minister Schacht. Oh, my mistake. I forgot that you are not a minister anymore."

"Thanks for the invitation, Sir Kleist-Schmenzin."

The pointed exchange between my father and our host made me sweat under the collar.

When my father had been in office, he had refused the invitation. Now, after being dismissed, he suddenly decided to come?

"Oh, is this your son?"

"Yes, my son, Dietrich Schacht."

Kleist-Schmenzin turned his gaze to me. I straightened my posture and greeted him as formally as possible.

"It is an honor to meet the head of a noble and knightly house, Sir von Kleist-Schmenzin. I am Captain Dietrich Schacht, serving in the Heer."

"Haha, at least this young man still has manners. Yes, Captain Schacht, I've heard of you. You’ve come a long way — please, make yourself at home."

"Thank you."

Once our host retreated inside to receive other guests, the gathering unfolded like a scene out of a medieval painting.

Gentlemen and ladies dressed in their finest evening attire, chatting and laughing with grace — a perfect picture of high society.

At least outwardly.

In reality, whether military or political, the upper echelons of this era held such gatherings out of obligation more than genuine enjoyment.

Though the Nazis seemed to laugh and mingle freely, I doubted they could risk being too open where marriage alliances and informal loyalties were forged.

These people — who seemed like bored aristocrats playing at tradition — were actually the surviving pillars of Prussian nobility and the higher classes. There was no use disliking them for appearances' sake.

Even senior military officials wouldn't raise an eyebrow at these kinds of events. They were custom, after all.

As I entered the main hall beside my father, a familiar face approached and greeted us.

"Former Minister Schacht, thank you for coming. I am Leutnant Colonel Henning von Tresckow."

"Nice to meet you, Colonel. Hjalmar Schacht."

"How have you been, Colonel?" I added, offering my hand.

Tresckow smiled thinly and leaned closer to whisper.

"Wait a little while. I’ll call you when the others have gathered."

"Understood. Thank you."

"There are many inside you should meet. Until then, enjoy yourself."

He gave a slight bow and walked off.

There was no turning back now.

Troubles were beginning to stack, and yet I had placed one foot into the shadows of this Black Orchestra.

From here on, every step would demand caution.

Yet in spite of all my mental preparation, the reality of what I experienced that evening blindsided me in ways I hadn’t anticipated.

Even though my father was no longer a minister, it seemed I had become a convenient figure in the eyes of the elite.

Perhaps it was because I was the son of a still-influential businessman, one who had served as Minister of the Economy under the Nazi regime and retained his standing. Add to that my own credentials — a young officer, a candidate for the General Staff — and I had apparently become an attractive subject of attention.

Far more nobles than I expected took an interest in me. It felt as though my soul was being picked apart.

Damn it. World War II was almost upon us, and yet I was expected to entertain small talk with old aristocrats — about their bloodlines, their elegant daughters, and the virtues of their families?

Even my own father, Hjalmar Schacht, did nothing to rescue me from becoming a puppet in the tale of his own dismissal.

A man without blood or tears... Had Dietrich really fallen so far?

Fortunately, Leutnant Colonel Tresckow came to my rescue before I was completely drained.

At least, that’s what I thought — until I realized what I was walking into.

I would’ve preferred to faint from exhaustion.

"...I’m very sorry, but in case I misheard you... could you repeat that?"

My voice trembled as I spoke, praying my ears had deceived me.

The men gathered in that room were not merely socialites. Among them stood former Chief of the General Staff Ludwig Beck, his successor Franz Halder, Reserve Infantry Commander Erwin von Witzleben, our host Sir von Kleist-Schmenzin, and others of equal stature.

Colonel Tresckow, pale-faced and stiff, subtly gestured for me to tread carefully. And I understood — this was no place for a mere Captain.

I knew it. But that didn’t stop the disbelief from surging through me.

"Who are you?"

The question came bluntly from Ludwig Beck.

My father sighed, as if this were expected, and answered first.

"My son."

"...I apologize for the rudeness, esteemed General. My name is Captain Dietrich Schacht."

Hearing our exchange, Beck’s expression softened — just a little.

"Ah, the son of former Minister Schacht. Was he the one recommended by that friend of mine? Yes, I remember now."

Relief washed over me — briefly.

Then he spoke again, plunging me back into disbelief.

"We must cooperate with Britain to overthrow the Nazi regime. But in return, we must receive their acknowledgement of our sovereignty over the Sudetenland and Danzig."