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The Third Reich: The Return of the King
The faces of the workers shifted, many paling with fear as their eyes fell upon the black muzzles of the rifles aimed directly at them.
Mainz let out a quiet breath of relief. At last, the wild frenzy was beginning to cool.
Human beings are creatures of emotion—when roused, they often act without reason, doing things they would never dare attempt in calmer moments.
So it was now. Inflamed by the fiery words of the Bolshevik agitator on the podium, these workers had seemed ready to throw themselves against the German Army without a thought for their lives. And yet, Mainz knew there was only one force that could truly pull them back from the brink: their families.
And just as he expected, the moment he mentioned their wives and children, hesitation took hold. The bright fever in their eyes dulled.
The promises of the Bolshevik were tempting, yes—but they were promises of a future uncertain, a dream not yet real. The soldiers' rifles, however, were very real, the threat immediate and near.
Death they could face—many of these men were not cowards. But to drag their loved ones into ruin? That was another matter entirely.
The thought of their children waiting at home, of wives who depended on them, smothered their fervor. One by one, shoulders sagged and men began to edge away, retreating to the sides of the square.
"Don't listen to them!" the Bolshevik roared from the podium, desperation cracking his voice. "They want to trick you! If we don't rise up now, if we don't overthrow them together, they'll destroy us one by one!"
His panic was obvious, and Mainz could hear the tremor in his voice. Yet his words struck home. The workers wavered again, caught between fear of the rifles and fear of betrayal. What if the Army truly meant to punish them later? If that were so, perhaps better to fight now and die on their feet than be hunted down later like dogs.
The air grew thick with tension as hard stares turned back toward the soldiers.
Mainz's eyes narrowed. He fixed the agitator with a cold gaze, then raised his voice so all could hear:
"Brothers! Workers! I give you my word: those who lay down their arms and return home will not be punished. As long as you obey the law and do not rise against the state, you and your families will be safe. I pledge this with my honor!"
"Hah!" the Bolshevik spat, trying to seize back the moment. "Empty promises! Why should we trust you? Once we surrender our weapons, our lives will be in your hands. Who can guarantee you'll keep your word?"
Mainz drew in a steady breath, then struck the final blow.
"My name is Mainz von Lewinsky. My father is General Eduard von Lewinsky. Field Marshal Hindenburg himself is my brother-in-law. And I swear, by the honor of my family and of Prussian soldiers, that what I say is true!"
The crowd erupted into gasps.
No one had expected the young officer before them to bear such a name, such connections. These were names usually seen only in newspapers, spoken of in cafés with awe. And here stood a man tied by blood to those great figures—staking their honor as collateral.
Prussian soldiers were famed for their word; their reputation for honor was ironclad. That name carried weight.
Shock turned quickly to belief. Many workers now looked at Mainz with respect, even admiration.
"Major… Major von Lewinsky?" one cried, eyes widening.
Another dug hurriedly into his coat and pulled out a folded newspaper from the day before yesterday—the Abendzeitung. On the front page, bold headlines had told of the desperate fighting in the Ardennes. Again and again, one name had been printed there in black ink: Mainz von Lewinsky.
The worker held it aloft. "Look! He's the hero of Bastogne! It was he who struck back against the French and their British allies at the last moment!"
The square rippled with emotion.
"He's a hero of Germany!"
"That's right—if the French respect him, why shouldn't we?"
Though they had been roused by Bolshevik slogans, at heart the workers were patriots. And patriotism spoke louder than empty promises.
From that moment, Mainz's work became easy. The men, reassured by his oath and heartened by his reputation, laid down their arms and drifted away from the square. Soon, only a stubborn knot of diehard Bolsheviks remained.
Mainz's face hardened. These men had chosen their path.
"Seize them!" he barked.
At once, a hundred German soldiers surged forward, overwhelming the agitators.
The middle-aged Bolshevik on the podium, who had shouted so loudly only moments before, tried to slip away in the confusion—but he walked straight into Mainz himself.
"Going somewhere, sir?" Mainz asked softly, his pleasant smile masking a steel edge.
Fear flickered in the man's eyes. "You—you swore!" he stammered. "You said we could all go home safely! Thousands of witnesses heard you!"
Mainz's smile never wavered. "Yes. I swore the workers could return home. But you…" His voice dropped to a dangerous murmur. "…you are no worker. You are a Bolshevik."
The man's face went white.
"Take him," Mainz ordered.
The soldiers dragged the screaming agitator away.
The square was silent again.
And in the silence, the legend of Mainz von Lewinsky grew.
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