At 8 PM, on the evening of 20 November 1904, the whole of Germany held its breath.
Some because the Fifth Prince of Prussia apparently smelled like a sewer.
Some because of the rumors swirling around Berlin politics.
And a lot because of one thing:
The very first drawing of the Double Color Ball.
In a rented hall in Berlin, under bright gas lamps, reporters from dozens of newspapers, staff from the Berlin Notary Office, and a crowd of curious onlookers had gathered to stare at a dwarf on a stage.
Not a circus dwarf.
A lottery dwarf.
Karl von Jonarett, General Manager of the German Welfare Lottery Company, stood on a small riser so he could actually see over the table. In front of him were two glass drums:
a large one filled with red balls
a smaller one filled with blue balls
The notary checked the seals.
The reporters checked the notary.
Karl checked everything twice… and then once more, just in case.
Then the drawing began.
The first red ball spun out and clacked into the tray.
(02)
Then: 09 – 14 – 17 – 18 – 31
Finally, from the smaller drum, the blue ball:
(08)
Karl stepped forward, his formal black suit making him look like a very serious child.
"In the presence of the Berlin Notary Office and representatives of the press," he announced, voice clear, "these are the official results for the first drawing of the Double Color Ball."
He repeated the numbers slowly, then added:
"Congratulations to all the lucky winners, and I wish good fortune to all future players."
He bowed slightly.
"Our staff will immediately begin verifying all purchased ticket numbers. We aim to complete initial verification before tomorrow afternoon. If there is a first-prize winner, the major newspapers will be notified at once."
The cameras clicked. Pens scratched. Excited murmurs spread through the hall.
Outside, the entire German lottery world—and half the country besides—waited on one question:
Would anyone actually win the five million mark jackpot?
Even after taxes, it was more money than most people could imagine.
Not just "comfortable" rich.
Dynasty-building rich.
Back in the company's temporary headquarters, the mood was electric.
Desks filled every corner of the rented building. Inkpots, ledgers, paper stacks, cigarette smoke, tired faces—this was the real engine behind the "overnight riches" fantasy.
Oskar, still in his beloved Prussian uniform (and still refusing to change it), stood with Karl in front of a large ledger and a stack of early tally sheets.
Karl looked like a miniature businessman whose soul had finally found meaning.
"Your Highness," Karl said, eyes shining, "we did it. Preliminary reports show we sold over ten million tickets."
Each ticket cost two marks.
In Oskar's original world, that'd be roughly the price of a cheap hat, a pair of simple shoes, or a low-end meal in a European city—maybe somewhere around 15–20 euros in modern terms.
For a German worker in 1904, two marks wasn't nothing. But it wasn't impossible. It was "a treat," a little shard of hope you could squeeze into your budget if you wanted it badly enough.
And as it turned out, Germans wanted hope very badly.
Oskar let out a low whistle.
"Ten million balls… that's a lot of hope, my man," he said.
Karl grinned.
"We'll only know the true result once we finish checking the winners," he said, rubbing his hands, "but even with one first prize, our profit from this draw alone should still exceed two million marks."
To handle the avalanche of paper, the company had hired over two hundred clerks and statisticians on a temporary basis. There were no computers, no Wi-Fi, no calculators—just ink, ledgers, tired eyes, and rivers of coffee.
It was expensive. Exhausting.
Compared to the profits on the table, it was nothing.
Oskar's mind was already racing ahead.
If there's two million in profit from this one… my share is around one-point-something million… three draws a week… weeks in a year…
He didn't bother doing exact math. His brain just filled in the answer:
Battleship, here we come.
And maybe, after that—
a real modern-style gym?
bike helmets for miners and fast-moving people?
protein shakes?
Safety and muscles, my man.
He snapped back to the present and cleared his throat.
"Right. Let's have our people speed up the tabulation," Oskar said. "Once we confirm a grand prize, notify the newspapers immediately. Second wave of promotion—maximum spam. We want the whole country to see we're real. That people really win."
Ten million tickets sold in the first draw was a triumph.
But in Oskar's mind, the German market was much bigger.
With their edge in game design and advertising, Double Color Ball could become the default lottery of the Empire. The one everyone copied. The one everyone had to play.
Karl nodded quickly.
"Yes, Your Highness," he said. "I'll oversee the checking teams myself. No mistakes. No delays."
He hurried off into the crowded office, barking instructions at clerks who towered over him but obeyed anyway, because the dwarf in charge was the only thing between them and chaotic disaster.
Oskar paced through the corridors, excitement buzzing in his veins.
He passed rooms overflowing with tickets and ink-stained clerks hunched over numbers, all of them unknowingly calculating the shape of Germany's new addiction.
Somewhere in that mountain of paper, there might be a ticket that turned a coal miner into a tycoon… or a farmer's wife into the richest woman in her district.
Somewhere in that mountain of paper was also the first real step toward a ship of steel and guns flying the German flag—
A ship that, if Oskar had his way, would never be sunk in some pointless, doomed war.
For now, though, he clenched his fist and grinned.
"First draw," he muttered. "First blood."
And then, because he was still Oskar, he went to the hallway, did ten pull-ups on a doorframe in full uniform, dropped down, and yelled at a passing clerk:
"Work hard, my man! Hope is counting on you!"
The clerk almost dropped the tickets in terror.
Early the next morning, Karl returned to Oskar's suite with dark circles under his eyes and a thick stack of papers clutched in both hands.
He looked like a raccoon in a suit.
"Your Highness," he croaked, voice hoarse but triumphant, "the results are in."
Oskar was in the middle of doing crunches on the carpet. He rolled backwards, sprang up in something that was almost a backflip, landed with his chest out like an action hero and said:
"Well, my man?"
Karl took a breath.
"One first prize," he said. "Eighteen second prizes. The rest spread across the lower tiers. Total prize payout this round: approximately twelve million marks."
He flipped to the next page.
"After taxes, expenses, printing, salaries, ad costs—everything…" His mouth finally curled into a tired grin. "Our net profit is two million one hundred twelve thousand marks."
For a heartbeat, the room was absolutely silent.
Then Oskar slammed his palm on the table so hard an ink bottle jumped and nearly suicided onto the carpet.
"YES, my man!" he barked. "Good start. Very good start."
Karl couldn't stop grinning.
For his one million mark investment, his ten percent share of profits meant over 200,000 marks—from just one draw.
Five rounds at that level and his initial money would be back with interest. Anything after that was pure miracle.
"Immediately send prize funds to the regional sales stations," Oskar said. "Winners must be able to redeem in their own cities. No delays, no excuses. If people hear that their neighbor really got paid… they will go mad for our balls."
He paused. "…Lottery balls. Yes."
"Understood, Your Highness," Karl said, politely ignoring the phrasing. "Also, our second round of ticket sales begins today. We prepared fifteen million tickets, but… I'm not sure that will be enough."
"It's too late to print more for this draw," Oskar said, scratching his head. "But for the next one, we prepare twenty million. If those sell out, we increase again."
As long as demand stayed hot, they would expand carefully, step by step, until they hit saturation.
Then they could think about other countries.
Karl hurried off to oversee distribution and payout orders.
Oskar stayed behind, pacing the room, excitement burning like coal in his chest.
Two million in one draw, he thought. My share… three draws a week… fifty-two weeks a year… battleship, I see you…
Then his mind jumped to other ideas—gym chains, safety helmets, supplements—until the numbers blurred and he just laughed.
"Yeah," he muttered. "First blood."
While Berlin buzzed with ledgers and profit margins, life in the Ruhr went on as usual.
In the industrial west, steelworks roared, chimneys smoked, and coal mines ate men one shift at a time.
Near Düsseldorf, the end-of-shift whistle wailed at a shaft of the Königsgrube. Miners began to pour out of the black mouth of the pit, one after another:
Faces smeared with coal dust.
Eyes red from bad air and long hours.
Bodies stiff from crouching underground.
Germany's factories, railways, and battleships all fed on coal.
The lives of the men who pulled it out of the earth… were much cheaper.
One of the last to emerge was a broad-shouldered man in his thirties, slower than the rest, his movements heavy with exhaustion.
His name was Hans Albrecht.
His father had fought in the Franco-Prussian War of 1870–71, marching with the North German troops against the French. He'd been a young conscript then, full of stories about marching to the sound of the Kaiser's speeches and the glory of the new German Empire.
He'd never finished those stories.
At Gravelotte–St. Privat, a shell fragment shattered his leg and buried shrapnel in his chest. He survived the war, but never fully recovered. Work became hard. Breathing became harder.
By the time Hans was ten, his father was dead.
His mother took laundry, sewed until her fingers bled, and still had to send Hans to the pit as soon as he was old enough to pass for a small man instead of a big boy. There were no pensions worth mentioning. The "glory" of victory had not paid the rent.
Now Hans was thirty-two. He'd spent nearly half his life in mines.
He made a decent miner's wage for the time—something like four or five marks on a good day—but between rent, coal for their own stove, bread, potatoes, medicine, and three children who always seemed to be hungry or growing, there was never much left.
"Hans! Beer tonight?" one of the miners called as they trudged toward the changing rooms. "They say that new lottery had its first draw. Maybe one of us gets lucky, eh?"
Hans shook his head.
"No. Lina and the children are waiting," he said. "If I smell beer again, she might kill me."
The others laughed.
"Then drink water and lie about it, you coward!" another shouted. "If I win five million marks, I'll buy you a whole inn!"
They peeled off in the direction of the tavern.
Hans walked toward the workers' district.
The streets of their neighborhood were narrow, lined with gray, soot-stained tenements. Laundry hung from windows; children played in the mud; a priest walked by, hat low, trying to pretend the shouting from a nearby bar wasn't happening.
Hans passed a corner shop he'd been to once or twice before. It had a new sign in the window:
> WELFARE LOTTERY – DOUBLE COLOR BALL
First Prize: 5,000,000 Marks
The glass was plastered with yesterday's papers, all screaming in big letters:
> "DOUBLE COLOR BALL GRAND PRIZE WON!"
"FIRST FIVE MILLION MARK JACKPOT HIT!"
Hans stopped.
His hand went to his jacket, feeling in the inner pocket.
He pulled out a crumpled piece of paper.
His ticket.
Two marks.
Nearly a day's food for the family, gone in a moment of madness.
Lina had scolded him when he'd come home with it.
"Two marks? Hans, have you lost your mind? The children need boots!"
He'd shrugged, embarrassed, and said, "If God wants us to get lucky, He needs something to work with. Maybe this is it."
Then he'd almost forgotten about it.
Now, staring at the sign, his heart began to pound.
It's nothing, he told himself. The chance is like one in the stars. But… still…
Most of the time, poor men didn't even have numbers to hope on. Just wages and winter.
He took a breath and pushed open the door.
Inside, the sales point was crowded.
Some people were already buying tickets for the next draw, talking excitedly about "changing their destiny." Others were turning in small winning slips, walking away with enough for a good meal or a new coat.
Hans felt out of place in his coal-stained clothes, cap in his hands, boots leaving faint black prints on the floorboards.
He stepped up to the counter.
"Excuse me," he said quietly. "Could you… check if my ticket has anything on it?"
The clerk was a young woman in her twenties, hair pinned up neatly, clothes clean and modest. She blinked at the sight of him—dusty, tired, smelling faintly of mine air—but training turned surprise into a professional smile.
"Of course, sir," she said. "May I see your ticket?"
Hans handed it over, suddenly very aware that his hand was shaking.
She glanced at the numbers.
Then at the printed winning combination posted behind her.
Her eyes widened.
She checked again.
She took the list out of its clip and held it next to the ticket.
Her hands began to tremble.
"Oh… oh God," she whispered. "Head office said the grand prize was in our region, but I didn't think…"
She swallowed, then looked up at Hans.
He did not look like the face of a millionaire.
He looked like someone the mine had chewed on for years and not quite swallowed.
"Sir," she said, voice unsteady, "please stay calm. But… I must congratulate you."
He frowned, confused. "Congratulate… me?"
"You have," she said, each word louder, "the first prize of the last Double Color Ball drawing."
She took a breath.
"You have won five million marks before tax."
For a moment, Hans just stared at her.
The words fell into his ears but slid off his brain.
"What?" he stammered. "No, that… that can't be right. Are you sure? Please check again. Maybe it's… second prize? Or nothing?"
People around them had started to notice.
"What's happening?"
"He win something?"
"Did she say first prize?"
"The five million one?!"
The entire shop vibrated on the edge of chaos.
The clerk checked again, lips moving silently as she compared each number.
Then she smiled—a huge, radiant smile that made her look like someone out of a painting.
"Yes," she said. "It's correct. Six red numbers and the blue. Sir… today, your life has changed."
Hans felt suddenly very light and very heavy at the same time.
In his mind he saw:
Lina, bent over the washtub.
His oldest boy, Max, trying to hide holes in his shoes.
Little Emma coughing in winter because the coal stove barely kept the frost away.
The landlord hinting about raising the rent.
The priest talking about patience and reward in heaven.
Five million marks.
He swayed a little.
"I… I need to sit," he whispered.
A chair appeared behind him, pushed forward by three people at once.
Someone ran outside, yelling that the grand prize had been claimed. A kid darted off toward the pub, shouting, "Hans from the mine won! Hans from the Königsgrube!"
The clerk was already reaching for the telephone to call the regional office.
"You will need to go to Düsseldorf tomorrow to sign the official documents," she said, voice gentler now. "They'll arrange everything. But you don't need to worry. The funds are real. The company has already transferred prize money to the bank."
Hans stared down at his own hands. They were still black with coal.
He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together.
Same dust. Same skin.
But the world had tilted.
---
The Best Advertisement
Some hours later, in Berlin, a telegraph sheet was placed on Karl's desk.
He read it once, blinked, then hurried into Oskar's office.
"Your Highness," he said, unable to hide the excitement, "the grand prize has been verified. A miner from the Ruhr—Düsseldorf region. Hans Albrecht. Wife, three children, lives in workers' housing. His father died from wounds after the Franco-Prussian War."
Oskar looked up, hair a mess, uniform still on, eyes red from lack of sleep.
"A coal miner?" he repeated.
"Yes," Karl said. "One of the poorest types of workers… and now one of the richest men in the Rhineland."
Oskar leaned back, a slow grin spreading across his face.
"Our first miracle customer," he said.
Karl nodded.
"And the best advertisement money can't buy," he replied.
Because in every mine, factory, tavern and tenement in Germany, the story would spread:
> A coal miner.
Dust in his lungs, nothing in his pockets.
Wife and children.
Father died from the old war.
Bought one ticket.
And won more than six thousand years of an average worker's wages.
No newspaper headline, no ad slogan, no slogan about "changing your destiny" could compete with that.
The Double Color Ball had just created its first legend.
And Oskar, the unwanted prince of Prussia, had just fired the opening shot in a war for the soul—and the wallet—of the German Empire.