Chapter 79: Funeral of a Generation
When they entered the ward, they found President Ebert lying half reclined on the bed, his frail body propped at an angle by the pillows.
He had been unconscious for several days. Now that he was finally awake, his eyes were clouded with exhaustion, his face pale and drawn. It was difficult to connect this dying old man with the leader who, only last autumn, had stood before the cameras and declared that Germany had survived its darkest hour.
He released his wife's hand and slowly lifted a trembling arm, beckoning to the two men still waiting outside the door.
After nodding respectfully to Ebert's wife and children, Hindenburg stepped forward and took the wooden chair beside the bed. His lips, chapped by the winter wind, parted as if to say something, but in the end, nothing came out except a long, weary sigh.
Ebert seemed to understand.
Supporting himself with obvious difficulty, he forced his tired body upright and said in a hoarse voice, "It seems... everything has been settled. Germany is in your hands now. The nobles and the great industrial men will trust you, a nobleman, more readily than they ever trusted me."
He paused for breath, then gave a weak wave of his hand.
"Let Jörg come over. Compared with an old man like you, I still prefer speaking with the young."
A fit of coughing followed immediately.
It went on for what felt like forever, harsh and relentless, like fingers striking the same broken piano key again and again. Only after several painful minutes did it finally subside.
Hindenburg looked at him for a long moment, then rose in silence and patted the shoulder of the Weimar Republic's founding President before giving up his seat.
When Jörg approached the bedside, a faint trace of resignation flickered through Ebert's tired eyes.
If this young man had not saved him back then, perhaps he would have already died beneath the guns of the plotters. Or perhaps, Ebert thought, Jörg had merely extended his life by two more turbulent, fascinating years.
His chest tightened with another wave of pain.
He motioned Jörg closer, then leaned toward his ear and whispered, "Thank you, Jörg. You saved my life. And in a certain sense, you saved the life of the Weimar Republic as well."
"My life, from a harness maker's son to President of the Republic, may sound legendary to outsiders. But honestly, there have been very few moments of real joy in it. Discovering a genius like you is one of the greatest consolations of my later years."
His breath grew thinner.
"Goodbye. And may God bless you."
As he finished speaking, Ebert removed the wristwatch he had worn for years and placed it in Jörg's hand.
It was not a particularly exquisite watch. There was no luxury in its design, no jeweler's brilliance in its craftsmanship. Yet the weight of it was far greater than gold.
Jörg fastened it around his right wrist.
Then he bent down and offered the President his final farewell.
"Goodbye, Mr. Albert. I hope that from heaven, you will one day see Germany's future glory."
A faint smile appeared on Ebert's face.
It was almost peaceful.
But that tiny shift in emotion stirred the sickness in his chest once more. The coughing returned, violent and unstoppable. This time, however, his body could no longer endure it.
His fingers slackened.
The last trace of strength slowly left him.
Jörg stood by the bed and watched as Ebert's life ebbed away.
He placed his military cap back on his head, then turned and left the ward without another word, giving the room, and the grief within it, back to the family.
By the corridor window, Hindenburg stood with his hands behind his back.
For once, he was not smoking.
He was simply looking out into the winter light, breathing in the cold air that seeped through the glass.
"Has Ebert passed away?" he asked without turning around.
"Yes, Mr. Hindenburg," Jörg replied.
Hindenburg lowered his head briefly, then nodded.
For a man like him, one who had long since grown accustomed to death and farewell, such moments were tragically familiar. Sorrow did not vanish, but it no longer arrived with shock. It came instead with gravity, and with memory.
After a few seconds, he said, "We should go. If President Ebert left no special instructions regarding his funeral, then he is to be honored with the highest ceremony available. He deserves that much."
Jörg nodded.
He took out a cigarette by reflex, turned it once between his fingers, then, after a moment's hesitation, returned it to the half empty pack.
A week later, in a shabby tavern on a Berlin street, two grimy workers pushed open the door and stepped inside.
"Lundu, two beers," one of them called toward the counter. "I didn't expect this place to reopen. Where are the girls? Why are you working alone now?"
Behind the bar, Lundu was wiping down a glass. Seeing that they were regulars, he snorted and replied irritably, "I fired them. Just getting you poor bastards back in here drinking has already cost me enough. How could I still afford waitresses?"
He set the glass down and looked them over.
"And why are you finishing work so late?"
The taller of the two took the beer pushed toward him and shook his head bitterly. "Don't even mention it. One of these days I'm going to shoot that Jew in the head. Overtime is one thing, but now he's even inventing excuses to dock wages during the Christmas holidays."
He took a long pull from the mug, then lowered his voice.
"By the way, have the papers printed anything about that Christmas shootout? Some of the men at the factory said it was the Army and the police firing on each other. Is that true?"
After complaining for a while, he flattened a crumpled mark on the counter and changed the subject.
Lundu pocketed the money, then reached beneath the bar and pulled out a few newspapers left behind by other customers.
"Read whatever you want," he muttered.
Then he went back to fiddling with his newly bought radio.
The worker unfolded one of the papers and was immediately caught by the bold headline splashed across the top of the page.
Military Police Shootout? No. A Coup Crushed by a Hero!
He frowned and kept reading.
"It has been learned that several conservative officers within the Reichswehr, dissatisfied with the policies of the Weimar Republic, incited a number of high ranking officials, including Berlin Mayor Hans Bogg, and attempted a coup."
Farther down the column, a blurred photograph of a list had been printed between blocks of text.
After skimming it, the worker felt a deep sense of disbelief.
Even the mayor had been involved?
Just what in God's name had happened in Berlin in only a week?
The unreality of it all made him briefly wonder whether he and these mighty men even lived in the same country.
He read on.
"When the mayor attempted to win over the police force, Chief Vito refused the temptation of power and chose resistance without hesitation. Soldiers of the rapid response force also joined the effort, helping the police defend the democratic authority of the Weimar Republic with their blood and their lives."
"The trial will be held on January 10. Due to the large number of individuals involved, and because of the confidential nature of the case, proceedings will not be open to the public."
He lowered the paper.
There was something off about it.
The report was too short for an event so enormous. Too many details were missing. Too many crucial points had been passed over with suspicious speed.
He pulled another newspaper toward himself. Then another.
The headlines changed. The wording shifted here and there. But the substance remained almost identical.
Strange.
Still, the worker did not dwell on it for long. Coups and mutinies had become almost routine words in recent years. Even if some hidden truth lay beneath the surface, politics remained very far away from people like him.
He would be better off going to one of the Progress Party's speech points to get free bread, or working a few more hours to help his family, than wasting time guessing at the secrets of men in offices.
He tossed the newspaper aside and was just about to get up when the radio's static gradually smoothed into the deep, measured voice of an announcer.
"Citizens of the Weimar Republic, President Ebert, who has accompanied us since the founding of the Republic, passed away peacefully last night."
The pub fell silent.
Even Lundu stopped moving.
"It is with deep regret that we bring you this news. But facts cannot be changed. In order to respond to this sudden emergency and ensure an orderly transfer of power, voting by all political parties will begin simultaneously tomorrow."
"Those listening to this broadcast are requested to proceed to the designated polling stations and cast their vote for the new presidential candidate."
The voice ended.
The radio clicked softly and returned to its usual programming.
For a moment, no one in the tavern spoke.
.....
[If you don't want to wait for the next update, read 10–50 chapters ahead on P@treon.]
[[email protected]/FanficLord03]