Some people had long abandoned their claims to the German lands, but naturally, there were others who still hungered for them.
For example, Poland — a nation that had been destroyed and resurrected several times throughout history — seized the collapse of the German Empire as an opportunity to demand West Prussia, the Province of Posen, part of East Prussia, and a portion of Upper Silesia.
If these had been Poland's only demands, they would not have seemed entirely unreasonable. After all, these territories had indeed been inhabited by Polish people for centuries, and their ownership had always been a matter of dispute.
But Poland went further. They demanded Danzig.
Danzig, the vital port city on the Vistula estuary, was the crucial link between East Prussia and the German heartland. If stripped away, East Prussia would be cut off from Germany entirely.
What made matters worse was that Danzig had always been considered part of Germany's core territory. Unlike Posen or Silesia, it had little historical connection to Poland. To the Germans, Poland's demand was nothing short of outrageous.
And it was not only Germany that thought so. Even the other members of the Entente found Poland's request excessive. Yet at the same time, Britain, France, and their allies saw value in severing East Prussia from the Reich. Their compromise was to make Danzig a "Free City" — placed under the authority of the newly established League of Nations.
Meanwhile, Belgium demanded Eupen and Malmedy. The newly created state of Lithuania claimed Klaipėda. France reclaimed Alsace and Lorraine, and even pressed for control of the Saar region.
As the news from the peace negotiations in Paris spread, more misfortune poured in from the south.
Although Germany's war with France had yielded some fleeting advantages, it could not change the reality: the Empire had been defeated. At best, Germany had gone from being a helpless carcass on the Entente's chopping block to a wounded animal capable of lashing out. But its fate — humiliation and dismemberment — remained unchanged.
Still, the battle against France had not been meaningless. The peace talks dragged on much longer than in our history, and the rivalries among the Allies were far sharper. And while they squabbled over how to divide the spoils, Germany began to lick its wounds and rebuild from within.
At the birth of the Weimar Republic, stability was fragile. Opposition came from all sides — from the Independent Social Democrats, the People's Deputies' Assembly, and other radical factions calling for a socialist republic.
Prime Minister Philipp Scheidemann (here written as Albert) maneuvered carefully: he attacked his opponents with words while secretly courting the Reichswehr. Once he secured the loyalty of the army, the Republic unleashed force to crush uprisings across the land.
Within three months, most revolts had been subdued. For the first time, the shaky government found firm footing.
Eager to prove its legitimacy, the new Republic moved swiftly. In its first 100 days, it issued sweeping reforms:
the eight-hour working day,
labor protections,
civil service reform,
expansion of social welfare,
national health insurance,
reinstatement of workers dismissed during the war,
new safeguards against deportation,
regulation of wage agreements,
and universal suffrage for all citizens over twenty.
Germany now officially bore the name German Social Democratic Republic — though to the world and in propaganda posters, it became known as the Weimar Republic.
On paper, these decrees showed ambition. They revealed a government eager to transform Germany's fate. But ambition alone could not overcome the Republic's weaknesses. The bureaucracy was feeble, resources scarce, and political stability tenuous. Many policies looked noble but remained ink on paper, impossible to enforce.
Thus, beneath the surface of optimism, the Republic still bled. The German people endured their wounds under crushing burdens.
During these turbulent months, Major Mainz was ceaselessly active.
He journeyed across nearly every German state — even venturing into East Prussia. He inspected the devastated military-industrial complex, visited heavy industrial enterprises, and paid particular attention to the famed military academies of Berlin and Munich.
These institutions had been ravaged not only by war but also by the harsh restrictions of the Treaty of Versailles.
Field Marshal Paul von Hindenburg and the general staff understood the danger: the Reichswehr's strength lay not in sheer numbers but in the quality of its officers. And officers required years of rigorous training. If the military academies withered, the army's future leadership would vanish.
The dean of the Berlin Military Academy, a sixty-year-old general, confessed his despair to Mainz:
"There is nothing we can do. Our funds are exhausted. Enrollment has collapsed. The state cannot support us, and the professors have not been paid for months. They too must feed their families. If we cannot find support, the academy will simply cease to exist."
Mainz, recently promoted directly from major to colonel for battlefield merit, listened in silence. His swift rise — skipping the rank of lieutenant colonel — was no cause for joy.
As he traveled deeper into the land, what he saw filled him with sorrow.
Germany's glory — the great academies that had trained men like Scharnhorst, Clausewitz, Schlieffen, and Moltke the Elder — now stood on the brink of ruin.
And with them, perhaps, so too did the German nation.
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