The Red Führer: The Red Führer, #1

By Paul Hynes

Adolf Hitler is regarded as history's most notorious villain for good reason. As an individual filled with hate, he was a natural convert to the extremist movements spreading around Europe at the beginning of the twentieth century and his warped ability to harness the desperation of millions of dispossessed Germans enabled his regime to slaughter countless victims. The Nazi movement that he founded was, and is, universally regarded as a dark reflection of the nature of mankind. 

But what if this monster had chosen a different path? 

In The Red Fuhrer, Paul Hynes paints a picture of a struggling artist in Vienna; a man already desperately angry at the world around him but not yet having found a political home until a chance encounter and strange fortunes create a very different man: one who embraces Communism rather than Fascism. In this engaging and thought provoking read Hynes depicts a political transformation from hunger in Vienna to the battlefields of the First World War, to the revolutionary street fights in post-war Germany, as Adolf Hitler and several other characters begin to reshape history into a more chaotic form. One that is ripe for revolution.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sea Lion Press
• Release date: Oct 16, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386712978

Book preview

The Red Führer

Paul Hynes

First published by Sea Lion Press, 2018

Prologue

German Workers Republic, 1936

She had been asked not to open it until her train had left the station. That way, she wouldn’t be afraid of leaving.

As Rosa unwrapped the present her mother had given her, a note slipped out and fell onto the floor of the train carriage.

I’m proud of you…

Rosa smiled; her mother’s handwriting.

But are you proud of yourself?

A gift note ending with a question mark; it wasn’t quite the usual formality. She supposed that all the usual formalities were being thrown out of the window these days. The book, however, was suddenly so widespread that Rosa couldn’t help but feel she was witnessing the beginning of a new tradition. All around the carriage there were teenagers like her, setting out for their first summer organised by Power Through Joy, opening up the parcels their parents had packed for them, to reveal the same book. Like their uniforms, it was a symbol of what brought them together.

It was a book that her mother already owned, and as a good Communist she would usually have forbidden herself from indulging in such needless waste; nonetheless, Rosa expected her mother had a reason for doing so.

Our Struggle was the written word of the Volksführer, Comrade Hitler, a man who been leading the German revolution for over a decade. He had written his book at the very beginning of that period, and Rosa felt special for living in an age where it was still possible to see his theories and predictions unfold before her eyes, after having witnessed the defeat of the reactionary enemies of the German worker, and the traitors who claimed to be their ally.

The red, hardback cover of the newly printed edition had the title and author of the book emblazoned in gold; nestled between the two was the hammer and sickle of the Communist Party of Germany. The colours contrasted vividly with the beige jacket and trousers that along with the white shirt and red neckerchief made up the uniform of The Workers of the Future, the uniform that all of the young people were wearing. The new book was a much grander object to behold than the tattered first edition that her mother had had in the house for as long as she could remember. That was her mother’s copy, and now this was hers.

Down the carriage, she could see their group leader reading the paper. The news, of course, was related to the ongoing war in Spain; thankfully it was good. Germany’s own volunteer pilots had sprung a trap against the Italian fascists during their attempt to airlift Spanish troops from Morocco to the fascist-occupied areas of the mainland. Apparently a fascist General named Franco had died during the raid, and this was an important victory for the Communist International.

One less reactionary in the world was certainly a good thing, and the success of the revolution in Spain would be even better, but Rosa was an internationalist, and couldn’t help but see the bigger picture. There were many other reactionaries in many other countries; France and Italy, Great Britain and the United States, all of whom threatened the worker’s revolution. Such was the reason for Germany’s increased arms build-up, and the need for all workers to be vigilant. In spite of Comrade Hitler’s calls for peace, it seemed that the German people would soon be dragged into another World War.

One day she would live in a world where all countries had gone through a similar experience, inspired by the words of Comrade Hitler and the great friend of the German people, Comrade Stalin. It was for this reason that her mother had given her this book, the same reason that the parents of all the girls around her had all received the same book. Their generation had liberated Germany and Russia from the clutches of capitalism, but it was the task of their children to liberate the world.

Her mother was not in any way crippled – she was still very much in her prime, as was Comrade Hitler – but the time to pass on leadership of the great revolutionary cause would come soon, and Rosa knew that she would have to be ready to carry the torch.

Power Through Joy was all about learning these necessary skills, not only of being a good socialist, but of how to spread socialism throughout the world. This was why Hitler’s book was so important; it was, in a sense, her inheritance.

As she turned the page to see the brilliantly-lettered preamble, she smiled; it was one that she had heard spoken many times:

‘The world is one of an ever-present struggle – our struggle.

The German nation stands at a precipice; the working class stare down towards the pit, and as always the bourgeois industrialists threaten us with hell if we do not comply to their ever-increasing demands. When we rise, they use the state organs of violence, their thugs in the police and the army, to crush our protests. It is a regime of oppression that continues to stumble between crises with seemingly no end in sight, exploiting each one to increase their dominance over the proletariat.

It is in this spirit that I write this work on the war being waged against the German worker, and how we must all fight back.The workers have grown in strength for over a century and the time is coming when they shall exercise their power.

The German proletariat cries out for power to be wrenched from the timid and feckless bourgeoisie, as is their right. Such is the role of the Communist Party. There are forces designed to impede the triumphant advance of the German worker that has been built on the popular uprisings at the end of the great imperialist slaughter. If we do not identify and eliminate these class enemies, they will bring our chariot of fate to a standstill just as it seems ready to reach its goal.

It is evident that our movement can gain the public significance and support which are necessary prerequisites in this struggle of the classes, though only with a sacrosanct conviction in the hearts of its followers. There is no alternative in bringing about the great awakening of the German proletariat. This is not a case of introducing a new electoral slogan into the political field; our views are consistent, our justification immortal.

We must succeed, and we will.

The future demands it.’

~A.Hitler

Rosa read on, trying to emulate the enthusiasm with which the Volksführer had written the text, as she looked out at the world that he was building.

The rolling scenery of the German countryside went by as a green blur; she suspected it hadn’t changed much since the revolutions that had caused so much upheaval in Germany ever since the end of the great imperialist slaughter, but even then, in the distance, the future could be seen. The vast trails of smoke, the life-signs of the beating heart of the first five year plan. The beginning of the future that the Volksführer had foreseen long before.

The train surged into a tunnel, temporarily plunging the carriage into darkness; the warped reflection of her face made her look like her mother – the same blonde hair and blue eyes, but her skin rougher and her eyes slightly sunken. The scars of battles long since won.

Rosa knew that she would have to fight, just as he had, to help build it. This was why the Volksführer’s words required reading for all good comrades. This was why her mother’s gift had been so important. The passing of the torch from one generation to the next, containing the wisdom that would shape the world that was to come.

As with all good stories, the Volksführer had begun at the start of his revolutionary road.

Vienna

1. The Stadtpark

The room hadn’t always been so utterly devoid of light, although Adolf wasn’t sure how he knew that.

The ringing in his ears had returned, a sound that had become increasingly common. His vision had already become blurred to the extent that most of the room was dark. Despite the repetition of the blows the boy couldn’t quite remember why this was happening.

You really are a worthless little shit.

The classical school, that was it; he had wanted to go to classical school. He had thought of that school a lot despite the fact that his father had forced him to go to the technical school to follow in his footsteps, the school where Adolf was bullied every day because he wasn’t from Linz like the other students. Would his peers in the classical school have beaten him? He didn’t think so.

Adolf wanted to escape to that happy land; he had sabotaged himself in his lessons in the hope that his prayers were to be answered and his father would acquiesce and send him to pursue his dreams. The old man’s reaction had been quite different.

…deliberately trying to humiliate me again!

It hadn’t been long after he’d handed him his report card before he felt himself being carried into the air by his father’s fist. He had felt the urge to be sick as he had landed on the floor; now, with his father kicking him in the stomach time and time again, it felt like it would be inevitable. Adolf croaked with the air disappearing from his lungs; he tried to cry, only to manage a bare gasp. The ringing in his ears grew louder all the time; he could feel the sick coming up from his stomach.

---

Come on, get up! I want you all out of here in ten minutes!

The chime of the bell continued to ring as Adolf and his fellow roommates sleepily gathered their belongings and trudged out of the door. He didn’t know what he had been dreaming about when the ringing had interrupted him, only that he was now back in the year 1912. His thoughts turned to where he would go now that the paltry six hours of sleep offered by the place he had spent the night in were used up.

His lodgings reminded him of a homeless shelter and, given the smell of the place, he wouldn’t have been surprised if some of the men were transients. It was hard to tell; like almost every other man he had slept in his coat to fight off the bitter cold in the draughty room. Adolf wondered what he might look like to the more respectable denizens of Vienna in his unshaven, unkempt state. It was hard to continue to call himself a bohemian as he lugged his chalks, easels and papers around the city, looking for something gimmicky that he could sell to wealthy tourists. It was all rubbish, really, but even in hard times he was at least doing what he loved. That’s what he continued to tell himself as he tightened his belt to stave off the stirring in his stomach.

It was a bright day in Vienna, and he couldn’t afford to think about food. People would be out in the sun, and he had paintings that needed to be sold. There was little question as to where to sell them on a day like this; the Stadtpark was something of a long walk for a hungry man, but it was where both the locals and tourists of Vienna would flock to on what was already promising to be a beautiful Autumn day. There was something about the greenery of the park and the sculptures within it that always seemed to make those people on walks or picnics more receptive to his work; perhaps there was an element of bohemian influence in the utopian scene, or perhaps it was just because the sun brought out a flippancy in people.

Despite the cold of the previous night, Adolf hoped they were headed for an old women’s summer; if he couldn’t sell anything today he faced the prospect of sleeping outside. This was something he had occasionally been forced to do, albeit sparingly; such was the bohemian lifestyle he liked to believe that he lived rather than the reality of struggling for his daily bread.

His journey from the boarding house in Mariahilf to the busy park took him through the Naschmarkt, where the freshly baked cakes and rolls were on display and the sausages glistened with grease as they fried in public. The smells and the sights were torture, for even in the busy streets of men and women beginning their jobs it seemed that amongst the cues Adolf was the only one who couldn’t afford some breakfast. That wasn’t true, of course; as he continued to walk he saw the ranks of people who couldn’t even afford a draughty boarding house. Germans, removed from their pride by their hunger and exposure to the cold, forced to beg alongside the multitude of Slavic immigrants who continued to move into the city despite the unemployment. He noticed that many of the workers were foreigners as well, and wondered – not for the first time – how many destitute Germans could be given jobs if all the immigrants were forced to return to their own countries.

As the city slowly brought itself to life, Adolf wondered about those who didn’t have to get up so early, and why they were happy with immigration into the city. Depressed wages were naturally the answer; he’d heard that the immigrants would work for basically nothing and in turn forced the German worker to debase himself into lower and lower pay. Though Adolf regularly found himself looking for gainful employment, there seemed to be little for aspiring artists beyond the odd day of manual labour. The only place for his sort was the place that unfortunately provided a shortcut to the park; the place that elicited a feeling even more painful than the smell of food on an empty stomach. The Academy of Fine Arts was enormous, and in the same way Adolf couldn’t get it out of his sight he also couldn’t get it out his mind.

Unfitness for painting was what the examiners had decried Adolf as suffering from the second time they’d rejected him. Oh, the buildings he had painted were supposedly fine, but the people apparently lacked effort… as if this hadn’t been his dream since his father had kicked the shit out of him as a child.

Yes, that was the real truth. The wealthy in this city, gentile and Jew, were just like his father; they were strong and whenever they saw something different to them they would crush it. In the same way his father hadn’t let him train as an artist, the elites had prevented him from having a career once he’d managed to amass a portfolio regardless of his father’s wishes.

Adolf had decided he would continue to paint anyway, even after his mother had died and her financial support with it. His flatmate August had offered to support him, but they had known each other from Linz and, although Adolf knew he meant well, he couldn’t help but feel that taking charity would be an admission of failure in comparison to his friend’s greater success as a musician.

Adolf was not particularly jealous of August’s success, or at least that was what he told himself; he simply struggled to be around someone who clearly felt he was an object of sympathy rather than the sort who would make his own way in life. This way, those in charge couldn’t hold him back and, though he was hungry by the time he reached the greenery of the park, Adolf was genuinely happy that he had his independence. Though his stomach growled, his devotion would win him favour with those who saw that he was pursuing his dream in the face of those who wanted to grind him down.

Adolf Hitler was an artist, and the people would provide for him. If they didn’t, he would wither away. It was a thought that he couldn’t brush away as he set up his small collection of presentations, and it tormented him as the better-off inhabitants of Vienna began to walk through the park, largely ignoring him.

Adolf turned his attention to the sky and hoped it wouldn’t rain, oblivious to the one gentleman who had taken an interest in him.

---

In contrast to Adolf, Franz had a cheery outlook on life, though unlike many peddlers and strivers amongst the Vienna populace his circumstances provided him with a justification to have one. His career in the School of Fine Arts allowed him to pursue his imaginative concepts for a living while discussing the latest trends with some of the world’s greatest artists. Best of all, however, it had allowed him to teach. His classes were free to the children of Vienna and the notion of nurturing prospective talent thrilled Franz; the joy the children put into their work was not only rewarding, but the notion that one day several revolutionary artists might point to him as their teacher made him feel as if he were leaving an investment to the future.

For someone like Franz, it was a job where Monday was almost as good as Saturday, although he enjoyed his free time just as much as anyone else. The weekend tended to bring out the best in people, and on a beautiful day like this it would be inexcusable not to have a walk in the park. It was hard not to be near the Stadtpark if you lived in central Vienna and, though he would often walk through on his way home from the academy, he enjoyed it for leisure as well; the great space hosted many different attractions, cafes, concerts, dances, plays, bars and even just idle conversation with strangers. It was a link between communities, and on a nice day you could find almost all of Vienna’s differing social and ethnic groups when walking through it; Austrians, Germans, Poles, Jews, rich, poor, Catholic, Protestant, military men, aristocrats, bourgeois, workers on half-day and, of course, the starving artists.

Franz could not take his eyes off the rather dreadful-looking figure glaring at the concession stand nearby; he couldn’t tell whether the vagrant was annoyed that he’d been told to move himself and the rather ramshackle all my own work display he’d assembled, or whether he was simply hungry. The man was too old for Franz’s art class, but he was certainly young; possibly aged by what appeared to be hard times. He might have been in his early twenties, or perhaps just a destitute tramp gifted with a young face; regardless, there was something hypnotic about him. Franz decided to have a look at his little garden exhibition, even if it were just to humour a fellow artist who had fallen upon hard times.

On closer inspection, the vagrant’s initial look of deep thought appeared to be more of a bored sulk than any underlying brilliance waiting to be tapped. Nonetheless, the work he had on display was at least better than much of the dross you got on the streets. Several all my own work-style vendors would try and make some easy money by selling off sketches of buildings as postcards, offering to paint tourists who wanted a memory of Vienna or doing a rough sketch of someone’s house on the general pretence that the home inspired some sort of brilliance so as to attempt to solicit a sale out of vanity. Some of Franz's louder colleagues labelled it a form of prostitution, yet this man clearly fell somewhere in between; even as he gave Franz a disinterested look it was clear that, amongst the usual postcard-type work, there was some genuine talent. There were also indicators as to why he was sitting in a park rather than a classroom or a gallery – if, indeed, he’d ever had such aspirations. Some people just had a knack for copying things they’d read or seen, but there were always ways that this could be investigated – and Franz aimed to do so.

I see that you’re a classicist. Franz spoke neutrally, guessing that the man was the type of person who would sneer at praise but scowl at the most benign criticism. There were many like that in the art world and they were easy to spot.

The man turned his head slightly, as if surprised that Franz was more than a gawking tourist. The vagrant did his best attempt at a smile in the miserable situation.

Yes, well, I believe that neoclassicism is the correct term.

Even as the young man appeared to think out loud, Franz smiled; pedantry could be a pleasure when two individuals had a mutual interest.

I’m not sure we’ll ever find a superior form of art – Austrian or German, at the very least. The Italian renaissance has some interesting work, mind you, but nowhere near as good as a Carstens or a Fussli. Fussli was Swiss, though Franz didn’t make any effort to correct the young man despite his own neoclassical one-upmanship.

The conversation between Franz and the young man, whose name turned out to be Adolf, was more intellectual than Franz might have hoped for, though regrettably the young man seemed surprisingly sharp with someone who just wanted a conversation. Franz figured he must be impatient, given that he was wasting the young man's time with discourse while potential customers might have been drifting by; yet when Franz bought a painting of Nurnberg town hall and went to leave, the seemingly reluctant conversationalist went out of his way to shake his hand and thank him for the chat.

Franz was surprised at the sudden change in mood, yet presumed he had simply mistaken the man’s sharpness for impatience when in fact it was earnest intrigue. He decided he'd like to talk to his odd individual again.

I’m afraid I’ll have to go just now – but would you like to have lunch tomorrow? Franz could have asked this Adolf character if he wanted to continue the conversation immediately, but he had already completed his business after the inference that the seller had lost interest in his conversation and it would seem odd to hang around after motioning to leave. The young artist’s eyes lit up at the notion of a free lunch; before shaking hands again, the two arranged to meet in the park to have lunch in the Kursalon the next day.

As Franz left the park, the sky began to darken; he found himself buying a paper bag to cover his painting in case the clouds did not cooperate on his way home. Though the rain held off until he was secreted within his small private studio, a closer inspection of the painting he’d bought made it seem as if the colours had run regardless.

It was a strange effect; the town centre's buildings remained in the pristine and detailed form that had motivated him to buy the painting, but the centre itself was devoid of life. Yet again, Franz remembered why his new friend probably wouldn’t have been welcome in the academy, for Adolf’s people were ghosts of what should have been portrayed in the scene.

The figures hung on the canvass like silhouettes. They had form, though at