"I don’t know if it’ll suit your taste, but please, enjoy it to your heart’s content. Now then, cheers."
Four wine glasses clinked in midair with a clear, ringing chime.
For Sohn Kee-chung and Nam Sung-yong, who had only ever tasted soju, makgeolli, maybe sake or beer at most, this was their very first wine.
The two young Koreans couldn’t believe what they were seeing. Laid out before them was a feast they had never received either back home or in Japan.
"I couldn’t get much of the food you enjoyed back in your homeland, so I had no choice but to serve German dishes. Still, please at least try them."
"Ah, yes. Thank you, Führer."
Sohn Kee-chung hesitated as he speared a hefty cut of meat with his fork and pulled it onto his plate.
The surface was crisp, but inside it was tender and chewy, a unique taste.
A bit greasy, so he couldn’t eat much of it, but it was more than good enough.
"It seems like pork… what’s it called?"
"Schweinshaxe, a German dish," Tamura whispered quietly. In truth, Tamura himself had only ever read of the dish in books—this was his first time tasting it too.
For the two young men who had so often gone without even a bowl of white rice, let alone meat, this meat-laden feast was nothing short of a new world.
They had thought such a meal could only be enjoyed in paradise after death. Yet here they were, tasting it in life.
"Try the sausage as well. German sausages are famous around the world."
"Ah, thank you."
Whenever they hesitated over which of the many unfamiliar dishes to try, the Führer would nudge them toward something or another. Each time, the two youths stuffed their mouths full.
In 21st-century Korea, sausage was common. But in 1936 colonial Joseon, it was utterly exotic.
Most of the dishes were strange and foreign, but to their surprise, there were some familiar ones too.
"Isn’t this tofu and kimchi?"
"I had them brought here for you."
Tofu and kimchi, the very same food they’d shared yesterday with compatriots at the factory, were placed on the table. Sohn Kee-chung couldn’t hide his amazement. He never imagined they had been procured from the very factory they had visited.
There was another familiar sight: a boiled chicken in a pot—plain and unmistakably baeksuk.
Nam Sung-yong asked in surprise:
"Do Germans eat baeksuk too?"
Tamura translated Nam’s words—explaining baeksuk as a boiled chicken dish eaten only in Korea—before telling Hitler. Hitler shook his head.
"No. I had it prepared for you two."
"How did you know about baeksuk?"
"Well… let’s just say I imagined it."
In truth, it was chicken boiled thoroughly with garlic, salt, pepper, and bay leaves. But the taste was close enough.
As time passed, Sohn Kee-chung and Nam Sung-yong’s questions only grew.
Just what kind of man was this German Führer, to prepare even these foods? Surely a German wouldn’t eat Korean food for his own enjoyment. Could it really be that he had gone to all this trouble for them? In such a short time?
"Führer, if it isn’t rude, may I ask you something?"
"Go on."
"Did all gold medalists dine like this with you?"
"No. You are the first."
"Why treat us so well then? We aren’t Germans—we’re just Koreans."
"The reason is simple. Because you showed me willpower. Born in a colony, yet you won victory through your own effort. You surpassed all those formidable competitors. If there are such men, then of course I must meet them."
***
After the meal, with coffee and cake for dessert, I finally saw the two countrymen off.
They seemed truly moved by my kindness. Well, who wouldn’t be touched if a foreign leader—whose country had nothing to do with them—went to such lengths for their sake?
To top it off, I even lent them a car and had them taken around Berlin. Now that’s a real full course. Not that pathetic so-called Busan full course.
Before they left, I asked them to keep our meeting secret until they returned home from the Olympics, explaining that if word got out I’d met privately with Olympic athletes, it could put me in an awkward spot.
"Don’t worry, Führer. We’ll keep the secret without fail."
"I’ll never forget this day, even after I die."
"Travel safe. Let’s meet again if we get the chance."
When Sohn Kee-chung returned to Joseon after the Berlin Olympics, he received none of the treatment befitting an Olympic gold medalist.
Alarmed by his surging popularity among Koreans, the Japanese bound him like a criminal with ropes and paraded him, then shadowed him until liberation, monitoring his every move.
Nam Sung-yong didn’t suffer the same harsh surveillance, but as a bronze medalist, he never received the same public attention.
Thinking of the hardships awaiting them back in Joseon left me heavy-hearted. I could only hope today’s treatment would become a cherished memory to help them endure the difficult days ahead.
Besides them, there was one other foreign athlete I met in private.
Jesse Owens. The Black American track athlete famous for winning gold at Berlin.
To the public, the story was that Hitler stormed out in anger when Owens won his medal. But the truth was the complete opposite.
In reality, Hitler congratulated Owens and waved to him—while U.S. President Roosevelt didn’t even bother to meet him, let alone mention him.
Now that’s a picture worth painting.
"So you’re Jesse Owens. I’d heard the stories and wanted to meet you. It’s an honor."
"Thank you, Führer. It’s an honor for me as well."
Like Sohn Kee-chung and Nam Sung-yong before him, Owens looked stunned. The man who proclaimed German racial superiority wanted to meet him—a Black man? He never dreamed of it.
"I’ve heard you’ve endured a lot. I hear that even as an American citizen, you couldn’t freely use restaurants or bathrooms?"
"Every Black American lives like that, Führer."
"A strange thing. Decades have passed since Lincoln freed the slaves, yet there’s still discrimination. Well, our Germany is hardly free from prejudice either. Still, it’s a damn shame."
"I never imagined the Führer had such a broad perspective."
Owens seemed unsure whether my words came from genuine feeling or just lip service. But soon enough he realized I wouldn’t have gone to the trouble of inviting a Black man just to spout platitudes, and his face softened in gratitude.
"If every American were half the man you are, Führer, there’d be no such word as discrimination in this world."
"That’s flattering. Honestly, I’m not that big-hearted. I just can’t stomach the idea of people being judged by their skin color."
"That alone is enough. You’d be surprised how many people think skin color is everything."
Owens poured out his pent-up grievances—about the endless discrimination and contempt he’d endured, about the way Black people were treated in America. He went on and on like a fish finally back in water.
I chimed in here and there and listened to the end.
"You’ll be going back to America after the Olympics, I suppose. Still, with a gold medal, won’t people see you differently?"
"I’d like to believe that, but I’m not so sure. Even as a gold medalist, to most people I’ll still be a Negro first."
***
"Führer, I don’t understand. Why did you have to dine with that man?"
That was Himmler, the evening after my dinner with Jesse Owens.
Of course. I knew you’d say that. So predictable it was boring.
"Owens—he’s not even German, he’s a Negro."
"Exactly. Which is why I met him."
"Excuse me? You mean you met him precisely because he’s Black?"
"Why?"
Even Göring, who had been quiet, piped up with a puzzled look. Clearly none of them grasped my intention.
"Think about how Blacks are treated in America."
"Uh… not very well?"
"And aside from countries founded by Blacks themselves, where do they get treated well?"
That was Goebbels. He wasn’t wrong. Outside places like Haiti or Liberia, Blacks rarely received proper treatment.
"Right. But America is the world’s greatest power. Even there, discrimination against Blacks is perfectly normal."
"That’s no different in Germany, is it?"
"True. But there aren’t that many Blacks in Germany."
"…?"
"Think. In America, where Blacks are many, how will Jesse Owens be treated? Even with his gold medal, to most Americans he’s just another nigger. Medal or not, that won’t change.
But if he was treated with honor in Germany, while being despised in his own country? What do you think Black Americans would feel? They’d be disillusioned with their homeland. Meanwhile, Germany’s image would rise.
Just as in the Great War, America will do all it can to stop Germany from dominating Europe. When that day comes, if we can stir up America’s Blacks, wouldn’t that work in our favor?"
As I’ve said countless times before—what matters both in the future and right now is justification and image.
Wars have been lost for lack of them and won because of them.
Of course, I knew well enough that the idea of inciting Black Americans into revolt was hardly realistic. More than anything, I intended to avoid war with the U.S. at all costs. War with America was practically synonymous with defeat. Only a madman would choose it.
The list of countries that fought America and survived or won is damn short: North Korea, Vietnam, Afghanistan.
And North Korea only survived thanks to America’s fear of full war with China and the Soviet Union. Vietnam too, spared escalation for the same reason. Afghanistan? The U.S. quit because of costs, not because Afghans beat them clean. Considering the time and blood it took, you couldn’t really call that a perfect win.
Japan, on the other hand, with its Pearl Harbor stunt, really pissed America off. The result? Its whole homeland burned to ashes and utter ruin. And Germany and Italy, Japan’s partners, collapsed right alongside it.
Still, the fact remained: the story of me meeting and honoring Jesse Owens would shape how Black Americans saw Germany. One day, if U.S.–German relations soured, it could come in handy.
"Führer, if I may, I don’t think your plan is very realistic. Even if we stirred them, wouldn’t any Black uprising be quickly crushed?"
That was Heydrich. I nodded without protest.
"I don’t think it’s realistic either. It’s not a master plan, more like a shot in the dark. But if just a few hours can shift perceptions in another country, that’s a hell of a bargain, isn’t it?"
"But if word gets out that you dined with a Negro, wouldn’t that tarnish your prestige?"
"I don’t care. I’ve already been called an ‘honorary Chinese.’ If my enemies want to call me an ‘honorary Negro,’ let them. They’ll twist anything I do to smear me anyway."
Heydrich held his tongue after that. Even he must’ve found my logic convincing.
***
The Olympics wrapped up smoothly as scheduled.
Back in Joseon, Sohn Kee-chung and Nam Sung-yong found themselves under strict police surveillance because of their popularity.
As for Jesse Owens—despite his gold medals, the U.S. government thoroughly shunned him. Every medalist was invited to the White House, except him. Simply because he was Black.
Once the Olympics ended, the world’s gaze shifted back to Spain.
France, Mexico, and the Soviet Union supported the Republicans. Italy, Germany, and Portugal backed the Nationalists. The Spanish Civil War was turning into a proxy war.
"Enemy tank in front!"
"Fuck! Scatter!"
"Mom! Moooooom!!!"
At the front, the roar of guns and the screams of men never ceased.
Blood sprayed, bodies were smashed and buried in the dirt. Hell itself was reborn in Spain.