“My Fuhrer!
What exactly do you mean by that?!”
Himmler’s shrill voice rang through the cabinet chamber.
“My Fuhrer, it was I who requested those measures for the Olympics,” said the small-framed Goebbels, his voice edged with confusion.
“But if we don’t restore things afterward…
won’t that create certain problems?”
“So,” I replied evenly, “are you suggesting that I’ve abandoned my principles?”
I deliberately let irritation creep into my voice.
The memories lingering inside me—Hitler’s memories—told me this was the best way to handle them.
“N-No, of course not!” Himmler hurriedly protested.
“We would never presume such a thing,” Goebbels added, shrinking into himself even further.
“We have no reason to question your judgment, my Führer.”
Well…
I have changed my mind.
If there was one thing I had to accomplish before anything else, it was stopping the persecution of the Jews.
If there was ever a moment when that was possible, it was now.
The Nazi Party was inseparable from its persecution of Jews.
The image was deserved—they had pursued those policies with relentless enthusiasm.
But history wasn’t one uninterrupted escalation.
There had been brief periods when the pressure eased.
One of those periods was happening right now, during the Berlin Olympics.
Even in the original timeline, the regime had deliberately toned down its anti-Jewish campaign while the Games were underway.
With visitors arriving from every corner of the world, anti-Jewish signs disappeared from storefronts, and the harassment became noticeably less visible.
Many foreign tourists went home thinking, So this so-called persecution isn’t nearly as bad as we’d heard.
I intended to use that.
More than that—I had to.
If I let things resume as planned, events would gather momentum on their own.
After the Olympics, the persecution would gradually intensify.
Two years later would come Kristallnacht (the Night of Broken Glass).
By then, there would be no turning back.
As someone raised with the values of the twenty-first century, I couldn’t accept racial discrimination.
Even setting morality aside, though, the Jews were still German citizens.
The more citizens Germany had, the stronger it would be in the conflict that lay ahead.
“I have not abandoned anything,” I declared.
“You all saw it yourselves.
Foreigners walked through the streets of the Reich, looked around, and left disappointed because they found nothing remarkable.
Germany is not yet ready for war.
We must lull the other powers into a false sense of security.
We must convince them that this peace will last.
That is what you must understand.”
“B-But, my Fuhrer,” Goebbels protested, “our Party—and the German people themselves—have embraced the removal of the Jews.
Will such an abrupt change in policy truly be accepted?
Even I, after hearing your explanation directly, find it difficult to accept at once.”
“Goebbels!” I snapped.
“Convincing the Party and the people is precisely the responsibility of the Propaganda Ministry!”
I sound exactly like the world’s worst micromanaging boss.
Even I knew how unreasonable I was being.
Until recently, the Party had made hostility toward the Jews one of its defining messages.
Now I was demanding an immediate reversal.
“Understood, my Fuhrer,” Himmler said, stepping in before Goebbels could respond.
“I’ll see to it that the SS falls into line.”
“I never said it couldn’t be done,” Goebbels shot back.
“Only that such a sudden change presents…
quite a challenge.”
The power struggles in this government really are relentless.
They say that wherever three people gather, factions are inevitable.
The Nazi leadership was no exception.
Goring.
Goebbels.
Himmler.
Each had his own strengths.
Depending on the situation, they became rivals one day and allies the next.
The one thing they shared was absolute devotion—and absolute fear—toward Hitler.
Each was constantly searching for a chance to gain even the slightest advantage over the other two, currying favor whenever the opportunity arose.
“Hmph.
Very well,” I said.
“Himmler.
Goebbels.
I expect results from both of you.”
“Heil, my Fuhrer!”
The two men saluted in unison before leaving the room.
What a terrible boss I am.
As soon as the door shut behind them, I couldn’t help laughing bitterly at myself.
I’d dumped a complete policy reversal onto my subordinates without giving them the real reason.
Then I’d dumped the responsibility onto them as well.
By any normal standard, I was an awful manager.
Though…
for a dictator, this was probably the correct approach.
A dictator couldn’t afford to be seen making mistakes.
Which meant avoiding responsibility whenever possible.
If a policy succeeded, the credit belonged to the man who gave the order.
If it failed, the blame belonged to the one who carried it out.
Normally, that kind of leadership would destroy an organization.
But Hitler had somehow kept Goring, Goebbels, and Himmler competing just enough to balance one another.
He’d done the same with the Wehrmacht and every other major institution outside the Party, ensuring that no single group ever became powerful enough to challenge him.
There was a reason Goring hadn’t been invited to this meeting.
Divide and rule.
Whether Hitler had practiced it consciously or simply by instinct, the memories inside me insisted that this was how a dictator maintained power.
“My Fuhrer!
You summoned me?”
“Yes.
Come in, Goring.”
Now that I’d finished with those two…
It was Goring’s turn.