wetwipefatass
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Taking a Duce (A Benito Mussolini SI)
- Thread starter Alenco98
- Start date
Interlude: What a grand old party
Alenco98
Not too sore, are you?
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An excerpt from Maya Angelou's 1977 book: We just wanted to be free
Meanwhile, across the Mason-Dixon Line, the Republican Party smelled opportunity amid the ashes of Savannah.
At the center of this political pivot stood Thomas E. Dewey, the reformist Governor of New York and rising star within the Republican establishment. A sharp, clean-cut prosecutor turned politician, Dewey had long been known for his stance against organized crime—but now, his attention shifted to a far greater and more insidious enemy: American apartheid.
The Democratic Party, under the banner of President Franklin Delano Roosevelt, had ruled the White House for an unprecedented three consecutive terms. Almost twelve years of uninterrupted dominance had rendered the Republicans increasingly irrelevant on the national stage. Most political strategists predicted another crushing defeat in 1944. Roosevelt's New Deal was wildly popular. The Allies were gaining ground in the Pacific and had fended off the soviets in Scandinavia after the Karelia crisis ended, and even Mussolini's dramatic repositioning on the world stage—though alarming—had not yet swayed many American voters.
But Savannah changed everything.
The Battle of Savannah was not just a tragedy—it was a revelation. It exposed to the world that racism in the United States was not a regional quirk, nor a relic of the past—it was a living, breathing system of domestic terrorism, protected by governors and state officials, upheld by police, and tolerated by Washington.
Dewey saw what Roosevelt would not say aloud: this was a moral crisis. And it was a political one.
On June 14, 1943, just a day after the smoke finally cleared in Savannah, Dewey took the stage in Albany and delivered what would become one of the most consequential speeches of the decade.
He did not mince words.
"The Ku Klux Klan and segregation are not relics—it is a domestic enemy, a shameful legacy of our nation's failure to fulfill the promises of Reconstruction. Savannah has shown us the truth: Jim Crow is not law, it is terror in a white hood. And it is time we call it what it is—un-American."
The speech landed like a thunderclap across the political landscape. For the first time in modern memory, a major-party figure had publicly and vociferously called out white supremacy by name. Dewey condemned not only the Klan, but also the institutional rot of segregation, calling it "a fascism of the soul, no less dangerous than the jackboots of Italy or the torture chambers of Tokyo."
He pledged that, under his leadership, the Republican Party would become a bulwark for civil rights, and he warned the nation of a terrible irony: that in fighting fascism abroad, America risked nurturing it at home.
"If the United States cannot guarantee liberty for its own citizens, how dare we preach democracy to the world?" Dewey asked. "We are on the brink of losing the new war, just as the old one ended—not to bombs or tanks, but to the poison of hatred, fear, and racism."
True to his word, Dewey wasted no time. He convened an emergency session of the New York State Legislature, where, under his guidance and relentless pressure, the Ives-Quinn Act was drafted and passed in August 1943. It became the first state-level law in the United States to ban employment discrimination based on race, color, creed, or national origin—a legislative sledgehammer aimed directly at the Jim Crow ideology.
To enforce the law, Dewey created the New York State Commission Against Discrimination (SCAD)—an unprecedented move that gave real teeth to civil rights protections at the state level. For the first time, Black workers in New York could bring their grievances to a state agency and expect justice.
But Dewey's ambitions were bigger than New York.
On August 15, 1943, standing before a crowd of thousands in Manhattan, Dewey formally announced his candidacy for the presidency of the United States. Civil rights were not a footnote in his platform—they were the foundation.
"America stands at a crossroads," he declared. "Across the Atlantic, Mussolini courts the world's oppressed with honeyed words and open arms, not for liberty, but for power. He seeks to shame us—and he has succeeded. Savannah was not a foreign plot—it was our shame laid bare. If we want to secure our place in the world, we must first secure it at home. That means civil rights for every American. Not later. Now."
The crowd erupted in cheers, but in the South, the backlash was immediate.
Southern Democrats denounced Dewey as a "race traitor," "New York radical," and "fascist sympathizer"—ironic, given how closely many of them mirrored fascist ideology themselves. Jim Crow defenders went on the offensive, warning that civil rights would bring "Black domination," "white genocide," and "moral collapse." Pamphlets were distributed in Mississippi calling Dewey a "Negro puppet of northern banking interests." Radio shows in Alabama accused him of plotting to "hand America to the Papists and coloreds."
But Dewey didn't flinch.
He doubled down, touring Black neighborhoods in Harlem and Chicago, meeting with labor leaders, war veterans, and pastors. He called for a federal civil rights commission, an anti-lynching law, and the desegregation of the armed forces. He even met with Italian-American leaders to acknowledge the sacrifices made in Savannah, telling them:
"You showed America the mirror. Now we must have the courage to look."
For African Americans, Dewey's rise offered something they had not seen in generations: a sliver of hope from a party that once freed the slaves but had long since abandoned the cause. For segregationists, it was a harbinger of revolution—a challenge to their power and privilege.
For America, it was the beginning of a tragic reckoning.
The National Association for the Advancement of Colored People, once cautiously optimistic about the promises of liberal democracy was stunned by the events of Savannah. The battle had shattered any illusions of progress through traditional, incremental means. Black and Italian blood had stained the cobblestones of Georgia, and the sound of gunfire echoed louder than the voice of any senator, louder than the dithering equivocations of northern liberals too afraid to confront the South's festering cancer. Washington remained paralyzed—paralyzed by fear, by tradition, by the weight of a Constitution that too often served as a shackle rather than a shield. The message was clear: the system was not listening.
And then, Thomas E. Dewey spoke.
He did not stutter. He did not equivocate. He did not hide behind the language of commissions or gradual reform. He condemned segregation, denounced the monstrous hypocrisy of America's "freedom," and called the Jim Crow regime what it was: a grotesque apartheid system born in sin, maintained in violence, and destined for destruction. Dewey's words did not come wrapped in platitudes but in fire. And for the first time in decades, a major white politician spoke not about Black Americans, but to them—and with them.
The NAACP, disillusioned but desperate, took a leap no one had expected. In a historic and thunderous announcement, they formally endorsed Dewey's campaign for president, calling him:
"The only relevant white voice in America that openly stands with us. He does not beg for patience, he demands justice. And he does not ask for our votes—he earns them."
It was a political earthquake.
But the tremors did not stop there.
The Catholic Church, long nominally apolitical in American affairs, began to stir. Conscience and compassion overcame calculation. In the wake of Savannah and the martyrdom of its priests, Pope Pius XII issued a sweeping encyclical, denouncing racial hatred not as a mere social ill, but as a mortal sin. Racism, he declared, was "an affront to the divine image of mankind," and he called upon all Catholics, "to oppose it not only in prayer, but at the ballot box, and with their lives if necessary." He also began the process of canonizing Father Giulio Santini, calling him a, "modern day saint Sebastian."
The Vatican's words were not buried in obscure theological journals—they were printed in newspapers, shouted from pulpits, and echoed in catechism classes. Mussolini, ever watching from afar, endorsed the encyclical with a statement that shocked even his most cynical observers:
"Let it be known that the Church's war on racial injustice has the full blessing of Rome. Those who wear the fasces do not kneel before the lash of Jim Crow. Romans are not slaves."
The message was unambiguous.
Within days, Catholic churches across the United States—from the slums of the Bronx to the vineyards of California—began openly urging their congregants to vote for Dewey. Priests thundered from the pulpit. Nuns distributed voter guides. Bishops reminded their flocks that neutrality in the face of evil was itself a sin. And in pew after pew, hearts began to turn.
Italian, Irish, and Polish Americans—the backbone of the Democratic urban machine—began to defect. Many had suffered their own forms of bigotry, and while few had faced the unrelenting nightmare of Jim Crow, they knew injustice when they saw it.
Black Americans, too, began to notice.
Something was changing—not slowly, not subtly, but with the unmistakable tremor of a tectonic shift. In Black churches across the country, from the red clay hills of Georgia to the brick-row neighborhoods of Chicago, something sacred was unraveling. The old pillars of faith—Methodist, Baptist, and Episcopalian congregations—began to see their pews empty, their member rolls dwindle. Not because the people had lost their faith in God—but because they had lost faith in the institutions that had too often been content to coexist with injustice.
In many corners of the Black religious world, sermons still clung to the language of patience, of long-suffering humility, of awaiting God's justice in the next world rather than demanding it in this one. But the children of sharecroppers and steelworkers had seen too much—too many broken promises, too many polite betrayals. They were no longer willing to bow their heads while their neighbors were beaten for trying to vote, or while their sons returned from war in Europe only to be lynched at home. They sought something different. They needed a new message, one that did not ask them to endure—but to rise.
And that message came—from the most unexpected of places.
Mussolini, the unlikely architect of this new spiritual crusade, had been watching the slow collapse of Southern Protestantism's moral authority among the Black faithful. Perceiving both a spiritual vacuum and a moral opportunity, he convinced Pope Pius XII to act boldly, to send missionaries not to distant colonies but into the heart of America's own fractured soul: the Deep South.
These missionaries were no ordinary priests. They did not come alone.
They arrived in Alabama, Mississippi, and Louisiana under armed escort—accompanied by Italian Blackshirts and Sicilian mafiosi, whose loyalty to Mussolini and the Vatican was matched only by their disdain for American racism. They guarded the missionaries not from Black citizens, but from the mobs and sheriffs and Klansmen who saw their presence as a foreign invasion. In truth, it was an invasion—an invasion of the heart, a campaign not of bullets and banners but of Bibles, baptismal fonts, and fearless conviction.
But it was far from peaceful.
The South—already a cauldron of racial hatred and white supremacist paranoia—erupted into fury the moment it became clear that something irreversible was taking place. The rising tide of African American conversions to Catholicism, the presence of Italian missionaries, the symbolism of armed foreign escorts marching into small Southern towns—it was, for many white Southerners, a nightmare made real.
Local law enforcement, far from being neutral arbiters of order, were often the very instruments of suppression. Sheriffs and police officers—many openly affiliated with the Ku Klux Klan, others quietly sympathetic to its ideology—moved swiftly and violently. Under the pretense of "preserving the peace," they raided church services, dragging priests from altars, hauling them into jail cells on fabricated charges like disturbing the peace, inciting unrest, or practicing a "foreign" religion without proper permits.
In many cases, the mere act of offering Communion to Black citizens alongside white converts was treated as a provocation, a defiance of what white Southerners considered sacred: the racial hierarchy.
White citizens, inflamed by sermons from segregationist pastors and whipped into frenzy by local newspapers warning of "papist invasions" and "Black insurrections," formed mobs. Men with shotguns, baseball bats, and ropes gathered to confront the missionaries, to run them out of town with threats, fire, or bloodshed if necessary. Church buildings were firebombed. Rosaries were torn from elderly Black women's hands. Sacred statues were smashed beneath boot heels.
But something had changed.
This time, the resistance was not unarmed.
What had happened in Savannah—a bitter confrontation between armed fascist protectors and white supremacist militias—began to repeat itself across the South, again and again. From the swamps of Louisiana to the Appalachian foothills of South Carolina, small towns became battlegrounds.
Italian Blackshirts, loyal to Mussolini but also deeply committed to defending the missionaries, stood their ground. Alongside them were Sicilian mafiosi, many of whom saw the fight as both an extension of their code of honor and a brutal way to settle old debts with the forces of American nativism that had long treated Italian immigrants with disdain.
They did not ask for permission. They answered violence with violence.
When sheriffs tried to arrest priests, they were met with gunfire from concealed rooftops and ambushes along country roads. When mobs came with torches, they were confronted by men in trench coats with Thompson submachine guns, men who spoke in Sicilian dialects and recited Hail Marys before pulling the trigger.
But perhaps the most remarkable transformation was not among the foreigners—but among the locals.
African Americans, long conditioned to endure, suddenly began to resist.
Moved by the image of white men willing to fight and die on their behalf, willing to protect their churches and defend their children's right to worship without shame, they found something within themselves that generations of fear had buried but never destroyed: the will to fight back.
They took up arms—some smuggled from sympathetic mafiosi in the North, others handed down from veterans of World War I and II. They barricaded their churches. They trained their young men to shoot, to patrol, to organize.
Side by side with the Blackshirts and the mafiosi, they stood defiant.
In some places, the struggle escalated into all-out warfare.
In Clarksdale, Mississippi, a mob attempted to storm a recently established Catholic mission where over 200 Black residents had gathered for a night vigil. What they found instead were sandbags, barbed wire, and a defensive perimeter guarded by a coalition of Black volunteers and Italian gunmen. The firefight lasted two hours. By dawn, five Klansmen lay dead in the street. The National Guard arrived days later, not to restore peace—but to reclaim the bodies under the watchful eyes of the blackshirts, black Catholics, and the Sicilian mafia.
In Gadsden, Alabama, a Black community that had embraced Catholicism declared its independence from the county government. They expelled the sheriff, burned down the courthouse records, and raised a banner above their church: "Christ is King. Jim Crow is not."
And in dozens of other towns—Marion, Selma, Greenwood, and farther still—the pattern repeated: Black majority communities, newly awakened and newly armed, expelled their white political overlords, often after bloody skirmishes. White landowners fled under cover of night, leaving behind plantations that were promptly seized, their fields collectively farmed under the protection of local defense committees.
These towns became armed, Black-only enclaves—self-sufficient hamlets fortified not just with weapons, but with faith, fury, and unyielding resolve. They welcomed the Blackshirts and mafiosi who had bled beside them, granting them honorary citizenship and spiritual kinship. Together, they built walls—not just physical barricades, but cultural and spiritual sanctuaries, where children learned Latin hymns and Black Madonna statues replaced confederate statues.
White America watched in horror and disbelief.
To segregationists and their political allies, it was nothing short of insurrection—a blasphemous coalition of foreigners and "uppity" Negroes, threatening the foundations of their way of life. To others, especially disillusioned veterans and progressives in the North, it was something closer to prophecy fulfilled—a sign that America's underclass had finally thrown off the chains of both slavery and silence.
The federal government stood paralyzed, unsure whether to crush the movement or court its favor. President Roosevelt, caught between political necessity and personal conviction, issued a statement calling for calm, but refused to denounce the communities outright.
And across the South, the fires continued to burn—not only in buildings, but in hearts long starved of hope, now ignited with the flames of resistance.
What had begun as a spiritual awakening had become something far more powerful: a revolutionary realignment of power, race, and faith in the American soul.
And there would be no going back.
The Catholic Church meanwhile marched on, long an irrelevant force outside the northeastern US, was now at the center of a spiritual and political revolution. Within months, its membership surged by the millions. Entire Black communities, moved by the clarity and courage of the Vatican's stance on racial equality, began to leave their old congregations and embrace a faith that did not treat them as second-class Christians.
In sermons delivered in simple country chapels and grand city cathedrals alike, Catholic priests spoke with moral fire. They denounced Jim Crow from the pulpit, not as unfortunate tradition but as heresy. They invoked scripture not to placate but to inspire rebellion against the forces of hate. And in every sermon, one truth echoed: "There are no segregated pews in Heaven."
In the North itself, the effects were even more dramatic.
It was not a ripple—it was a tidal wave.
From Harlem to Detroit, from South Side Chicago to the immigrant neighborhoods of Boston, Catholic churches threw open their doors to Black Americans. There were no roped-off sections, no signs, no whispers urging "patience." There would be no separate seating for whites or Blacks. No separate sacraments. No divided flock. The message was clear, unyielding, and revolutionary:
"All are equal in the eyes of God—and all shall sit together."
In cities long divided by redlining and resentment, Catholics—Irish, Italian, Polish, and now Black—stood side by side at the altar. They knelt together. They shared communion. They broke bread in the same churches where, only years before, race riots had scarred the streets. It was not always smooth, nor was it without tension. But it was happening.
A new Great Awakening was unfolding across America.
But unlike the revivals of old, which often focused on personal salvation and emotional conversion, this was a collective spiritual uprising—rooted in justice, equality, and the refusal to tolerate oppression cloaked in the language of law or custom. It was not born in revival tents, but in the hard concrete streets and shotgun churches of Black America—and it spread like wildfire.
In towns both north and south, from cotton fields to steel mills, African Americans began converting to Catholicism in droves. Not out of novelty, but out of necessity—out of a yearning for a church that would march with them, that would shelter them, that would fight.
In Chicago, entire Black neighborhoods baptized hundreds at a time. In New Orleans, once ruled by the legacy of Creole caste systems, Black converts sang in Latin and raised crucifixes. In Harlem, Black children now attended parochial schools taught by nuns who did not flinch when they walked into the classroom.
This wasn't just spiritual.
It was political. It was cultural. It was radical.
The Catholic Church, once aloof and European in its distance, had descended into the trenches—and with it, came a renewed sense of solidarity that transcended race, region, and tradition. Black Catholics began forming their own councils, schools, and even publishing houses. They brought with them their traditions—the rhythm of gospel, the cry of the blues, the strength of their prayers—and fused it with the liturgy of Rome.
A new theology was being born—Black, Catholic, and unafraid.
And so, as America teetered between its past and its future, the Spirit moved. Not in whispers, but in roaring winds.
A once silenced people found their voice in the Latin mass, their strength in the sacraments, their dignity restored by a Church that had finally chosen to walk the path of righteousness—even if it was late in doing so.
And for the first time in generations, Black Americans no longer felt like spiritual exiles in their own land.
They were children of God—and now, everyone knew it.
Dewey meanwhile began to make promises—not to dismantle the New Deal but to reform it, to make it leaner, cleaner, more efficient without gutting its core. This calmed the fears of workers and union men. He was no reactionary. He was offering not a return to the past, but a bold leap forward.
And so they came. One by one, family by family, street by street.
In New York, voter rolls began to swell. In Buffalo, Polish dockworkers changed party affiliation en masse. In Pittsburgh, Irish steelworkers who once cursed the GOP as the party of Hoover now whispered that Dewey might be different. In Philadelphia, Catholic precincts buzzed with a new energy. Across Pennsylvania, the Republican Party—long a spent force outside the leafy suburbs—suddenly had life.
And in every conversation, every kitchen table debate, one name loomed like a phantom behind it all: Jim Crow.
The South's twisted system of white terror—its lynch mobs, its poll taxes, its segregated schools and sundown towns—had become too grotesque to ignore. It was not merely immoral. It was obscene. It was the living proof that America's democratic mask was slipping, revealing something far more monstrous underneath. It was the rotting corpse of Reconstruction, animated by hate and ritual violence, now exposed to the light. Every photo of a Black veteran beaten for trying to vote, every newspaper article about a child barred from school because of their skin—they were daggers to the American conscience.
And Dewey, for all his flaws, was the only white politician willing to wield a scalpel against the tumor.
The Republican Party, once thought unelectable in key northern states, now surged with new blood and righteous fury. Registration offices overflowed. Party chapters were inundated with new volunteers. Campaign offices buzzed with Catholics, progressives, disillusioned Roosevelt men, and young Black veterans demanding change. The once laughable notion that New York or Pennsylvania might flip was now whispered as strategy in smoky backrooms.
The dam had cracked.
And behind it surged a tidal wave of rage, hope, desperation, and resolve.
The battle lines were no longer Democrat versus Republican. They were Justice versus Jim Crow. Conscience versus cowardice. The future versus the noose.
And this time, at last, America might actually choose the right side.
Dewey immediately set to work on one of the most crucial tasks of any presidential hopeful: uniting his fractured party.
His primary obstacle was the conservative wing of the Republican Party, led by the formidable Senator Robert A. Taft of Ohio. The two men had a long and bitter rivalry dating back to the 1940 Republican National Convention, where their clashing visions for the party and the country had created deep fissures. Their personal relationship was distant at best, marked by mutual suspicion and ideological contempt.
But Thomas Dewey was, at his core, a pragmatist.
He knew that to mount a serious challenge to Roosevelt's Democratic dominance—and to offer a credible alternative to the American people—he had to bring Taft and his followers into the fold. Without the conservative bloc's support, the Republican Party would remain divided and vulnerable.
The day after announcing his presidential bid, Dewey did something few would have expected: he personally went to Taft's office in Washington, D.C., and requested a private, one-on-one meeting.
Taft, the "Senator from the Senate," known for his unwavering conservatism and mastery of legislative tactics, was cautious but curious. Dewey's visit was unusual—he rarely sought out his rivals so directly.
The two men sat together for hours.
In a measured, firm tone, Dewey laid out his case. He spoke not as a mere politician, but as a man who understood the stakes facing the world and the nation.
He warned Taft of the looming threats abroad—Mussolini's aggressive gambit in Europe and Africa, Stalin's relentless expansionism in Asia, and the terrifying possibility that these totalitarian regimes could divide the globe among themselves, leaving the United States isolated and vulnerable. He painted a dire picture of what might come if America did not act decisively.
Dewey emphasized that this election was the best chance the Republican Party had in years to reclaim the White House and restore American leadership in the world.
He was careful not to alienate Taft's conservative ideals. Dewey offered no grand reduction of the New Deal. Instead, he promised to streamline and reform existing programs, cutting waste and inefficiency while protecting the social safety net.
He pledged tax cuts to stimulate growth, a determined effort to pay down the national debt, and a crackdown on what he called "organized labor's worst excesses", signaling his intent to appeal to business interests and moderate conservatives without alienating working-class voters entirely.
Then, in a bold move, Dewey extended an offer that would both flatter and challenge Taft: the vice-presidential nomination. He promised his full support and endorsement for Taft's own presidential ambitions in 1952, presenting a deal that sought to bridge their differences through political cooperation.
Taft listened carefully but said little in response. His face remained inscrutable throughout the meeting—neither warmth nor outright hostility. When Dewey left that evening, Taft was left with a blank expression, a mask of cautious calculation.
Behind that impassive exterior, the wheels were turning.
And one thing was clear: Dewey had taken the first critical step toward bridging the divide in the Republican Party—and the future of the nation might depend on whether Taft chose to accept it.
For the remainder of August 1943, Thomas Dewey and Robert A. Taft met almost daily. Sometimes it was over formal luncheons in the Senate dining room; other times, in the quiet of Taft's office, shielded from prying eyes and the ever-present whispers of Washington politics. There were dinners at Dewey's hotel suite, walks through the Capitol's marbled corridors, and long conversations that often stretched late into the evening.
What began as strategic negotiations gradually evolved into something more genuine. As the days passed, they discovered they had far more in common than either had previously assumed.
Both were men of the law—trained attorneys forged in the crucible of rigorous education and the high-pressure world of litigation. Over coffee and bourbon, they swapped stories of grueling nights studying for the bar, the anxiety of their first appearances before a judge, and the satisfaction of winning hard-fought cases. It was in these shared experiences that the walls between them began to fall.
They were both men who revered the Constitution—not as an abstract idea, but as the bedrock of American democracy. They were committed institutionalists who believed deeply in the structure of the Republic, the separation of powers, and the sanctity of the rule of law. And while their approaches sometimes differed, both harbored a measured skepticism toward the New Deal's expansive federal bureaucracy, which they viewed as a potential threat to American self-government and individual liberty.
More urgently, they were united by a growing reality: that the world was being carved up by tyrants. Fascism and communism—once rivals—now posed parallel dangers to the democratic order. Mussolini's ruthless expansionism and Stalin's iron-fisted control over Eastern Europe and Asia terrified them. Neither man believed that Roosevelt, burdened by an aging administration and a one-party dominance, would be agile enough to face the coming storm.
Their alliance, once fragile, began to harden into a true political partnership.
Then, on September 1, 1943, a symbolic and strategic milestone was reached.
That morning, Senator Taft stood before the press and issued a statement endorsing Governor Thomas E. Dewey for the presidency of the United States. He praised Dewey's competence, his legal acumen, and his integrity. More importantly, he described him as "a man capable of guiding the nation through war and peace, without abandoning its constitutional moorings."
Later that afternoon, Dewey formally announced that he would select Senator Robert A. Taft as his running mate for the 1944 election. The Republican ticket—once thought to be divided by deep ideological fault lines—now stood united under two of its most capable and principled leaders.
The news electrified the party.
Eastern moderates and Midwestern conservatives alike rallied behind the Dewey-Taft ticket. Newspaper editorials hailed the union as a masterstroke—a fusion of legal brilliance, executive competence, and legislative authority. Even skeptical party bosses began to believe that Roosevelt could be beaten, especially in the wake of the Savannah Massacre and growing unrest in the South.
For the first time in over a decade, the Republican Party was no longer fractured by internal squabbles or ideological purges. It stood as a single, formidable force with a message of constitutional governance, restrained government, and unwavering commitment to defeating tyranny at home and abroad.
Now, the campaign would begin in earnest.
The Democrats were still reeling from the violence in Georgia and the criticism Roosevelt had faced for his silence. The public mood was shifting. The world was on fire, and America's soul was at stake.
The Republicans were united. Now, they had to win.
But victory always comes with a price.
Meanwhile, across the Mason-Dixon Line, the Republican Party smelled opportunity amid the ashes of Savannah.
At the center of this political pivot stood Thomas E. Dewey, the reformist Governor of New York and rising star within the Republican establishment. A sharp, clean-cut prosecutor turned politician, Dewey had long been known for his stance against organized crime—but now, his attention shifted to a far greater and more insidious enemy: American apartheid.
The Democratic Party, under the banner of President Franklin Delano Roosevelt, had ruled the White House for an unprecedented three consecutive terms. Almost twelve years of uninterrupted dominance had rendered the Republicans increasingly irrelevant on the national stage. Most political strategists predicted another crushing defeat in 1944. Roosevelt's New Deal was wildly popular. The Allies were gaining ground in the Pacific and had fended off the soviets in Scandinavia after the Karelia crisis ended, and even Mussolini's dramatic repositioning on the world stage—though alarming—had not yet swayed many American voters.
But Savannah changed everything.
The Battle of Savannah was not just a tragedy—it was a revelation. It exposed to the world that racism in the United States was not a regional quirk, nor a relic of the past—it was a living, breathing system of domestic terrorism, protected by governors and state officials, upheld by police, and tolerated by Washington.
Dewey saw what Roosevelt would not say aloud: this was a moral crisis. And it was a political one.
On June 14, 1943, just a day after the smoke finally cleared in Savannah, Dewey took the stage in Albany and delivered what would become one of the most consequential speeches of the decade.
He did not mince words.
"The Ku Klux Klan and segregation are not relics—it is a domestic enemy, a shameful legacy of our nation's failure to fulfill the promises of Reconstruction. Savannah has shown us the truth: Jim Crow is not law, it is terror in a white hood. And it is time we call it what it is—un-American."
The speech landed like a thunderclap across the political landscape. For the first time in modern memory, a major-party figure had publicly and vociferously called out white supremacy by name. Dewey condemned not only the Klan, but also the institutional rot of segregation, calling it "a fascism of the soul, no less dangerous than the jackboots of Italy or the torture chambers of Tokyo."
He pledged that, under his leadership, the Republican Party would become a bulwark for civil rights, and he warned the nation of a terrible irony: that in fighting fascism abroad, America risked nurturing it at home.
"If the United States cannot guarantee liberty for its own citizens, how dare we preach democracy to the world?" Dewey asked. "We are on the brink of losing the new war, just as the old one ended—not to bombs or tanks, but to the poison of hatred, fear, and racism."
True to his word, Dewey wasted no time. He convened an emergency session of the New York State Legislature, where, under his guidance and relentless pressure, the Ives-Quinn Act was drafted and passed in August 1943. It became the first state-level law in the United States to ban employment discrimination based on race, color, creed, or national origin—a legislative sledgehammer aimed directly at the Jim Crow ideology.
To enforce the law, Dewey created the New York State Commission Against Discrimination (SCAD)—an unprecedented move that gave real teeth to civil rights protections at the state level. For the first time, Black workers in New York could bring their grievances to a state agency and expect justice.
But Dewey's ambitions were bigger than New York.
On August 15, 1943, standing before a crowd of thousands in Manhattan, Dewey formally announced his candidacy for the presidency of the United States. Civil rights were not a footnote in his platform—they were the foundation.
"America stands at a crossroads," he declared. "Across the Atlantic, Mussolini courts the world's oppressed with honeyed words and open arms, not for liberty, but for power. He seeks to shame us—and he has succeeded. Savannah was not a foreign plot—it was our shame laid bare. If we want to secure our place in the world, we must first secure it at home. That means civil rights for every American. Not later. Now."
The crowd erupted in cheers, but in the South, the backlash was immediate.
Southern Democrats denounced Dewey as a "race traitor," "New York radical," and "fascist sympathizer"—ironic, given how closely many of them mirrored fascist ideology themselves. Jim Crow defenders went on the offensive, warning that civil rights would bring "Black domination," "white genocide," and "moral collapse." Pamphlets were distributed in Mississippi calling Dewey a "Negro puppet of northern banking interests." Radio shows in Alabama accused him of plotting to "hand America to the Papists and coloreds."
But Dewey didn't flinch.
He doubled down, touring Black neighborhoods in Harlem and Chicago, meeting with labor leaders, war veterans, and pastors. He called for a federal civil rights commission, an anti-lynching law, and the desegregation of the armed forces. He even met with Italian-American leaders to acknowledge the sacrifices made in Savannah, telling them:
"You showed America the mirror. Now we must have the courage to look."
For African Americans, Dewey's rise offered something they had not seen in generations: a sliver of hope from a party that once freed the slaves but had long since abandoned the cause. For segregationists, it was a harbinger of revolution—a challenge to their power and privilege.
For America, it was the beginning of a tragic reckoning.
The National Association for the Advancement of Colored People, once cautiously optimistic about the promises of liberal democracy was stunned by the events of Savannah. The battle had shattered any illusions of progress through traditional, incremental means. Black and Italian blood had stained the cobblestones of Georgia, and the sound of gunfire echoed louder than the voice of any senator, louder than the dithering equivocations of northern liberals too afraid to confront the South's festering cancer. Washington remained paralyzed—paralyzed by fear, by tradition, by the weight of a Constitution that too often served as a shackle rather than a shield. The message was clear: the system was not listening.
And then, Thomas E. Dewey spoke.
He did not stutter. He did not equivocate. He did not hide behind the language of commissions or gradual reform. He condemned segregation, denounced the monstrous hypocrisy of America's "freedom," and called the Jim Crow regime what it was: a grotesque apartheid system born in sin, maintained in violence, and destined for destruction. Dewey's words did not come wrapped in platitudes but in fire. And for the first time in decades, a major white politician spoke not about Black Americans, but to them—and with them.
The NAACP, disillusioned but desperate, took a leap no one had expected. In a historic and thunderous announcement, they formally endorsed Dewey's campaign for president, calling him:
"The only relevant white voice in America that openly stands with us. He does not beg for patience, he demands justice. And he does not ask for our votes—he earns them."
It was a political earthquake.
But the tremors did not stop there.
The Catholic Church, long nominally apolitical in American affairs, began to stir. Conscience and compassion overcame calculation. In the wake of Savannah and the martyrdom of its priests, Pope Pius XII issued a sweeping encyclical, denouncing racial hatred not as a mere social ill, but as a mortal sin. Racism, he declared, was "an affront to the divine image of mankind," and he called upon all Catholics, "to oppose it not only in prayer, but at the ballot box, and with their lives if necessary." He also began the process of canonizing Father Giulio Santini, calling him a, "modern day saint Sebastian."
The Vatican's words were not buried in obscure theological journals—they were printed in newspapers, shouted from pulpits, and echoed in catechism classes. Mussolini, ever watching from afar, endorsed the encyclical with a statement that shocked even his most cynical observers:
"Let it be known that the Church's war on racial injustice has the full blessing of Rome. Those who wear the fasces do not kneel before the lash of Jim Crow. Romans are not slaves."
The message was unambiguous.
Within days, Catholic churches across the United States—from the slums of the Bronx to the vineyards of California—began openly urging their congregants to vote for Dewey. Priests thundered from the pulpit. Nuns distributed voter guides. Bishops reminded their flocks that neutrality in the face of evil was itself a sin. And in pew after pew, hearts began to turn.
Italian, Irish, and Polish Americans—the backbone of the Democratic urban machine—began to defect. Many had suffered their own forms of bigotry, and while few had faced the unrelenting nightmare of Jim Crow, they knew injustice when they saw it.
Black Americans, too, began to notice.
Something was changing—not slowly, not subtly, but with the unmistakable tremor of a tectonic shift. In Black churches across the country, from the red clay hills of Georgia to the brick-row neighborhoods of Chicago, something sacred was unraveling. The old pillars of faith—Methodist, Baptist, and Episcopalian congregations—began to see their pews empty, their member rolls dwindle. Not because the people had lost their faith in God—but because they had lost faith in the institutions that had too often been content to coexist with injustice.
In many corners of the Black religious world, sermons still clung to the language of patience, of long-suffering humility, of awaiting God's justice in the next world rather than demanding it in this one. But the children of sharecroppers and steelworkers had seen too much—too many broken promises, too many polite betrayals. They were no longer willing to bow their heads while their neighbors were beaten for trying to vote, or while their sons returned from war in Europe only to be lynched at home. They sought something different. They needed a new message, one that did not ask them to endure—but to rise.
And that message came—from the most unexpected of places.
Mussolini, the unlikely architect of this new spiritual crusade, had been watching the slow collapse of Southern Protestantism's moral authority among the Black faithful. Perceiving both a spiritual vacuum and a moral opportunity, he convinced Pope Pius XII to act boldly, to send missionaries not to distant colonies but into the heart of America's own fractured soul: the Deep South.
These missionaries were no ordinary priests. They did not come alone.
They arrived in Alabama, Mississippi, and Louisiana under armed escort—accompanied by Italian Blackshirts and Sicilian mafiosi, whose loyalty to Mussolini and the Vatican was matched only by their disdain for American racism. They guarded the missionaries not from Black citizens, but from the mobs and sheriffs and Klansmen who saw their presence as a foreign invasion. In truth, it was an invasion—an invasion of the heart, a campaign not of bullets and banners but of Bibles, baptismal fonts, and fearless conviction.
But it was far from peaceful.
The South—already a cauldron of racial hatred and white supremacist paranoia—erupted into fury the moment it became clear that something irreversible was taking place. The rising tide of African American conversions to Catholicism, the presence of Italian missionaries, the symbolism of armed foreign escorts marching into small Southern towns—it was, for many white Southerners, a nightmare made real.
Local law enforcement, far from being neutral arbiters of order, were often the very instruments of suppression. Sheriffs and police officers—many openly affiliated with the Ku Klux Klan, others quietly sympathetic to its ideology—moved swiftly and violently. Under the pretense of "preserving the peace," they raided church services, dragging priests from altars, hauling them into jail cells on fabricated charges like disturbing the peace, inciting unrest, or practicing a "foreign" religion without proper permits.
In many cases, the mere act of offering Communion to Black citizens alongside white converts was treated as a provocation, a defiance of what white Southerners considered sacred: the racial hierarchy.
White citizens, inflamed by sermons from segregationist pastors and whipped into frenzy by local newspapers warning of "papist invasions" and "Black insurrections," formed mobs. Men with shotguns, baseball bats, and ropes gathered to confront the missionaries, to run them out of town with threats, fire, or bloodshed if necessary. Church buildings were firebombed. Rosaries were torn from elderly Black women's hands. Sacred statues were smashed beneath boot heels.
But something had changed.
This time, the resistance was not unarmed.
What had happened in Savannah—a bitter confrontation between armed fascist protectors and white supremacist militias—began to repeat itself across the South, again and again. From the swamps of Louisiana to the Appalachian foothills of South Carolina, small towns became battlegrounds.
Italian Blackshirts, loyal to Mussolini but also deeply committed to defending the missionaries, stood their ground. Alongside them were Sicilian mafiosi, many of whom saw the fight as both an extension of their code of honor and a brutal way to settle old debts with the forces of American nativism that had long treated Italian immigrants with disdain.
They did not ask for permission. They answered violence with violence.
When sheriffs tried to arrest priests, they were met with gunfire from concealed rooftops and ambushes along country roads. When mobs came with torches, they were confronted by men in trench coats with Thompson submachine guns, men who spoke in Sicilian dialects and recited Hail Marys before pulling the trigger.
But perhaps the most remarkable transformation was not among the foreigners—but among the locals.
African Americans, long conditioned to endure, suddenly began to resist.
Moved by the image of white men willing to fight and die on their behalf, willing to protect their churches and defend their children's right to worship without shame, they found something within themselves that generations of fear had buried but never destroyed: the will to fight back.
They took up arms—some smuggled from sympathetic mafiosi in the North, others handed down from veterans of World War I and II. They barricaded their churches. They trained their young men to shoot, to patrol, to organize.
Side by side with the Blackshirts and the mafiosi, they stood defiant.
In some places, the struggle escalated into all-out warfare.
In Clarksdale, Mississippi, a mob attempted to storm a recently established Catholic mission where over 200 Black residents had gathered for a night vigil. What they found instead were sandbags, barbed wire, and a defensive perimeter guarded by a coalition of Black volunteers and Italian gunmen. The firefight lasted two hours. By dawn, five Klansmen lay dead in the street. The National Guard arrived days later, not to restore peace—but to reclaim the bodies under the watchful eyes of the blackshirts, black Catholics, and the Sicilian mafia.
In Gadsden, Alabama, a Black community that had embraced Catholicism declared its independence from the county government. They expelled the sheriff, burned down the courthouse records, and raised a banner above their church: "Christ is King. Jim Crow is not."
And in dozens of other towns—Marion, Selma, Greenwood, and farther still—the pattern repeated: Black majority communities, newly awakened and newly armed, expelled their white political overlords, often after bloody skirmishes. White landowners fled under cover of night, leaving behind plantations that were promptly seized, their fields collectively farmed under the protection of local defense committees.
These towns became armed, Black-only enclaves—self-sufficient hamlets fortified not just with weapons, but with faith, fury, and unyielding resolve. They welcomed the Blackshirts and mafiosi who had bled beside them, granting them honorary citizenship and spiritual kinship. Together, they built walls—not just physical barricades, but cultural and spiritual sanctuaries, where children learned Latin hymns and Black Madonna statues replaced confederate statues.
White America watched in horror and disbelief.
To segregationists and their political allies, it was nothing short of insurrection—a blasphemous coalition of foreigners and "uppity" Negroes, threatening the foundations of their way of life. To others, especially disillusioned veterans and progressives in the North, it was something closer to prophecy fulfilled—a sign that America's underclass had finally thrown off the chains of both slavery and silence.
The federal government stood paralyzed, unsure whether to crush the movement or court its favor. President Roosevelt, caught between political necessity and personal conviction, issued a statement calling for calm, but refused to denounce the communities outright.
And across the South, the fires continued to burn—not only in buildings, but in hearts long starved of hope, now ignited with the flames of resistance.
What had begun as a spiritual awakening had become something far more powerful: a revolutionary realignment of power, race, and faith in the American soul.
And there would be no going back.
The Catholic Church meanwhile marched on, long an irrelevant force outside the northeastern US, was now at the center of a spiritual and political revolution. Within months, its membership surged by the millions. Entire Black communities, moved by the clarity and courage of the Vatican's stance on racial equality, began to leave their old congregations and embrace a faith that did not treat them as second-class Christians.
In sermons delivered in simple country chapels and grand city cathedrals alike, Catholic priests spoke with moral fire. They denounced Jim Crow from the pulpit, not as unfortunate tradition but as heresy. They invoked scripture not to placate but to inspire rebellion against the forces of hate. And in every sermon, one truth echoed: "There are no segregated pews in Heaven."
In the North itself, the effects were even more dramatic.
It was not a ripple—it was a tidal wave.
From Harlem to Detroit, from South Side Chicago to the immigrant neighborhoods of Boston, Catholic churches threw open their doors to Black Americans. There were no roped-off sections, no signs, no whispers urging "patience." There would be no separate seating for whites or Blacks. No separate sacraments. No divided flock. The message was clear, unyielding, and revolutionary:
"All are equal in the eyes of God—and all shall sit together."
In cities long divided by redlining and resentment, Catholics—Irish, Italian, Polish, and now Black—stood side by side at the altar. They knelt together. They shared communion. They broke bread in the same churches where, only years before, race riots had scarred the streets. It was not always smooth, nor was it without tension. But it was happening.
A new Great Awakening was unfolding across America.
But unlike the revivals of old, which often focused on personal salvation and emotional conversion, this was a collective spiritual uprising—rooted in justice, equality, and the refusal to tolerate oppression cloaked in the language of law or custom. It was not born in revival tents, but in the hard concrete streets and shotgun churches of Black America—and it spread like wildfire.
In towns both north and south, from cotton fields to steel mills, African Americans began converting to Catholicism in droves. Not out of novelty, but out of necessity—out of a yearning for a church that would march with them, that would shelter them, that would fight.
In Chicago, entire Black neighborhoods baptized hundreds at a time. In New Orleans, once ruled by the legacy of Creole caste systems, Black converts sang in Latin and raised crucifixes. In Harlem, Black children now attended parochial schools taught by nuns who did not flinch when they walked into the classroom.
This wasn't just spiritual.
It was political. It was cultural. It was radical.
The Catholic Church, once aloof and European in its distance, had descended into the trenches—and with it, came a renewed sense of solidarity that transcended race, region, and tradition. Black Catholics began forming their own councils, schools, and even publishing houses. They brought with them their traditions—the rhythm of gospel, the cry of the blues, the strength of their prayers—and fused it with the liturgy of Rome.
A new theology was being born—Black, Catholic, and unafraid.
And so, as America teetered between its past and its future, the Spirit moved. Not in whispers, but in roaring winds.
A once silenced people found their voice in the Latin mass, their strength in the sacraments, their dignity restored by a Church that had finally chosen to walk the path of righteousness—even if it was late in doing so.
And for the first time in generations, Black Americans no longer felt like spiritual exiles in their own land.
They were children of God—and now, everyone knew it.
Dewey meanwhile began to make promises—not to dismantle the New Deal but to reform it, to make it leaner, cleaner, more efficient without gutting its core. This calmed the fears of workers and union men. He was no reactionary. He was offering not a return to the past, but a bold leap forward.
And so they came. One by one, family by family, street by street.
In New York, voter rolls began to swell. In Buffalo, Polish dockworkers changed party affiliation en masse. In Pittsburgh, Irish steelworkers who once cursed the GOP as the party of Hoover now whispered that Dewey might be different. In Philadelphia, Catholic precincts buzzed with a new energy. Across Pennsylvania, the Republican Party—long a spent force outside the leafy suburbs—suddenly had life.
And in every conversation, every kitchen table debate, one name loomed like a phantom behind it all: Jim Crow.
The South's twisted system of white terror—its lynch mobs, its poll taxes, its segregated schools and sundown towns—had become too grotesque to ignore. It was not merely immoral. It was obscene. It was the living proof that America's democratic mask was slipping, revealing something far more monstrous underneath. It was the rotting corpse of Reconstruction, animated by hate and ritual violence, now exposed to the light. Every photo of a Black veteran beaten for trying to vote, every newspaper article about a child barred from school because of their skin—they were daggers to the American conscience.
And Dewey, for all his flaws, was the only white politician willing to wield a scalpel against the tumor.
The Republican Party, once thought unelectable in key northern states, now surged with new blood and righteous fury. Registration offices overflowed. Party chapters were inundated with new volunteers. Campaign offices buzzed with Catholics, progressives, disillusioned Roosevelt men, and young Black veterans demanding change. The once laughable notion that New York or Pennsylvania might flip was now whispered as strategy in smoky backrooms.
The dam had cracked.
And behind it surged a tidal wave of rage, hope, desperation, and resolve.
The battle lines were no longer Democrat versus Republican. They were Justice versus Jim Crow. Conscience versus cowardice. The future versus the noose.
And this time, at last, America might actually choose the right side.
Dewey immediately set to work on one of the most crucial tasks of any presidential hopeful: uniting his fractured party.
His primary obstacle was the conservative wing of the Republican Party, led by the formidable Senator Robert A. Taft of Ohio. The two men had a long and bitter rivalry dating back to the 1940 Republican National Convention, where their clashing visions for the party and the country had created deep fissures. Their personal relationship was distant at best, marked by mutual suspicion and ideological contempt.
But Thomas Dewey was, at his core, a pragmatist.
He knew that to mount a serious challenge to Roosevelt's Democratic dominance—and to offer a credible alternative to the American people—he had to bring Taft and his followers into the fold. Without the conservative bloc's support, the Republican Party would remain divided and vulnerable.
The day after announcing his presidential bid, Dewey did something few would have expected: he personally went to Taft's office in Washington, D.C., and requested a private, one-on-one meeting.
Taft, the "Senator from the Senate," known for his unwavering conservatism and mastery of legislative tactics, was cautious but curious. Dewey's visit was unusual—he rarely sought out his rivals so directly.
The two men sat together for hours.
In a measured, firm tone, Dewey laid out his case. He spoke not as a mere politician, but as a man who understood the stakes facing the world and the nation.
He warned Taft of the looming threats abroad—Mussolini's aggressive gambit in Europe and Africa, Stalin's relentless expansionism in Asia, and the terrifying possibility that these totalitarian regimes could divide the globe among themselves, leaving the United States isolated and vulnerable. He painted a dire picture of what might come if America did not act decisively.
Dewey emphasized that this election was the best chance the Republican Party had in years to reclaim the White House and restore American leadership in the world.
He was careful not to alienate Taft's conservative ideals. Dewey offered no grand reduction of the New Deal. Instead, he promised to streamline and reform existing programs, cutting waste and inefficiency while protecting the social safety net.
He pledged tax cuts to stimulate growth, a determined effort to pay down the national debt, and a crackdown on what he called "organized labor's worst excesses", signaling his intent to appeal to business interests and moderate conservatives without alienating working-class voters entirely.
Then, in a bold move, Dewey extended an offer that would both flatter and challenge Taft: the vice-presidential nomination. He promised his full support and endorsement for Taft's own presidential ambitions in 1952, presenting a deal that sought to bridge their differences through political cooperation.
Taft listened carefully but said little in response. His face remained inscrutable throughout the meeting—neither warmth nor outright hostility. When Dewey left that evening, Taft was left with a blank expression, a mask of cautious calculation.
Behind that impassive exterior, the wheels were turning.
And one thing was clear: Dewey had taken the first critical step toward bridging the divide in the Republican Party—and the future of the nation might depend on whether Taft chose to accept it.
For the remainder of August 1943, Thomas Dewey and Robert A. Taft met almost daily. Sometimes it was over formal luncheons in the Senate dining room; other times, in the quiet of Taft's office, shielded from prying eyes and the ever-present whispers of Washington politics. There were dinners at Dewey's hotel suite, walks through the Capitol's marbled corridors, and long conversations that often stretched late into the evening.
What began as strategic negotiations gradually evolved into something more genuine. As the days passed, they discovered they had far more in common than either had previously assumed.
Both were men of the law—trained attorneys forged in the crucible of rigorous education and the high-pressure world of litigation. Over coffee and bourbon, they swapped stories of grueling nights studying for the bar, the anxiety of their first appearances before a judge, and the satisfaction of winning hard-fought cases. It was in these shared experiences that the walls between them began to fall.
They were both men who revered the Constitution—not as an abstract idea, but as the bedrock of American democracy. They were committed institutionalists who believed deeply in the structure of the Republic, the separation of powers, and the sanctity of the rule of law. And while their approaches sometimes differed, both harbored a measured skepticism toward the New Deal's expansive federal bureaucracy, which they viewed as a potential threat to American self-government and individual liberty.
More urgently, they were united by a growing reality: that the world was being carved up by tyrants. Fascism and communism—once rivals—now posed parallel dangers to the democratic order. Mussolini's ruthless expansionism and Stalin's iron-fisted control over Eastern Europe and Asia terrified them. Neither man believed that Roosevelt, burdened by an aging administration and a one-party dominance, would be agile enough to face the coming storm.
Their alliance, once fragile, began to harden into a true political partnership.
Then, on September 1, 1943, a symbolic and strategic milestone was reached.
That morning, Senator Taft stood before the press and issued a statement endorsing Governor Thomas E. Dewey for the presidency of the United States. He praised Dewey's competence, his legal acumen, and his integrity. More importantly, he described him as "a man capable of guiding the nation through war and peace, without abandoning its constitutional moorings."
Later that afternoon, Dewey formally announced that he would select Senator Robert A. Taft as his running mate for the 1944 election. The Republican ticket—once thought to be divided by deep ideological fault lines—now stood united under two of its most capable and principled leaders.
The news electrified the party.
Eastern moderates and Midwestern conservatives alike rallied behind the Dewey-Taft ticket. Newspaper editorials hailed the union as a masterstroke—a fusion of legal brilliance, executive competence, and legislative authority. Even skeptical party bosses began to believe that Roosevelt could be beaten, especially in the wake of the Savannah Massacre and growing unrest in the South.
For the first time in over a decade, the Republican Party was no longer fractured by internal squabbles or ideological purges. It stood as a single, formidable force with a message of constitutional governance, restrained government, and unwavering commitment to defeating tyranny at home and abroad.
Now, the campaign would begin in earnest.
The Democrats were still reeling from the violence in Georgia and the criticism Roosevelt had faced for his silence. The public mood was shifting. The world was on fire, and America's soul was at stake.
The Republicans were united. Now, they had to win.
But victory always comes with a price.
.
Blue tide or roll tide
Alenco98
Not too sore, are you?
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Transcript: Emergency Oval Office Meeting – June 14, 1943
Participants:
President Franklin D. Roosevelt
Vice President Henry A. Wallace
Governor Eugene Talmadge of Georgia
Location: White House, Washington D.C.
Time: 8:45 PM
---
[BEGIN TRANSCRIPT]
ROOSEVELT:
(slamming hand on desk)
Goddammit, Eugene—have you seen the front page of The New York Times?! Le Monde?! Do you even know what they're calling us in Rome right now? "The Butchers of Savannah." That's what! You have singlehandedly ruined America's name in every capital from London to Canberra.
TALMADGE:
Mr. President, with all due respect, this didn't start with us. That consulate was harboring radicals, terrorists! They opened fire on our boys. They started it.
WALLACE:
Bull shit, Eugene. They were handing out passports, not weapons. It was the National Guard that opened fire on unarmed civilians. You slaughtered people in front of the goddamn Italian consulate! Do you have any idea how this looks?
TALMADGE:
They were harboring seditionists—Negro agitators, thugs, communists. It was a powder keg. They lit the match, not me.
ROOSEVELT:
You nailed a priest to a telephone pole, Eugene! You let mobs run wild through the streets like it was 1865. We have photos of priests cradling shot children, for God's sake! Do you have any concept of the damage you've done?
TALMADGE:
You're not pinning this all on Georgia, Franklin. Your damn State Department let those Italians set up shop in Savannah like it was a Roman colony. They were fanning the flames of rebellion. I won't apologize for defending my state.
WALLACE:
Defending it? By lynching men in broad daylight? By letting white mobs burn down half the Black side of Savannah? You turned a consulate into a charnel house! There are Black veterans—men who fought for this country—lying dead in the gutters.
ROOSEVELT:
And now we're getting telegrams from the Vatican! The Archbishop of New York is threatening to denounce the Democratic Party from the pulpit. You think the Irish and Italians in Boston and Chicago are going to vote for us now? You've sabotaged 1944.
TALMADGE:
You want to talk sabotage? How about Rome issuing passports to American Negroes? That's not diplomacy. That's infiltration. That's incitement!
WALLACE:
You don't get it, Eugene. The world has changed. The colonies are rising. Africa is watching. Harlem is watching. And Rome is offering a future that we won't. You've singlehandedly destroyed the fragile coalition we built because you couldn't keep your boys under control!
ROOSEVELT:
And now we're being dragged with you. I've got Churchill on the phone asking if we're slipping into fascism while Mussolini is handing out civil rights like they're candy! What the hell am I supposed to say?
TALMADGE:
Tell Churchill to worry about his own empire. We don't answer to Rome. Not now, not ever.
WALLACE:
Tell that to the corpses in Savannah.
ROOSEVELT:
Enough. God damn it, I should've put you on a leash a year ago. But now we're bleeding support in the North and losing it in the South. I have Catholic mayors threatening to break with us. Progressives walking out. Wallace's people are ready to bolt, and honestly, so am I.
WALLACE:
If we don't hold someone accountable, Franklin, the progressives will walk. And I don't know if I can stop them.
TALMADGE:
If you throw me under the bus, you'll lose the South.
ROOSEVELT:
If I don't, we'll lose everything. God help you, Eugene—you may have lit the match that burns this party to the ground.
[END TRANSCRIPT]
---------------------------------
Transcript: Emergency Cabinet Meeting – June 14, 1943
Location: White House, Cabinet Room, Washington D.C.
Time: 11:00 PM
Attendees:
President Franklin D. Roosevelt (FDR)
Secretary of State Cordell Hull
Attorney General Francis Biddle
Secretary of War Henry Stimson
FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover
Vice President Henry A. Wallace (briefly present)
Other senior advisers and military aides
---
[BEGIN TRANSCRIPT]
FDR:
(paces the room, voice heavy with frustration)
Gentlemen, we stand on the edge of a knife. Savannah has exposed the rot at the core of our nation—and it's bleeding out in plain sight. Photos of Black corpses in church clothes, priests nailed to poles, fires burning neighborhoods... And all while our allies in Europe are trying to build a new world order. This is the image we project? God help us.
We cannot allow this to continue. Not only is it a moral stain, it's a strategic disaster. I want the FBI to crush the Klan—root and branch. J. Edgar, I'm counting on you to shut down those cells, and fast. No more tolerance, no more turning a blind eye. This isn't a Southern problem; this is an American problem.
HOOVER:
(nods, grim)
Mr. President, I've already been moving on this quietly. We have informants in several chapters. But the Klan is deeply entrenched, especially in local law enforcement. It won't be easy.
FDR:
Easy? No. Necessary? Absolutely. We must break their back. If not, the violence will spread to cities in the North. The party's chances in '44 depend on it.
(turns to Secretary Hull)
Cordell, what about these Italian consulates? They're functioning like mini-embassies of Rome in our backyard. Offering citizenship to African Americans, openly defying our sovereignty. We've got mobs burning homes and lynching men in front of their doors. It's chaos.
HULL:
Mr. President, it's a diplomatic nightmare. The Italians have been careful to keep things just below open war. But public opinion is a powder keg, especially after Savannah. Closing the consulates would send a clear signal, but it risks escalating tensions with Rome.
FDR:
(voice rising)
We have to close them. We have to preserve peace here at home before it becomes a war abroad. I don't want another Rangoon or Kiev in the streets of Savannah. The consulates must be shuttered—tomorrow.
BIDDLE:
Mr. President, legally, we can revoke their privileges, citing incitement and interference in domestic affairs. It's a justified action.
FDR:
Good. Do it.
(paces again, rubbing his face tiredly)
I'm worried—no, terrified—about the party. The Catholics in the North, the progressives on the left, African Americans who see Rome as a beacon, and the Southern Democrats clinging to their old ways. We are tearing ourselves apart. I'm the only thing holding this coalition together.
(pauses, voice dropping to a quiet resolve)
I'll run for a fourth term. I hate it, but I see no other way. No one else can hold the party together. Not in these fractured times. The nation needs a steady hand to secure a post-war peace, to rebuild our shattered world and to reclaim our standing.
But... the world is watching, and they're judging. Mussolini—that bastard—he has outplayed us. Declaring himself Emperor Constantine XII, restoring the Roman Empire, preaching civil rights and decolonization while we bicker over lynchings and consulates. Rome has stolen the moral high ground from us.
It's brilliant, and it's infuriating.
STIMSON:
His gambit in Africa and the American South is shrewd, but fragile. The new Empire lacks the economic and military strength to hold it for long. We must focus on winning the war and shaping the post-war order.
FDR:
Exactly. But that means winning back our narrative. We have to act fast, decisively, or this moment will define us—not the New Deal, not the war effort, but Savannah and the broken promise of America.
HOOVER:
If I may, Mr. President, taking down the Klan will send a strong message domestically and internationally. But it must be thorough. Half-measures will only embolden extremists.
FDR:
Do whatever it takes, J. Edgar. And make no mistake, I'll be watching. We cannot allow this country to be divided by hate—not while the world looks to us for leadership.
(leans forward, voice low but fierce)
Gentlemen, the stakes have never been higher. We are fighting for more than victory overseas—we are fighting for the soul of this nation. And I intend to see that fight through to the end.
---
[END TRANSCRIPT]
-------------------------
Transcript: Democratic Party Emergency Leadership Meeting
Date: June 15, 1943
Location: Roosevelt Room, The White House
Time: 3:00 PM
Attendees:
President Franklin D. Roosevelt
Vice President Henry A. Wallace
Senator Robert Wagner (NY) – Labor wing
Senator Alben Barkley (KY) – Majority Leader
Representative Sam Rayburn (TX) – Speaker of the House
Senator Theodore Bilbo (MS) – Southern wing
Senator James Byrnes (SC) – Southern moderate
Senator Claude Pepper (FL) – Progressive
Senator Harry S. Truman (MO) – Seen as a compromise figure
Democratic Party strategists and aides
---
[BEGIN TRANSCRIPT]
FDR:
(seated, hands folded, unusually grim tone)
Gentlemen, I won't waste time. Savannah changed everything. We're bleeding—morally, politically, internationally. The Roman Empire is back, and it's wearing the cloak of anti-racism, civil rights, and decolonization. And what are we offering? Lynchings in the streets of Georgia.
We're being outflanked—by Mussolini, of all people.
(murmurs ripple across the room)
If we don't come together now, we lose the White House, we lose Congress, and mark my words—we lose the New Deal and segregation. The Republicans won't stop at busting unions. They'll burn both ends of the house down if they take over. The only chance we have is unity.
(leans forward)
I'm telling you all now—I'm going to run again in '44. I don't want to. God knows I don't have the strength. But there's no one else who can hold this damned party together.
(glances toward Wallace)
We're going to have to make changes. Serious ones. We will move on civil rights—not for votes, not for optics, but because the world is watching. Mussolini is handing passports to Black Americans while we let them get lynched outside a consulate. If we don't do something, our credibility is gone. Forever.
WAGNER:
Mr. President, I agree entirely. Labor's with you. We've been pushing for anti-lynching legislation for years, and now we have the moment. But the Southern boys—
BILBO:
(slamming the table)
The Southern boys aren't going to be sold out to Mussolini's moral sermonizing! You want to hand the government over to the NAACP and call it progress? You want Federal troops in our towns?
WALLACE:
(cold, furious)
Maybe if Southern towns stopped acting like fascist colonies, the President wouldn't have to consider it.
BILBO:
You watch your tongue, Henry. You talk about fascism, but you're backing one in Washington!
WALLACE:
You're calling me a fascist while defending lynch mobs! You are the reason Black Americans are turning to foreign powers for dignity and protection!
FDR:
(banging his cane on the floor)
Enough! ENOUGH!
(room falls silent)
If you think I'll sit here and watch this party tear itself apart while the world burns, you are out of your minds. You want to fight? Fine. But if you don't shut up and listen, I swear to God I'll resign tomorrow and leave you bastards to choke on Dewey's dust in '44.
(all stunned into silence)
You want to keep the South? Fine. We give them someone they can stomach. Wallace, you've been loyal, but you know as well as I do you are poison to the Southern vote now.
WALLACE:
(visibly shaken)
So that's it. I've spent my life building a better America, and you're trading it away like chips at a card game?
FDR:
No, Henry. I'm buying time. Without time, we get nothing. No labor reforms. No integration. No victory. No world peace. Nothing.
I propose we run with a compromise. A moderate. Someone they can live with—someone who won't excite the mobs but won't drag us into the swamp either.
BYRNES:
Who do you have in mind?
FDR:
Harry Truman.
TRUMAN:
(startled)
Me?
FDR:
Yes. You're labor-friendly, no firebrand, and Southern enough for the Dixiecrats. You're clean, respected, and dull enough to avoid headlines. Which is what we need now.
RAYBURN:
(grumbling)
It could work. He's Missouri. Border state. Not Deep South, not New York. He's a bridge.
BILBO:
I don't like it. But it's better than Wallace.
WALLACE:
This is a betrayal! You're throwing away the progressives to appease those damn racists in the south!
FDR:
I'm not throwing them away goddamn it! If we don't do it, we'll all regret it when Mussolini's "Roman civil rights empire" is welcoming American refugees with olive branches and we're left explaining why we shot priests and mothers in the street.
(long silence)
FDR:
This is the deal: we put Truman on the ticket. We move on civil rights—quietly, incrementally, but firmly. We shut down the damn Klan. We close the consulates. And we take back the moral high ground from that son of a bitch in Rome.
Take it or leave it. But this is the only path forward.
WALLACE:
(rising to his feet, voice sharp, eyes blazing)
You want to run with Truman? Fine. But I won't be part of it. And don't think I'll go quietly. The progressive wing of this party will walk with me. I'll take every labor leader, every farmer, every Black voter who still believes in this country's promise—and we'll bury this party before we let it sell its soul to Dixie.
BILBO:
(grinning smugly)
Let 'em walk. Maybe then we'll have a party that actually represents the South again.
WALLACE:
(turning on Bilbo)
We're not the ones who killed negroes because we don't like them being next to white people! The whole world saw what your ilk did in Savannah. You're a walking gift to fascism. If we let you keep setting the rules, we don't deserve to win.
FDR:
(roaring now, slamming his fist into the table, voice like thunder)
HENRY. Sit. Down damn it!
(Wallace freezes. The room goes quiet. FDR's face is red, his breathing heavy.)
You think I want this? You think I enjoy playing goddamned puppeteer? But this isn't about you, or your pride, or the south's! This is about survival. Of the New Deal. Of the labor movement. Of democracy.
You walk—and the Republicans will annihilate us. They'll repeal every reform we've fought for since '33. Social Security? Dead. WPA? Gone. Union protections? Gone. Housing, banking, regulation? Dead. And in their place? Taft, Hoover, and a thousand little fascists with American flags in one hand and Wall Street checks in the other.
You think Dewey gives a damn about civil rights? You think he'll do a damn thing for the poor, the Black man, the farmer, or the working mother? He'll smile and gut everything we built while patting you on the head.
(points a finger directly at Wallace)
You want to walk out? You want to split this party and hand the country over to the bankers and Taft? Be my guest. But don't pretend it's moral. It's not. It's surrender dressed up in principle.
WALLACE:
(teeth clenched, voice lower but angrier)
You're choosing appeasement. You're choosing comfort over courage.
FDR:
I'm choosing victory. And the chance to live and fight another day. This is chess, Henry, not a sermon.
TRUMAN:
(quietly)
Look, I don't want to be the wedge here. If it's going to split the party, maybe I'm not the right—
FDR:
No, Harry. You're exactly right. Because you won't split it. You'll hold it—barely—but just enough to win. That's all we need.
(long silence. Everyone is drained, except Roosevelt, who still burns with controlled rage.)
FDR (cont'd):
This is the deal. We run with Truman. We move on civil rights. We take the hit now to keep the future intact. We fight Mussolini's narrative not with purity, but with progress. Inch by inch.
Because the world is watching. And history will remember what we chose to do now.
(No one speaks. Even Wallace stays seated, seething but quiet. One by one, heads begin to nod. Slowly, bitterly—but they nod.)
[END TRANSCRIPT]
Participants:
President Franklin D. Roosevelt
Vice President Henry A. Wallace
Governor Eugene Talmadge of Georgia
Location: White House, Washington D.C.
Time: 8:45 PM
---
[BEGIN TRANSCRIPT]
ROOSEVELT:
(slamming hand on desk)
Goddammit, Eugene—have you seen the front page of The New York Times?! Le Monde?! Do you even know what they're calling us in Rome right now? "The Butchers of Savannah." That's what! You have singlehandedly ruined America's name in every capital from London to Canberra.
TALMADGE:
Mr. President, with all due respect, this didn't start with us. That consulate was harboring radicals, terrorists! They opened fire on our boys. They started it.
WALLACE:
Bull shit, Eugene. They were handing out passports, not weapons. It was the National Guard that opened fire on unarmed civilians. You slaughtered people in front of the goddamn Italian consulate! Do you have any idea how this looks?
TALMADGE:
They were harboring seditionists—Negro agitators, thugs, communists. It was a powder keg. They lit the match, not me.
ROOSEVELT:
You nailed a priest to a telephone pole, Eugene! You let mobs run wild through the streets like it was 1865. We have photos of priests cradling shot children, for God's sake! Do you have any concept of the damage you've done?
TALMADGE:
You're not pinning this all on Georgia, Franklin. Your damn State Department let those Italians set up shop in Savannah like it was a Roman colony. They were fanning the flames of rebellion. I won't apologize for defending my state.
WALLACE:
Defending it? By lynching men in broad daylight? By letting white mobs burn down half the Black side of Savannah? You turned a consulate into a charnel house! There are Black veterans—men who fought for this country—lying dead in the gutters.
ROOSEVELT:
And now we're getting telegrams from the Vatican! The Archbishop of New York is threatening to denounce the Democratic Party from the pulpit. You think the Irish and Italians in Boston and Chicago are going to vote for us now? You've sabotaged 1944.
TALMADGE:
You want to talk sabotage? How about Rome issuing passports to American Negroes? That's not diplomacy. That's infiltration. That's incitement!
WALLACE:
You don't get it, Eugene. The world has changed. The colonies are rising. Africa is watching. Harlem is watching. And Rome is offering a future that we won't. You've singlehandedly destroyed the fragile coalition we built because you couldn't keep your boys under control!
ROOSEVELT:
And now we're being dragged with you. I've got Churchill on the phone asking if we're slipping into fascism while Mussolini is handing out civil rights like they're candy! What the hell am I supposed to say?
TALMADGE:
Tell Churchill to worry about his own empire. We don't answer to Rome. Not now, not ever.
WALLACE:
Tell that to the corpses in Savannah.
ROOSEVELT:
Enough. God damn it, I should've put you on a leash a year ago. But now we're bleeding support in the North and losing it in the South. I have Catholic mayors threatening to break with us. Progressives walking out. Wallace's people are ready to bolt, and honestly, so am I.
WALLACE:
If we don't hold someone accountable, Franklin, the progressives will walk. And I don't know if I can stop them.
TALMADGE:
If you throw me under the bus, you'll lose the South.
ROOSEVELT:
If I don't, we'll lose everything. God help you, Eugene—you may have lit the match that burns this party to the ground.
[END TRANSCRIPT]
---------------------------------
Transcript: Emergency Cabinet Meeting – June 14, 1943
Location: White House, Cabinet Room, Washington D.C.
Time: 11:00 PM
Attendees:
President Franklin D. Roosevelt (FDR)
Secretary of State Cordell Hull
Attorney General Francis Biddle
Secretary of War Henry Stimson
FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover
Vice President Henry A. Wallace (briefly present)
Other senior advisers and military aides
---
[BEGIN TRANSCRIPT]
FDR:
(paces the room, voice heavy with frustration)
Gentlemen, we stand on the edge of a knife. Savannah has exposed the rot at the core of our nation—and it's bleeding out in plain sight. Photos of Black corpses in church clothes, priests nailed to poles, fires burning neighborhoods... And all while our allies in Europe are trying to build a new world order. This is the image we project? God help us.
We cannot allow this to continue. Not only is it a moral stain, it's a strategic disaster. I want the FBI to crush the Klan—root and branch. J. Edgar, I'm counting on you to shut down those cells, and fast. No more tolerance, no more turning a blind eye. This isn't a Southern problem; this is an American problem.
HOOVER:
(nods, grim)
Mr. President, I've already been moving on this quietly. We have informants in several chapters. But the Klan is deeply entrenched, especially in local law enforcement. It won't be easy.
FDR:
Easy? No. Necessary? Absolutely. We must break their back. If not, the violence will spread to cities in the North. The party's chances in '44 depend on it.
(turns to Secretary Hull)
Cordell, what about these Italian consulates? They're functioning like mini-embassies of Rome in our backyard. Offering citizenship to African Americans, openly defying our sovereignty. We've got mobs burning homes and lynching men in front of their doors. It's chaos.
HULL:
Mr. President, it's a diplomatic nightmare. The Italians have been careful to keep things just below open war. But public opinion is a powder keg, especially after Savannah. Closing the consulates would send a clear signal, but it risks escalating tensions with Rome.
FDR:
(voice rising)
We have to close them. We have to preserve peace here at home before it becomes a war abroad. I don't want another Rangoon or Kiev in the streets of Savannah. The consulates must be shuttered—tomorrow.
BIDDLE:
Mr. President, legally, we can revoke their privileges, citing incitement and interference in domestic affairs. It's a justified action.
FDR:
Good. Do it.
(paces again, rubbing his face tiredly)
I'm worried—no, terrified—about the party. The Catholics in the North, the progressives on the left, African Americans who see Rome as a beacon, and the Southern Democrats clinging to their old ways. We are tearing ourselves apart. I'm the only thing holding this coalition together.
(pauses, voice dropping to a quiet resolve)
I'll run for a fourth term. I hate it, but I see no other way. No one else can hold the party together. Not in these fractured times. The nation needs a steady hand to secure a post-war peace, to rebuild our shattered world and to reclaim our standing.
But... the world is watching, and they're judging. Mussolini—that bastard—he has outplayed us. Declaring himself Emperor Constantine XII, restoring the Roman Empire, preaching civil rights and decolonization while we bicker over lynchings and consulates. Rome has stolen the moral high ground from us.
It's brilliant, and it's infuriating.
STIMSON:
His gambit in Africa and the American South is shrewd, but fragile. The new Empire lacks the economic and military strength to hold it for long. We must focus on winning the war and shaping the post-war order.
FDR:
Exactly. But that means winning back our narrative. We have to act fast, decisively, or this moment will define us—not the New Deal, not the war effort, but Savannah and the broken promise of America.
HOOVER:
If I may, Mr. President, taking down the Klan will send a strong message domestically and internationally. But it must be thorough. Half-measures will only embolden extremists.
FDR:
Do whatever it takes, J. Edgar. And make no mistake, I'll be watching. We cannot allow this country to be divided by hate—not while the world looks to us for leadership.
(leans forward, voice low but fierce)
Gentlemen, the stakes have never been higher. We are fighting for more than victory overseas—we are fighting for the soul of this nation. And I intend to see that fight through to the end.
---
[END TRANSCRIPT]
-------------------------
Transcript: Democratic Party Emergency Leadership Meeting
Date: June 15, 1943
Location: Roosevelt Room, The White House
Time: 3:00 PM
Attendees:
President Franklin D. Roosevelt
Vice President Henry A. Wallace
Senator Robert Wagner (NY) – Labor wing
Senator Alben Barkley (KY) – Majority Leader
Representative Sam Rayburn (TX) – Speaker of the House
Senator Theodore Bilbo (MS) – Southern wing
Senator James Byrnes (SC) – Southern moderate
Senator Claude Pepper (FL) – Progressive
Senator Harry S. Truman (MO) – Seen as a compromise figure
Democratic Party strategists and aides
---
[BEGIN TRANSCRIPT]
FDR:
(seated, hands folded, unusually grim tone)
Gentlemen, I won't waste time. Savannah changed everything. We're bleeding—morally, politically, internationally. The Roman Empire is back, and it's wearing the cloak of anti-racism, civil rights, and decolonization. And what are we offering? Lynchings in the streets of Georgia.
We're being outflanked—by Mussolini, of all people.
(murmurs ripple across the room)
If we don't come together now, we lose the White House, we lose Congress, and mark my words—we lose the New Deal and segregation. The Republicans won't stop at busting unions. They'll burn both ends of the house down if they take over. The only chance we have is unity.
(leans forward)
I'm telling you all now—I'm going to run again in '44. I don't want to. God knows I don't have the strength. But there's no one else who can hold this damned party together.
(glances toward Wallace)
We're going to have to make changes. Serious ones. We will move on civil rights—not for votes, not for optics, but because the world is watching. Mussolini is handing passports to Black Americans while we let them get lynched outside a consulate. If we don't do something, our credibility is gone. Forever.
WAGNER:
Mr. President, I agree entirely. Labor's with you. We've been pushing for anti-lynching legislation for years, and now we have the moment. But the Southern boys—
BILBO:
(slamming the table)
The Southern boys aren't going to be sold out to Mussolini's moral sermonizing! You want to hand the government over to the NAACP and call it progress? You want Federal troops in our towns?
WALLACE:
(cold, furious)
Maybe if Southern towns stopped acting like fascist colonies, the President wouldn't have to consider it.
BILBO:
You watch your tongue, Henry. You talk about fascism, but you're backing one in Washington!
WALLACE:
You're calling me a fascist while defending lynch mobs! You are the reason Black Americans are turning to foreign powers for dignity and protection!
FDR:
(banging his cane on the floor)
Enough! ENOUGH!
(room falls silent)
If you think I'll sit here and watch this party tear itself apart while the world burns, you are out of your minds. You want to fight? Fine. But if you don't shut up and listen, I swear to God I'll resign tomorrow and leave you bastards to choke on Dewey's dust in '44.
(all stunned into silence)
You want to keep the South? Fine. We give them someone they can stomach. Wallace, you've been loyal, but you know as well as I do you are poison to the Southern vote now.
WALLACE:
(visibly shaken)
So that's it. I've spent my life building a better America, and you're trading it away like chips at a card game?
FDR:
No, Henry. I'm buying time. Without time, we get nothing. No labor reforms. No integration. No victory. No world peace. Nothing.
I propose we run with a compromise. A moderate. Someone they can live with—someone who won't excite the mobs but won't drag us into the swamp either.
BYRNES:
Who do you have in mind?
FDR:
Harry Truman.
TRUMAN:
(startled)
Me?
FDR:
Yes. You're labor-friendly, no firebrand, and Southern enough for the Dixiecrats. You're clean, respected, and dull enough to avoid headlines. Which is what we need now.
RAYBURN:
(grumbling)
It could work. He's Missouri. Border state. Not Deep South, not New York. He's a bridge.
BILBO:
I don't like it. But it's better than Wallace.
WALLACE:
This is a betrayal! You're throwing away the progressives to appease those damn racists in the south!
FDR:
I'm not throwing them away goddamn it! If we don't do it, we'll all regret it when Mussolini's "Roman civil rights empire" is welcoming American refugees with olive branches and we're left explaining why we shot priests and mothers in the street.
(long silence)
FDR:
This is the deal: we put Truman on the ticket. We move on civil rights—quietly, incrementally, but firmly. We shut down the damn Klan. We close the consulates. And we take back the moral high ground from that son of a bitch in Rome.
Take it or leave it. But this is the only path forward.
WALLACE:
(rising to his feet, voice sharp, eyes blazing)
You want to run with Truman? Fine. But I won't be part of it. And don't think I'll go quietly. The progressive wing of this party will walk with me. I'll take every labor leader, every farmer, every Black voter who still believes in this country's promise—and we'll bury this party before we let it sell its soul to Dixie.
BILBO:
(grinning smugly)
Let 'em walk. Maybe then we'll have a party that actually represents the South again.
WALLACE:
(turning on Bilbo)
We're not the ones who killed negroes because we don't like them being next to white people! The whole world saw what your ilk did in Savannah. You're a walking gift to fascism. If we let you keep setting the rules, we don't deserve to win.
FDR:
(roaring now, slamming his fist into the table, voice like thunder)
HENRY. Sit. Down damn it!
(Wallace freezes. The room goes quiet. FDR's face is red, his breathing heavy.)
You think I want this? You think I enjoy playing goddamned puppeteer? But this isn't about you, or your pride, or the south's! This is about survival. Of the New Deal. Of the labor movement. Of democracy.
You walk—and the Republicans will annihilate us. They'll repeal every reform we've fought for since '33. Social Security? Dead. WPA? Gone. Union protections? Gone. Housing, banking, regulation? Dead. And in their place? Taft, Hoover, and a thousand little fascists with American flags in one hand and Wall Street checks in the other.
You think Dewey gives a damn about civil rights? You think he'll do a damn thing for the poor, the Black man, the farmer, or the working mother? He'll smile and gut everything we built while patting you on the head.
(points a finger directly at Wallace)
You want to walk out? You want to split this party and hand the country over to the bankers and Taft? Be my guest. But don't pretend it's moral. It's not. It's surrender dressed up in principle.
WALLACE:
(teeth clenched, voice lower but angrier)
You're choosing appeasement. You're choosing comfort over courage.
FDR:
I'm choosing victory. And the chance to live and fight another day. This is chess, Henry, not a sermon.
TRUMAN:
(quietly)
Look, I don't want to be the wedge here. If it's going to split the party, maybe I'm not the right—
FDR:
No, Harry. You're exactly right. Because you won't split it. You'll hold it—barely—but just enough to win. That's all we need.
(long silence. Everyone is drained, except Roosevelt, who still burns with controlled rage.)
FDR (cont'd):
This is the deal. We run with Truman. We move on civil rights. We take the hit now to keep the future intact. We fight Mussolini's narrative not with purity, but with progress. Inch by inch.
Because the world is watching. And history will remember what we chose to do now.
(No one speaks. Even Wallace stays seated, seething but quiet. One by one, heads begin to nod. Slowly, bitterly—but they nod.)
[END TRANSCRIPT]
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ATP
Well worn.
- Joined
- Jun 24, 2020
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- 6,483
But you still created system more logical then Imperial Truth of Emprah from WH40.Or communism from real life.You did well.
But - Italy still do not have economy and army to win like that.....
Last edited:
Thiccc Shaedy
"Once upon a time, not long ago, I was a hoe!" 😇
- Joined
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- 2,998
Right?! I've always been of the opinion that African Americans back then shoulda fought tooth and nail for their rights instead of enduring all that abuse. Maybe they woulda been taking more seriously if a few thousand white women and children hung from the trees every time a black American was lynched. Since they liked to murder black people to protect their precious little white girls, then maybe they (black folks) shoulda REALLY given them a reason to worry about them melanin-deficient hoes. Can't have black women being the only ones getting gang raped in these streets, am I right?
Oh, and all them judges, police officers and politicians that endorsed that shit? Yeah, they shoulda gotten their homes and workplaces bombed to the ground. Honestly, my black American and Latino (cos I ain't forget about them racist clowns across the border) cousins shoulda just turned the Western Hemisphere into a warzone to get their reparations. Too, bad it didn't go that way.
Chaoswind
Lord of nonsense
- Joined
- Jan 27, 2019
- Messages
- 1,664
Right?! I've always been of the opinion that African Americans back then shoulda fought tooth and nail for their rights instead of enduring all that abuse. Maybe they woulda been taking more seriously if a few thousand white women and children hung from the trees every time a black American was lynched. Since they liked to murder black people to protect their precious little white girls, then maybe they (black folks) shoulda REALLY given them a reason to worry about them melanin-deficient hoes. Can't have black women being the only ones getting gang raped in these streets, am I right?
Oh, and all them judges, police officers and politicians that endorsed that shit? Yeah, they shoulda gotten their homes and workplaces bombed to the ground. Honestly, my black American and Latino (cos I ain't forget about them racist clowns across the border) cousins shoulda just turned the Western Hemisphere into a warzone to get their reparations. Too, bad it didn't go that way.
Hard disagree.
They should have fire bombed the institutions, police and armed themselves to the teeth, but explicitly targeting women and children is a fast way to lose.
Alenco98
Not too sore, are you?
- Joined
- Oct 20, 2022
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This man knows urban guerrilla warfare
Thiccc Shaedy
"Once upon a time, not long ago, I was a hoe!" 😇
- Joined
- Nov 20, 2020
- Messages
- 2,998
I know. I'm just being petty. Also... Due to my narcissism, my first thought whenever someone pisses me off is to hit 'em where it really hurts, which is usually either their family or their livelihoods. Also, one of the main reason why black men were lynched is cos white women'd falsely accuse them of sexual assault or harassment, like in the case case of Emit Till, so it's not like them heffas were innocent either.
But, yeah, I defo agree with you on that whole bombing their institutions thing. Like, if it were me, and I got denied access to all the services that my taxes paid for? Yeah, no, if I can't have it then no one else can. Honestly, with how psycho I can get, the only reason why I haven't committed crimes against humanity is cos I live in a social democracy that treats me right. Lord knows that if I were living back home in Somalia I'd have probably been a terrorist or serial killer by now cos that place is basically the Wild West but with more melanin.
Alenco98
Not too sore, are you?
- Joined
- Oct 20, 2022
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- 306
I know. I'm just being petty. Also... Due to my narcissism, my first thought whenever someone pisses me off is to hit 'em where it really hurts, which is usually either their family or their livelihoods. Also, one of the main reason why black men were lynched is cos white women'd falsely accuse them of sexual assault or harassment, like in the case case of Emit Till, so it's not like them heffas were innocent either.
But, yeah, I defo agree with you on that whole bombing their institutions thing. Like, if it were me, and I got denied access to all the services that my taxes paid for? Yeah, no, if I can't have it then no one else can. Honestly, with how psycho I can get, the only reason why I haven't committed crimes against humanity is cos I live in a social democracy that treats me right. Lord knows that if I were living back home in Somalia I'd have probably been a terrorist or serial killer by now cos that place is basically the Wild West but with more melanin.
Speaking of Somalia, I made Siad Barre (yes that one) a guerrilla working under Skorensky to set Africa on fire to spread African liberation.
He will be VERY prominent in future Africa chapters. I want your take on it.
Thiccc Shaedy
"Once upon a time, not long ago, I was a hoe!" 😇
- Joined
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Yeah. I noticed. I hope you do my uncle Siyaad justice, cos that man is a legend for my people! Honestly, our country has never been the same without him. Like, we miss him so much that I wish I could learn necromancy so I can bring him back, cos them clowns that are running my "country" are a legit embarrassment, and we need him to fix the mess that absence has created.
To be human
Alenco98
Not too sore, are you?
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November 3, 1942
Outskirts of Jizan
Kingdom of Yemen
Lieutenant Mattias Berg exhaled sharply through gritted teeth, the arid wind catching in his throat as he raised a clenched fist—his signal to halt. The column of Yemeni conscripts behind him froze mid-step, their boots scuffing the cracked earth. Overhead, the shadows of the Regia Aeronautica and the nascent Yemeni air corps circled like vultures, engines snarling as they began their descent toward the doomed city below.
"Masks on!" he barked in clipped, heavily-accented Arabic. The words came more easily than they should have—he had been in Yemen less than a month, and yet necessity had carved the language into him like a blade.
Officially, he was an instructor—an "advisor" sent by Rome to help modernize the Imam's army. In reality, he was little more than a ghost of war, conscripted into another man's crusade. The Scuola di Guerra Moderna had been his reward—or punishment—for surviving Thrace and Germany. A fresh commission, papers adorned with signatures and seals, and a slow descent into something colder, harder than he had once been.
They had broken him in stages. Drills at dawn, doctrine at dusk. Mao, Clausewitz, Tukhachevsky—all memorized and spat back with obedient precision. War, he'd learned, was a language. And he had become fluent.
He adjusted the straps of his gas mask, tugging them taut. The chemical was not mustard gas, though it might as well have been. Lieutenant-Colonel Alborghetti had spoken of it in the careless, conspiratorial tones of a man who'd seen too much and coped with laughter.
"Tabun," he had said, swirling brandy in a chipped glass. "Some German-made shit. Duce imported it with the chemists. My cousin's in the department—says they've got ex-Nazis working with them. One of them tested it on a dog. Said the skin peeled clean off. Like fruit." Alborghetti had raised his glass with a grin, "So, Mattias, keep that mask tight. Or you'll be pissing blood and seeing angels by dawn."
Mattias had laughed, but his hands had trembled for an hour afterward.
He crouched behind a low wall of sunbaked stone, watching the airstrike unfold. Distant screams echoed on the wind—coughing, howling, a chorus of agony muffled by distance but unmistakable. He didn't need to see to know what the gas was doing.
Some of the civilians—Shi'a mostly, loyal to the Imam—had been warned. The Yemenis had ensured it, discreetly. A quiet word to a village elder. A slip of paper beneath a prayer mat. Not enough. Never enough. But it was all the imam could do without risking his entire scheme those under his command.
He turned to look at the boys behind him—barely old enough to shave, trembling fingers clutching rifles too large for their frames. One of them reminded him of Giustino, the same wiry build, the same careless lock of dark hair falling into his eyes.
Giustino.
The name hit him like a stone dropped in still water. He had not spoken it aloud in months. He had not dared. But it lived in him, just beneath the surface, like an old wound that flared at the wrong angle.
He reached beneath his tunic, his fingers brushing against the dog tags that hung close to his heart. He wore them still, tucked beneath his uniform where no one could see. Giustino's name engraved in clean, blocky letters. His mother had let him keep them. She had pressed them into Mattias' palm the day he left their village in Sicily, her eyes dry but sunken with something heavier than grief.
"You were his friend," she had said. "You were with him when he fell."
He had nodded. He hadn't corrected her.
Friend. It was a word that meant too little, and too much. Giustino had been his shadow in the trenches, his echo in the barracks, the only laughter he could still remember clearly. His best friend when he was conscripted —and both had volunteered for Thrace. Mattias had told himself it was duty, that it was merely the bond between soldiers. He had believed it then. He tried to believe it still.
But sometimes, in the quiet moments, when the stars stretched endlessly over the desert and sleep would not come, he thought of Giustino's voice—soft, joking, always a little too close. He remembered the night they had sat back to back beneath the shattered remains of a Turkish mosque outside Edirne after surviving that chemical infested nightmare of urban warfare, sharing a cigarette stolen from a dead soldier, their shoulders touching. Neither had spoken for an hour. And yet, it had been the fullest conversation Mattias had ever known in his life.
He was dead now. Lost in Thrace, buried in an unmarked grave on a nameless Hill along with most of his old unit. But Mattias carried him still, through the sands and smoke, through the cries of the dying and the rot of imperial ambition.
A gust of wind stirred the air, carrying the chemical tang of tabun. Mattias adjusted his mask again and blinked the sweat from his eyes.
There was still a mission. Still orders. Still young men who looked at him for guidance, for certainty. He could not afford memory. He could not afford longing.
He rose to his feet and signaled the advance.
The war moved forward. And so did he.
But in his chest, the dog tags clinked quietly against his ribs—like a heartbeat that wasn't quite his own.
They entered the town like a slow-moving tide—measured, deliberate, methodical. The dry wind carried the acrid sting of chemical residue and scorched stone. Mattias led from the front, eyes scanning every window, every rooftop. His body moved on instinct now, muscle memory forged in the relentless crucible of the Scuola di Guerra Moderna. Drill upon drill, repetition until exhaustion. It had hollowed him out and rebuilt him, not into a man, but into a mechanism—precise, detached, efficient.
"Check the corners!" he barked in Italian, the phrase tumbling out like a reflex. One of his interpreters—Mahmoud, the tall one with kind eyes—translated the order, and it passed down the line like scripture.
"Check for snipers! Sweep and clear! Every room, every rooftop!"
The Yemeni conscripts obeyed without hesitation. There was a certain grace to the way they moved, a young soldier's hunger to prove himself. A few took initiative—secure a junction, barricade a side alley, cover an open street. Mattias made note of it, scribbling names into a small, leather-bound notebook he kept in his breast pocket. Field commissions. Commendations. A gesture, perhaps futile, but one that gave the illusion of meaning.
The Imam had plans to build his own Scuola, modeled after the Italian academies. Mattias had seen the blueprints—modest but ambitious. He wondered if any of these boys would live long enough to graduate from it.
Then the civilians emerged—or what was left of them.
The gas had done its work with ruthless efficiency. In the main square, bodies were stacked like discarded lumber. Faces blistered, eyes glazed, some frozen mid-scream. Children clung to their mothers, limbs locked in a final, fruitless embrace. The air stank of death, of chemicals and blood and shit. The kind of smell that clung to the inside of your nostrils long after the wind had carried it away.
The Yemeni troops laughed. Jeered. Spat.
"Mushrikīn," one sneered, kicking a corpse.
"Zindīq," said another.
"Kāfir. Let them burn."
Mattias didn't need to ask what the words meant. He'd been briefed. He had sat through hours of lectures from the General Staff and the Imam's scholars alike. The hatred between the Shi'a and the Wahhabis was not political. It was religious. Ancestral. Cosmic. Not unlike the hatred between Protestants and Catholics back in Europe during the reformation and wars of religion. Here, in the deserts of Arabia, it bled freely and without apology.
And Mattias—neutral, foreign, Catholic—was merely the one holding the leash, pretending it wasn't in his hand.
One of the soldiers, barely more than a boy, retrieved a rusted fuel canister from a truck. Another followed, and another. Soon, a half-dozen of them were dousing the corpses with gasoline, the liquid sloshing over bodies with a sickening, wet hiss.
Mattias didn't stop them.
He didn't speak, didn't move. He didn't even look away. He stood still, helmet tucked under one arm, gas mask dangling from his belt, the desert wind whipping at his coat like the fingers of ghosts.
To look away would have been cowardice. He owed the dead at least that much. A witness.
The flames caught quickly—ragged tongues of orange and red that licked the sky with ravenous hunger. The fire roared, devouring flesh and bone alike, black smoke rising into the heavens like an unholy prayer.
He didn't flinch. He didn't vomit. He felt the nausea claw at his throat but swallowed it down, along with the shame. He had long since learned to bury those things, to wrap them in steel and silence.
A small part of him—deep, hidden—was grateful Giustino wasn't here.
Giustino would've said something. He always did. A joke, most likely. Something disarming. Perhaps a quip about a barbecue, accompanied by that crooked grin he wore whenever he was trying to distract Mattias from something terrible.
And then, when they were alone, away from the others, he would turn solemn. He'd talk about morality, about how men convince themselves of righteousness. About the sheer fragility of civilization, and how easy it was for good men to slip into evil over things like doctrine and dogma and the shape of God. Then he would smile, like a child fascinated by what he'd just observed.
Mattias had listened to him then, but he hadn't understood. Not truly.
Now, too late, he did.
He turned his gaze upward. The sun blazed hot and indifferent above, veiled by smoke. No thunder came. No divine voice spoke from the clouds. No judgment. Only the steady crackle of burning flesh and the distant sound of artillery in the mountains.
The world was quiet, cruel, and godless.
He touched the tags beneath his uniform again. Giustino's name was warm against his chest. He had taken to doing it unconsciously now—like a gesture of prayer, or guilt.
The interpreter approached, clearing his throat gently. "Capitano… your orders?"
Mattias nodded absently. "Secure the perimeter. No looting. And… bury the rest."
"Yes, sir."
As the boy turned to go, Mattias remained still, eyes fixed on the fire. His shadow flickered in the flames, long and broken.
He didn't know if it was grief or guilt or something else entirely. But whatever it was, it never left him. It walked beside him, just as Giustino once had—silent, close, unspoken.
---------------
November 6, 1942
Outskirts of Jizan
Kingdom of Yemen
They cleared the bodies once the flames died down, their charred remains reduced to brittle husks, indistinguishable from one another—faces gone, names erased. The stench of scorched flesh still hung in the air two days later when reinforcements finally arrived. By then, the displaced Shia townsfolk had begun to return, cautiously at first, like ghosts peering out from the ruins of their former lives.
Then came the cheering.
"The souls of the martyrs rejoice!" cried one old cleric, hoisting a black banner as boys waved rifles in the square.
"Our souls for our deliverers!" a young woman sobbed, clutching the boots of a passing soldier. Her voice cracked with exhaustion and reverence.
Mattias stood in silence as the newly arrived Yemeni troops passed out bread and dates to the children. It felt rehearsed, orchestrated—liberation as theater, the audience starved for anything that looked like victory.
By the next morning, the division was moving out. The orders were clear: they were bound for the holy lands.
Mecca.
That was the Imam's goal—the prize whispered to him by the Emperor himself, promised in private correspondence, sealed with the authority of a new Rome.
Mattias remembered how the Imam had spoken with quiet certainty of his lineage. "Through Fatimah," his officers claimed, "and Ali, the Lion of God. A Sayyid, pure in blood and pious in heart." He would be caliph, they said. A just man to unite the faithful and cast down the Saudi heretics—the Wahhabis, whom they cursed with venom no different in tone than the Germans had used for Jews.
In truth, Mattias had stopped distinguishing the slogans from the hatreds. Both seemed to blend in the desert heat, rising like mirages, shimmering with blood and holy rage.
That night, beneath a sky strewn with stars and silence, he sat outside his tent, radio in his lap, cigarette between calloused fingers. The wind carried with it the taste of ash and sand. He lit the cigarette and turned the dial. Static, then a clear voice, rich and measured, filled the night.
The Emperor was speaking.
"The world is in flames," he said, "and has been since that September day in 1939. But amidst the fire, a rebirth…"
He spoke of Palestine. Of Stern and the Lehi fighters, now locked in a brutal civil war with the British. The words that followed were thunderous:
"We, the Roman Empire, recognize the steadfast and resilient Jewish people. There shall be no peace in Palestine until a Jewish state, from the river to the sea, stands sovereign!"
The cheers from Rome echoed even through the crackling speakers. A tide of sound, of conviction, of theater.
"And let it be known!" the Emperor roared. "Comrade Stern has pledged that Israel will be a homeland for all—Muslim, Christian, Jew! As Rome is the steward of harmony, so shall Israel be its twin in the East! Am Yisrael Chai!"
More cheers. More carefully crafted thunder.
Mattias chuckled, bitterly. Giustino would have laughed too.
"He's a master politician," Mattias imagined him saying, lounging back with that half-smile, eyes alight with cynical admiration. "Tell people what they want to hear and they'll follow you straight into hell. I wish I'd learned that trick back in Thessaloniki. Maybe then I wouldn't have struck out with that cabaret hostess."
A fake memory, conjured from fragments and daydreams. But it was so him. That easy charm, that knowing grin. That insufferable, irresistible warmth.
Mattias exhaled slowly, eyes fixed on the dark expanse above. The stars blurred for a moment—whether from smoke or from tears, he wasn't sure.
His thoughts drifted. To Anne Frank, the girl with fire in her eyes and vengeance on her breath. To the Lehi fighters, barely more than children, fighting like wolves cornered by history.
He wondered if they were still alive. If they had grown harder, or if the war had softened something inside them in defiance of its cruelty.
He closed his eyes and said a prayer—not loud, not performative. Just a whisper. A remnant of some long-buried faith.
"Let them live. Let those kids grow old. Let them laugh in sunlit gardens. Give them peace and a future. Don't let them become ghosts like me… or like Giustino."
He didn't say amen.
He just sat there, cigarette burning down to ash, listening to the radio, to the desert wind, and to the silence that lingered long after the Emperor's voice had faded
-------------
November 10, 1942
Abha, Asir Province
Kingdom of Yemen
The city fell without fanfare.
Like every town and village along the road to Mecca, Abha had been taken swiftly—too swiftly. Resistance was fierce, yes, but disorganized. The Saudi garrisons, composed of frightened conscripts and zealous volunteers, fought with the kind of desperate fury only religion can inspire. They clung to their rifles and Qur'ans, chanted verses as they charged, and bled out with prayers still on their lips.
But fervor, Mattias reflected, could only go so far. It could not stop the artillery, nor the gas shells. It could not stand against flame and steel and tanks painted with black flags and green crescents. Conviction alone could not overcome the cold arithmetic of modern war.
It certainly couldn't withstand what they had become.
He walked through the city's central square just after the last burst of gunfire had died away. Smoke drifted through the air, curling around shattered domes and gutted homes. Somewhere nearby, a woman wept. The sound followed him as he moved past a heap of burning papers—records, sermons, family names, dreams—all reduced to ash.
The Wahhabi imams were the first to be taken. Then came the bureaucrats, clerks, constables, prison guards, their families, even their cooks and servants. No one was spared. Guilt was inherited, collective, total.
The Shia militiamen—the partisans of the Imam—moved with grim purpose. They did not scream or mock. There was no need. Their hatred was older than this war. Older than any of them. It was the kind of hatred that is passed down like scripture, carved into memory by centuries of betrayal and blood. He regretted asking his translator what they said.
"These are the dogs who defiled the tombs of our saints," one of them muttered as he forced a teenage boy into the pit.
"These are the spawn of Najd," said another. "Of Muhammad ibn Abd al-Wahhab. Heretics who worship the sword, not God."
The pits had been dug at dawn. Now, by dusk, they were ready.
Many of the condemned begged. Most stayed silent, clutching their children or murmuring prayers. Some cried out in protest, invoking the Prophet's name. Those were the first to be shot.
Mattias watched it all from the edge of the square, his rifle slung over his shoulder like a dead weight. He no longer knew if he carried it for war or as some kind of relic. He had stopped firing long ago. There was no need to. There were others eager to do the killing.
And then he saw him.
A ghost in the flesh.
SS-Sturmbannführer Ottofried Hansen.
No. That wasn't the name anymore. Not here. Not now.
OVRA agent Ottofredo Herin.
He had the look of a Nazi propaganda poster—tall, pale, hair like bleached straw, eyes so blue they looked glassy and inhuman in the dying light.
But it was the expression Mattias remembered most. That perfect, unchanging mask of apathy. The same look he had worn at the German Italian border, over 3 years ago, when he casually referred to a transport of Jewish refugees as cargo.
Even Giustino—sharp-tongued, ever-joking Giustino—had been shaken by him.
Mattias remembered that September day. The border crossing. The rain clinging to the edges of the trucks. The smell.
He remembered how Giustino had fallen silent when Ottofredo dropped the Jews off like dropping trash off.
It had disturbed him. To see Giustino— Giustino, who had once flirted with a German diplomat's daughter just to make a point—silenced by that man's presence.
And now, somehow, impossibly, Ottofredo lived.
While Giustino did not.
Mattias felt a heaviness settle in his chest. It wasn't rage. Rage had burned out long ago. What was left was something quieter, duller. The ache of meaninglessness. The cold joke of divine providence.
If God was real, then He was cruel. Or perhaps merely indifferent.
Perhaps mercy was only for the good. And the good, as the saying went, died young.
Giustino had been younger. Brighter. Better.
And he, the survivor of the two… God forgive him, he wasn't good. Not anymore.
"Fire!"
Ottofredo's voice cut through his thoughts like a blade. The Yemenis obeyed at once.
A hundred rifles cracked in unison. Bodies fell forward into the pit.
Some twitched. Others rolled. Children followed parents. Servants followed masters.
Mattias closed his eyes. Not in prayer. Not in grief. Just to block out the sun.
He lit a cigarette with trembling fingers.
Somewhere deep inside, he hoped he would see Giustino in a dream that night. Maybe on a quiet patrol in Thrace, or in a smoky bar in Constantinople after curfew. He would laugh, and say something cynical, and everything would feel like it made sense again.
Just for a moment.
But dreams rarely came to him anymore. And when they did, they were always stained in red.
Their bodies fell into the ditch one by one—ragdoll collapses, punctuated by shrieks that fractured the desert air. Men, women, children, some still clutching each other in their final moments. Some screamed prayers, others only whimpered. The bullets didn't discriminate.
And yet Ottofredo Herin watched with the calm of a seasoned conductor at a symphony. He did not flinch. Not once. If anything, his jaw tightened with a subtle pride—pride at the precision, at the swiftness, at the silence that would soon follow. He stood as an artist might before a completed canvas. There was no cruelty in his gaze—only cold satisfaction. A master of systems. Of extermination.
He never looked away.
Mattias did. For a moment. But then he looked back. Someone had to. Someone had to bear witness. It was the least he could do for the dead. The very least.
And yet—somewhere, beneath the uniforms and the rank and the medals that meant less with each passing day—something in him recoiled. Or was it something darker? That voice again. Whispering from the hollows of his soul.
Witness? it asked. Is that what you call yourself? Or are you too enraptured by the horror to look away? You think yourself different from him? But your boots stood firm while they screamed.
He said nothing. Only closed his eyes and pulled out a cigarette. BH Menthol. He didn't care for the taste—artificial, sterile—but British Aden was near, and it had flooded the markets here. The Yemenis loved it. And right now, that was what he had.
He took a long drag and exhaled slowly, letting the smoke drift over the pit where the last of the Wahhabis were being executed. The Yemenis had learned their craft well—Ottofredo had taught them how to kill like Germans. Methodical. Efficient. No hesitation.
There was a venom in the Yemenis' eyes—a hatred older than the rifles in their hands. Not political, not strategic—religious. Deep, ancestral, festering hatred. To them, the Wahhabi Saudis were heretics, apostates, enemies of God. The takfir and the sectarian slurs were spat with the same fervor as their bullets.
By the time the sun set, the ditch was filled, and the silence began to settle.
Gasoline followed. The same ritual as every time. It was easier to burn the evidence than to bury it. Ottofredo strolled along the pit's edge, the breeze lifting his coat ever so slightly. Occasionally, he paused, drew his Luger, and fired into the mass. Sometimes a groan would answer, or a gurgle. He didn't flinch then, either. He just moved on.
Then he gave a whistle, and the fires came. An orange wave of light and flame, and with it the smell—acrid, sour, unforgettable.
Ottofredo approached, smiling as if returning from a garden stroll. He held his nose theatrically, half-laughing. "Goddamn," he chuckled, "they smell even worse after you kill them."
Mattias didn't smile. Didn't flinch. He only responded, coolly, in German: "You get used to the smell."
Ottofredo blinked, then grinned. "Mein Gott, you speak German too? What are you doing in the Italian Army? Were you Heer?"
"No." A slight shake of the head. "South Tyrol. Roman, technically. Doesn't matter."
Ottofredo nodded as if that explained everything. "Pleasure to meet a fellow German." He held out his cigarette. "Got a lighter?"
Mattias handed it over without a word. The other man lit his cigarette with a practiced motion, then offered a companionable shrug.
"I hate these British things. My wife loves them though." He took a slow drag, almost wistfully.
Mattias blinked. "You're married?"
Ottofredo beamed like a schoolboy. "Ja. Margarethe. Second cousin. We were childhood friends. Married just after the war started." His voice softened, took on a warmth that chilled Mattias more than the fire behind them. "She survived the war, thank God. And our son, Günther, was born a few months ago. Little miracle. I suppose I owe it to the Russians."
He gestured to his shoulder. "Sniper, Kiev. Bastard got me through the joint. Sent me home just before winter. Margarethe and I had… some extra time." A grin. "And now I've got my little boy."
He pulled out a silver locket—heart-shaped, absurdly delicate. Inside, a photograph: a young woman smiling, holding a swaddled infant.
"They're lovely, aren't they?" Ottofredo said. "Soon as this tour's done, I'm going back to Milan. My boss Heydrich lined this job up for me, OVRA, soon to be reborn—it pays well. More than enough to pay off the mortgage and provide for a few more kids. Start fresh."
Mattias stared. And stared.
This man. This thing. This butcher of men and children. And yet he had a wife. A child. A future. A home. Happiness.
It was obscene. Absurd.
"I was engaged," Mattias muttered, almost without thinking. "After Thrace. After… Constantinople. It fell through."
After Giustino died in front of me. After I held what was left of him. After the world turned grey.
Ottofredo nodded with genuine sympathy. "That's unfortunate. But you look Germanic. Strong. I have a cousin in Munich—lovely girl. I could introduce you."
Mattias forced a nod. "Sure."
Ottofredo handed him back the lighter with a smirk. "Thanks, Kamerad."
He walked away, whistling, the scent of burnt flesh clinging to his boots like a curse.
Mattias didn't move. Not for a long while. He looked up at the stars—the same stars that shone over South Tyrol, over Constantinople, over every grave he had ever helped dig.
And he laughed.
Quietly at first, then louder. A dry, broken sound—somewhere between a sob and a scream. He laughed because it made more sense than weeping.
Because if he cried now, he wasn't sure he would ever stop.
Outskirts of Jizan
Kingdom of Yemen
Lieutenant Mattias Berg exhaled sharply through gritted teeth, the arid wind catching in his throat as he raised a clenched fist—his signal to halt. The column of Yemeni conscripts behind him froze mid-step, their boots scuffing the cracked earth. Overhead, the shadows of the Regia Aeronautica and the nascent Yemeni air corps circled like vultures, engines snarling as they began their descent toward the doomed city below.
"Masks on!" he barked in clipped, heavily-accented Arabic. The words came more easily than they should have—he had been in Yemen less than a month, and yet necessity had carved the language into him like a blade.
Officially, he was an instructor—an "advisor" sent by Rome to help modernize the Imam's army. In reality, he was little more than a ghost of war, conscripted into another man's crusade. The Scuola di Guerra Moderna had been his reward—or punishment—for surviving Thrace and Germany. A fresh commission, papers adorned with signatures and seals, and a slow descent into something colder, harder than he had once been.
They had broken him in stages. Drills at dawn, doctrine at dusk. Mao, Clausewitz, Tukhachevsky—all memorized and spat back with obedient precision. War, he'd learned, was a language. And he had become fluent.
He adjusted the straps of his gas mask, tugging them taut. The chemical was not mustard gas, though it might as well have been. Lieutenant-Colonel Alborghetti had spoken of it in the careless, conspiratorial tones of a man who'd seen too much and coped with laughter.
"Tabun," he had said, swirling brandy in a chipped glass. "Some German-made shit. Duce imported it with the chemists. My cousin's in the department—says they've got ex-Nazis working with them. One of them tested it on a dog. Said the skin peeled clean off. Like fruit." Alborghetti had raised his glass with a grin, "So, Mattias, keep that mask tight. Or you'll be pissing blood and seeing angels by dawn."
Mattias had laughed, but his hands had trembled for an hour afterward.
He crouched behind a low wall of sunbaked stone, watching the airstrike unfold. Distant screams echoed on the wind—coughing, howling, a chorus of agony muffled by distance but unmistakable. He didn't need to see to know what the gas was doing.
Some of the civilians—Shi'a mostly, loyal to the Imam—had been warned. The Yemenis had ensured it, discreetly. A quiet word to a village elder. A slip of paper beneath a prayer mat. Not enough. Never enough. But it was all the imam could do without risking his entire scheme those under his command.
He turned to look at the boys behind him—barely old enough to shave, trembling fingers clutching rifles too large for their frames. One of them reminded him of Giustino, the same wiry build, the same careless lock of dark hair falling into his eyes.
Giustino.
The name hit him like a stone dropped in still water. He had not spoken it aloud in months. He had not dared. But it lived in him, just beneath the surface, like an old wound that flared at the wrong angle.
He reached beneath his tunic, his fingers brushing against the dog tags that hung close to his heart. He wore them still, tucked beneath his uniform where no one could see. Giustino's name engraved in clean, blocky letters. His mother had let him keep them. She had pressed them into Mattias' palm the day he left their village in Sicily, her eyes dry but sunken with something heavier than grief.
"You were his friend," she had said. "You were with him when he fell."
He had nodded. He hadn't corrected her.
Friend. It was a word that meant too little, and too much. Giustino had been his shadow in the trenches, his echo in the barracks, the only laughter he could still remember clearly. His best friend when he was conscripted —and both had volunteered for Thrace. Mattias had told himself it was duty, that it was merely the bond between soldiers. He had believed it then. He tried to believe it still.
But sometimes, in the quiet moments, when the stars stretched endlessly over the desert and sleep would not come, he thought of Giustino's voice—soft, joking, always a little too close. He remembered the night they had sat back to back beneath the shattered remains of a Turkish mosque outside Edirne after surviving that chemical infested nightmare of urban warfare, sharing a cigarette stolen from a dead soldier, their shoulders touching. Neither had spoken for an hour. And yet, it had been the fullest conversation Mattias had ever known in his life.
He was dead now. Lost in Thrace, buried in an unmarked grave on a nameless Hill along with most of his old unit. But Mattias carried him still, through the sands and smoke, through the cries of the dying and the rot of imperial ambition.
A gust of wind stirred the air, carrying the chemical tang of tabun. Mattias adjusted his mask again and blinked the sweat from his eyes.
There was still a mission. Still orders. Still young men who looked at him for guidance, for certainty. He could not afford memory. He could not afford longing.
He rose to his feet and signaled the advance.
The war moved forward. And so did he.
But in his chest, the dog tags clinked quietly against his ribs—like a heartbeat that wasn't quite his own.
They entered the town like a slow-moving tide—measured, deliberate, methodical. The dry wind carried the acrid sting of chemical residue and scorched stone. Mattias led from the front, eyes scanning every window, every rooftop. His body moved on instinct now, muscle memory forged in the relentless crucible of the Scuola di Guerra Moderna. Drill upon drill, repetition until exhaustion. It had hollowed him out and rebuilt him, not into a man, but into a mechanism—precise, detached, efficient.
"Check the corners!" he barked in Italian, the phrase tumbling out like a reflex. One of his interpreters—Mahmoud, the tall one with kind eyes—translated the order, and it passed down the line like scripture.
"Check for snipers! Sweep and clear! Every room, every rooftop!"
The Yemeni conscripts obeyed without hesitation. There was a certain grace to the way they moved, a young soldier's hunger to prove himself. A few took initiative—secure a junction, barricade a side alley, cover an open street. Mattias made note of it, scribbling names into a small, leather-bound notebook he kept in his breast pocket. Field commissions. Commendations. A gesture, perhaps futile, but one that gave the illusion of meaning.
The Imam had plans to build his own Scuola, modeled after the Italian academies. Mattias had seen the blueprints—modest but ambitious. He wondered if any of these boys would live long enough to graduate from it.
Then the civilians emerged—or what was left of them.
The gas had done its work with ruthless efficiency. In the main square, bodies were stacked like discarded lumber. Faces blistered, eyes glazed, some frozen mid-scream. Children clung to their mothers, limbs locked in a final, fruitless embrace. The air stank of death, of chemicals and blood and shit. The kind of smell that clung to the inside of your nostrils long after the wind had carried it away.
The Yemeni troops laughed. Jeered. Spat.
"Mushrikīn," one sneered, kicking a corpse.
"Zindīq," said another.
"Kāfir. Let them burn."
Mattias didn't need to ask what the words meant. He'd been briefed. He had sat through hours of lectures from the General Staff and the Imam's scholars alike. The hatred between the Shi'a and the Wahhabis was not political. It was religious. Ancestral. Cosmic. Not unlike the hatred between Protestants and Catholics back in Europe during the reformation and wars of religion. Here, in the deserts of Arabia, it bled freely and without apology.
And Mattias—neutral, foreign, Catholic—was merely the one holding the leash, pretending it wasn't in his hand.
One of the soldiers, barely more than a boy, retrieved a rusted fuel canister from a truck. Another followed, and another. Soon, a half-dozen of them were dousing the corpses with gasoline, the liquid sloshing over bodies with a sickening, wet hiss.
Mattias didn't stop them.
He didn't speak, didn't move. He didn't even look away. He stood still, helmet tucked under one arm, gas mask dangling from his belt, the desert wind whipping at his coat like the fingers of ghosts.
To look away would have been cowardice. He owed the dead at least that much. A witness.
The flames caught quickly—ragged tongues of orange and red that licked the sky with ravenous hunger. The fire roared, devouring flesh and bone alike, black smoke rising into the heavens like an unholy prayer.
He didn't flinch. He didn't vomit. He felt the nausea claw at his throat but swallowed it down, along with the shame. He had long since learned to bury those things, to wrap them in steel and silence.
A small part of him—deep, hidden—was grateful Giustino wasn't here.
Giustino would've said something. He always did. A joke, most likely. Something disarming. Perhaps a quip about a barbecue, accompanied by that crooked grin he wore whenever he was trying to distract Mattias from something terrible.
And then, when they were alone, away from the others, he would turn solemn. He'd talk about morality, about how men convince themselves of righteousness. About the sheer fragility of civilization, and how easy it was for good men to slip into evil over things like doctrine and dogma and the shape of God. Then he would smile, like a child fascinated by what he'd just observed.
Mattias had listened to him then, but he hadn't understood. Not truly.
Now, too late, he did.
He turned his gaze upward. The sun blazed hot and indifferent above, veiled by smoke. No thunder came. No divine voice spoke from the clouds. No judgment. Only the steady crackle of burning flesh and the distant sound of artillery in the mountains.
The world was quiet, cruel, and godless.
He touched the tags beneath his uniform again. Giustino's name was warm against his chest. He had taken to doing it unconsciously now—like a gesture of prayer, or guilt.
The interpreter approached, clearing his throat gently. "Capitano… your orders?"
Mattias nodded absently. "Secure the perimeter. No looting. And… bury the rest."
"Yes, sir."
As the boy turned to go, Mattias remained still, eyes fixed on the fire. His shadow flickered in the flames, long and broken.
He didn't know if it was grief or guilt or something else entirely. But whatever it was, it never left him. It walked beside him, just as Giustino once had—silent, close, unspoken.
---------------
November 6, 1942
Outskirts of Jizan
Kingdom of Yemen
They cleared the bodies once the flames died down, their charred remains reduced to brittle husks, indistinguishable from one another—faces gone, names erased. The stench of scorched flesh still hung in the air two days later when reinforcements finally arrived. By then, the displaced Shia townsfolk had begun to return, cautiously at first, like ghosts peering out from the ruins of their former lives.
Then came the cheering.
"The souls of the martyrs rejoice!" cried one old cleric, hoisting a black banner as boys waved rifles in the square.
"Our souls for our deliverers!" a young woman sobbed, clutching the boots of a passing soldier. Her voice cracked with exhaustion and reverence.
Mattias stood in silence as the newly arrived Yemeni troops passed out bread and dates to the children. It felt rehearsed, orchestrated—liberation as theater, the audience starved for anything that looked like victory.
By the next morning, the division was moving out. The orders were clear: they were bound for the holy lands.
Mecca.
That was the Imam's goal—the prize whispered to him by the Emperor himself, promised in private correspondence, sealed with the authority of a new Rome.
Mattias remembered how the Imam had spoken with quiet certainty of his lineage. "Through Fatimah," his officers claimed, "and Ali, the Lion of God. A Sayyid, pure in blood and pious in heart." He would be caliph, they said. A just man to unite the faithful and cast down the Saudi heretics—the Wahhabis, whom they cursed with venom no different in tone than the Germans had used for Jews.
In truth, Mattias had stopped distinguishing the slogans from the hatreds. Both seemed to blend in the desert heat, rising like mirages, shimmering with blood and holy rage.
That night, beneath a sky strewn with stars and silence, he sat outside his tent, radio in his lap, cigarette between calloused fingers. The wind carried with it the taste of ash and sand. He lit the cigarette and turned the dial. Static, then a clear voice, rich and measured, filled the night.
The Emperor was speaking.
"The world is in flames," he said, "and has been since that September day in 1939. But amidst the fire, a rebirth…"
He spoke of Palestine. Of Stern and the Lehi fighters, now locked in a brutal civil war with the British. The words that followed were thunderous:
"We, the Roman Empire, recognize the steadfast and resilient Jewish people. There shall be no peace in Palestine until a Jewish state, from the river to the sea, stands sovereign!"
The cheers from Rome echoed even through the crackling speakers. A tide of sound, of conviction, of theater.
"And let it be known!" the Emperor roared. "Comrade Stern has pledged that Israel will be a homeland for all—Muslim, Christian, Jew! As Rome is the steward of harmony, so shall Israel be its twin in the East! Am Yisrael Chai!"
More cheers. More carefully crafted thunder.
Mattias chuckled, bitterly. Giustino would have laughed too.
"He's a master politician," Mattias imagined him saying, lounging back with that half-smile, eyes alight with cynical admiration. "Tell people what they want to hear and they'll follow you straight into hell. I wish I'd learned that trick back in Thessaloniki. Maybe then I wouldn't have struck out with that cabaret hostess."
A fake memory, conjured from fragments and daydreams. But it was so him. That easy charm, that knowing grin. That insufferable, irresistible warmth.
Mattias exhaled slowly, eyes fixed on the dark expanse above. The stars blurred for a moment—whether from smoke or from tears, he wasn't sure.
His thoughts drifted. To Anne Frank, the girl with fire in her eyes and vengeance on her breath. To the Lehi fighters, barely more than children, fighting like wolves cornered by history.
He wondered if they were still alive. If they had grown harder, or if the war had softened something inside them in defiance of its cruelty.
He closed his eyes and said a prayer—not loud, not performative. Just a whisper. A remnant of some long-buried faith.
"Let them live. Let those kids grow old. Let them laugh in sunlit gardens. Give them peace and a future. Don't let them become ghosts like me… or like Giustino."
He didn't say amen.
He just sat there, cigarette burning down to ash, listening to the radio, to the desert wind, and to the silence that lingered long after the Emperor's voice had faded
-------------
November 10, 1942
Abha, Asir Province
Kingdom of Yemen
The city fell without fanfare.
Like every town and village along the road to Mecca, Abha had been taken swiftly—too swiftly. Resistance was fierce, yes, but disorganized. The Saudi garrisons, composed of frightened conscripts and zealous volunteers, fought with the kind of desperate fury only religion can inspire. They clung to their rifles and Qur'ans, chanted verses as they charged, and bled out with prayers still on their lips.
But fervor, Mattias reflected, could only go so far. It could not stop the artillery, nor the gas shells. It could not stand against flame and steel and tanks painted with black flags and green crescents. Conviction alone could not overcome the cold arithmetic of modern war.
It certainly couldn't withstand what they had become.
He walked through the city's central square just after the last burst of gunfire had died away. Smoke drifted through the air, curling around shattered domes and gutted homes. Somewhere nearby, a woman wept. The sound followed him as he moved past a heap of burning papers—records, sermons, family names, dreams—all reduced to ash.
The Wahhabi imams were the first to be taken. Then came the bureaucrats, clerks, constables, prison guards, their families, even their cooks and servants. No one was spared. Guilt was inherited, collective, total.
The Shia militiamen—the partisans of the Imam—moved with grim purpose. They did not scream or mock. There was no need. Their hatred was older than this war. Older than any of them. It was the kind of hatred that is passed down like scripture, carved into memory by centuries of betrayal and blood. He regretted asking his translator what they said.
"These are the dogs who defiled the tombs of our saints," one of them muttered as he forced a teenage boy into the pit.
"These are the spawn of Najd," said another. "Of Muhammad ibn Abd al-Wahhab. Heretics who worship the sword, not God."
The pits had been dug at dawn. Now, by dusk, they were ready.
Many of the condemned begged. Most stayed silent, clutching their children or murmuring prayers. Some cried out in protest, invoking the Prophet's name. Those were the first to be shot.
Mattias watched it all from the edge of the square, his rifle slung over his shoulder like a dead weight. He no longer knew if he carried it for war or as some kind of relic. He had stopped firing long ago. There was no need to. There were others eager to do the killing.
And then he saw him.
A ghost in the flesh.
SS-Sturmbannführer Ottofried Hansen.
No. That wasn't the name anymore. Not here. Not now.
OVRA agent Ottofredo Herin.
He had the look of a Nazi propaganda poster—tall, pale, hair like bleached straw, eyes so blue they looked glassy and inhuman in the dying light.
But it was the expression Mattias remembered most. That perfect, unchanging mask of apathy. The same look he had worn at the German Italian border, over 3 years ago, when he casually referred to a transport of Jewish refugees as cargo.
Even Giustino—sharp-tongued, ever-joking Giustino—had been shaken by him.
Mattias remembered that September day. The border crossing. The rain clinging to the edges of the trucks. The smell.
He remembered how Giustino had fallen silent when Ottofredo dropped the Jews off like dropping trash off.
It had disturbed him. To see Giustino— Giustino, who had once flirted with a German diplomat's daughter just to make a point—silenced by that man's presence.
And now, somehow, impossibly, Ottofredo lived.
While Giustino did not.
Mattias felt a heaviness settle in his chest. It wasn't rage. Rage had burned out long ago. What was left was something quieter, duller. The ache of meaninglessness. The cold joke of divine providence.
If God was real, then He was cruel. Or perhaps merely indifferent.
Perhaps mercy was only for the good. And the good, as the saying went, died young.
Giustino had been younger. Brighter. Better.
And he, the survivor of the two… God forgive him, he wasn't good. Not anymore.
"Fire!"
Ottofredo's voice cut through his thoughts like a blade. The Yemenis obeyed at once.
A hundred rifles cracked in unison. Bodies fell forward into the pit.
Some twitched. Others rolled. Children followed parents. Servants followed masters.
Mattias closed his eyes. Not in prayer. Not in grief. Just to block out the sun.
He lit a cigarette with trembling fingers.
Somewhere deep inside, he hoped he would see Giustino in a dream that night. Maybe on a quiet patrol in Thrace, or in a smoky bar in Constantinople after curfew. He would laugh, and say something cynical, and everything would feel like it made sense again.
Just for a moment.
But dreams rarely came to him anymore. And when they did, they were always stained in red.
Their bodies fell into the ditch one by one—ragdoll collapses, punctuated by shrieks that fractured the desert air. Men, women, children, some still clutching each other in their final moments. Some screamed prayers, others only whimpered. The bullets didn't discriminate.
And yet Ottofredo Herin watched with the calm of a seasoned conductor at a symphony. He did not flinch. Not once. If anything, his jaw tightened with a subtle pride—pride at the precision, at the swiftness, at the silence that would soon follow. He stood as an artist might before a completed canvas. There was no cruelty in his gaze—only cold satisfaction. A master of systems. Of extermination.
He never looked away.
Mattias did. For a moment. But then he looked back. Someone had to. Someone had to bear witness. It was the least he could do for the dead. The very least.
And yet—somewhere, beneath the uniforms and the rank and the medals that meant less with each passing day—something in him recoiled. Or was it something darker? That voice again. Whispering from the hollows of his soul.
Witness? it asked. Is that what you call yourself? Or are you too enraptured by the horror to look away? You think yourself different from him? But your boots stood firm while they screamed.
He said nothing. Only closed his eyes and pulled out a cigarette. BH Menthol. He didn't care for the taste—artificial, sterile—but British Aden was near, and it had flooded the markets here. The Yemenis loved it. And right now, that was what he had.
He took a long drag and exhaled slowly, letting the smoke drift over the pit where the last of the Wahhabis were being executed. The Yemenis had learned their craft well—Ottofredo had taught them how to kill like Germans. Methodical. Efficient. No hesitation.
There was a venom in the Yemenis' eyes—a hatred older than the rifles in their hands. Not political, not strategic—religious. Deep, ancestral, festering hatred. To them, the Wahhabi Saudis were heretics, apostates, enemies of God. The takfir and the sectarian slurs were spat with the same fervor as their bullets.
By the time the sun set, the ditch was filled, and the silence began to settle.
Gasoline followed. The same ritual as every time. It was easier to burn the evidence than to bury it. Ottofredo strolled along the pit's edge, the breeze lifting his coat ever so slightly. Occasionally, he paused, drew his Luger, and fired into the mass. Sometimes a groan would answer, or a gurgle. He didn't flinch then, either. He just moved on.
Then he gave a whistle, and the fires came. An orange wave of light and flame, and with it the smell—acrid, sour, unforgettable.
Ottofredo approached, smiling as if returning from a garden stroll. He held his nose theatrically, half-laughing. "Goddamn," he chuckled, "they smell even worse after you kill them."
Mattias didn't smile. Didn't flinch. He only responded, coolly, in German: "You get used to the smell."
Ottofredo blinked, then grinned. "Mein Gott, you speak German too? What are you doing in the Italian Army? Were you Heer?"
"No." A slight shake of the head. "South Tyrol. Roman, technically. Doesn't matter."
Ottofredo nodded as if that explained everything. "Pleasure to meet a fellow German." He held out his cigarette. "Got a lighter?"
Mattias handed it over without a word. The other man lit his cigarette with a practiced motion, then offered a companionable shrug.
"I hate these British things. My wife loves them though." He took a slow drag, almost wistfully.
Mattias blinked. "You're married?"
Ottofredo beamed like a schoolboy. "Ja. Margarethe. Second cousin. We were childhood friends. Married just after the war started." His voice softened, took on a warmth that chilled Mattias more than the fire behind them. "She survived the war, thank God. And our son, Günther, was born a few months ago. Little miracle. I suppose I owe it to the Russians."
He gestured to his shoulder. "Sniper, Kiev. Bastard got me through the joint. Sent me home just before winter. Margarethe and I had… some extra time." A grin. "And now I've got my little boy."
He pulled out a silver locket—heart-shaped, absurdly delicate. Inside, a photograph: a young woman smiling, holding a swaddled infant.
"They're lovely, aren't they?" Ottofredo said. "Soon as this tour's done, I'm going back to Milan. My boss Heydrich lined this job up for me, OVRA, soon to be reborn—it pays well. More than enough to pay off the mortgage and provide for a few more kids. Start fresh."
Mattias stared. And stared.
This man. This thing. This butcher of men and children. And yet he had a wife. A child. A future. A home. Happiness.
It was obscene. Absurd.
"I was engaged," Mattias muttered, almost without thinking. "After Thrace. After… Constantinople. It fell through."
After Giustino died in front of me. After I held what was left of him. After the world turned grey.
Ottofredo nodded with genuine sympathy. "That's unfortunate. But you look Germanic. Strong. I have a cousin in Munich—lovely girl. I could introduce you."
Mattias forced a nod. "Sure."
Ottofredo handed him back the lighter with a smirk. "Thanks, Kamerad."
He walked away, whistling, the scent of burnt flesh clinging to his boots like a curse.
Mattias didn't move. Not for a long while. He looked up at the stars—the same stars that shone over South Tyrol, over Constantinople, over every grave he had ever helped dig.
And he laughed.
Quietly at first, then louder. A dry, broken sound—somewhere between a sob and a scream. He laughed because it made more sense than weeping.
Because if he cried now, he wasn't sure he would ever stop.
Face of an angel, heart of a demon
Alenco98
Not too sore, are you?
- Joined
- Oct 20, 2022
- Messages
- 306
June 20, 1943
An Isolated Cabin
Ten Miles Outside Savannah, Georgia
The Southern woods were hushed and heavy, their breathless silence broken only by the distant rustle of cicadas. But then came the scream—a long, warbling shriek of pain that cut through the pines like a knife through raw silk. Inside a run-down hunting cabin choked with the scent of blood, sweat, and cigarettes, the old wood groaned under the weight of history and violence.
By the dusty window, Franco Soprano fiddled with the knob of a battered tabletop radio until Frank Sinatra's "My Buddy" floated softly into the room. The gentle crooning of Sinatra seemed to wrap around the scene like silk bedsheets around a corpse—sweet, soothing, and utterly out of place. It drowned out the cries, or at least made them seem like a distant part of the melody.
Franco lit a cigarette, the match flaring bright for just a second—enough to catch the outline of his face in sharp relief. God had given him the face of a saint, the looks of a movie star: smooth, olive-toned skin unmarred by time or scars; a clean, strong jawline; thick, shoulder-length black hair that shimmered in the dim light like wet ink; and those eyes—crystalline blue, piercing yet soft, the kind you'd expect on a choirboy or an altar server. There was an innocence to his appearance that was almost angelic. And that made the truth of him all the more terrifying.
Because Franco Soprano was no angel. He was the wolf in the vestments of a priest, the butcher wrapped in silk gloves. Loyal to Don Vito Genovese with a zeal that bordered on religious devotion, Franco didn't just serve the Genovese family—he believed in it. To him, Don Vito was not just a man but a prophet. And to the Church, he was fiercely devoted, attending Mass every Sunday without fail, even if his hands were still red from the night before. He wore his rosary like a badge of honor and kissed the crucifix before every job, asking God's forgiveness not for what he was about to do—but for what his victims had made him do.
The sheriff tied to the chair was nearly unrecognizable now. His face had been transformed into something bulbous and grotesque, a swollen mask of agony. One eye was a pulpy mess of tears and blood, his lip split down the middle like an overripe fruit. The man whimpered through broken teeth, his dignity long since stripped from him, along with his badge and uniform.
Fredo Rossi stood a few feet back, his face drawn and glistening with sweat. Despite the oppressive Georgia heat, he shivered slightly as he watched Franco. Fredo was no coward—he had cracked skulls and dumped bodies without blinking—but something about Franco unsettled even the toughest of men. There was an unpredictability in his calm, a stillness that reminded people of snakes before they strike.
They called him il Confessore—the Confessor—not because he brought redemption, but because everyone talked in the end. Everyone. His methods were simple, almost ritualistic. He didn't scream. He didn't curse. He didn't break a sweat. He merely listened. And then, when he was ready, he asked—with fire, steel, or silence. And sinners confessed.
"Please," the sheriff whimpered, his voice barely a whisper. "I told you what I know—"
Franco knelt in front of him, like a penitent before the altar. He took a long drag from his cigarette, exhaling slowly, letting the smoke trail up into the beams above. Then, with infinite calm, he leaned in and pressed the burning end into the sheriff's remaining eye. The scream that followed could have cracked glass.
Sinatra kept singing. The world kept spinning.
Franco didn't flinch. His hand was steady. His expression serene. It wasn't rage or vengeance that moved him. It was duty. Loyalty. Faith.
In the circles of power and blood that made up the Italian underworld, Franco Soprano was a name you never spoke unless you had to. Even among killers, he was feared—truly feared. They said he talked to God during his work. That he whispered Hail Marys between screams. That sometimes, he laughed. That sometimes, he cried. But no one ever asked him why.
Because no one really wanted to know what was going on behind those angelic eyes.
And God help the man who tried.
"You don't have to die for them," Franco said softly, his deep Naples accent curling around the words like velvet around a knife. "They won't die for you."
His voice was low, almost tender—confessional, as if he were the priest and the man before him a wayward penitent. Yet there was no absolution waiting. Only pain.
Franco reached into his coat, the fine Italian fabric catching the glow of the lantern light, and pulled out a small, worn stack of photographs. He let them fall slowly to the floor, like dying leaves. The sheriff sobbed harder as he saw the faces—his wife, his boy, a fragile world about to be shattered.
"Shelly," Franco murmured, as if tasting her name. "She closes up your uncle's store at nine every night. Alone. Unarmed."
He flicked another photo.
"Walter. Sunday school at seven, school by eight. Such a sweet boy. Has your eyes."
He inhaled deeply from the cigarette, the ember pulsing like the devil's eye. "Shame if he went blind before his 10th birthday."
And then, with surgical cruelty, he leaned forward and pressed the burning cigarette deep into the raw socket of the sheriff's ruined eye. The scream that followed was strangled, animal. The air grew heavier, filled with the stink of burnt flesh and blood.
Franco didn't flinch. He never did.
He exhaled slowly, eyes half-lidded, as if savoring the smoke. He looked like a painting of a saint—smooth olive skin, thick black hair tucked neatly behind his ears, lips like those of a Renaissance cherub, and piercing blue eyes that shimmered with a purity so profound, it was almost divine. Almost. But there was no divinity in Franco Soprano.
Only death.
"I want names," he said, gently brushing ash from his lapel. "Who led the attack on the consulate? Who killed Father Santini? Who gave the order to shoot Roman boys in the streets?"
He tilted his head, smiling crookedly—a boyish grin that made young ladies and old women coo and offer him cookies after Mass. But there was no sweetness here. Only venom.
"This is your last chance," Franco whispered. "You lie to me, and your wife watches as I burn the lies out of your son's eyes. You tell me the truth, maybe you get to kiss your wife goodbye before I put one in your brain. Your choice. But understand something…"
He leaned closer. "No one touches the famiglia. No one spills roman blood and walks away."
To the outside world, Franco was a ghost story. A myth. But to the underworld, to the cosa nostra, he was all too real. A made man, handpicked by Don Vito Genovese himself—a man so devout he went to confession daily, so loyal he would kneel in broken glass if the Don asked it. Franco's love for the Genovese family was a religion unto itself. He would have carved stigmata into his own flesh if it pleased Don Vito.
He crossed himself before every job. Said prayers in Latin for the men he disfigured. Lit candles for their souls—after extinguishing their lives. The Church didn't ask questions, and he didn't offer explanations.
The other mafiosi avoided him like plague. Even killers—men who had drowned enemies in acid or strangled snitches with wire—went pale when Franco entered a room. Il Confessore wasn't the only name he bore, some called him il Serafino, the Seraph, because of his angelic face. But behind closed doors, out of his sight they whispered darker names—il Pazzo, the Mad One. Il Martire Nero, the Black Martyr.
Fredo Rossi had been with the family for over a decade, but his hands still trembled as he scribbled in his notepad, unable to meet Franco's eyes. Eyes that sparkled with something… wrong. A holy rage. A divine madness.
Franco had once knelt before a man, kissed his forehead like a brother, then calmly cut out his tongue with a meat fork.
He'd once broken a rival's legs, then sent him flowers and a Bible with the verse "Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord" underlined in red ink.
And Father Santini? That was sacred.
Father Santini had baptized Franco. Held him as a child. Given him his first taste of wine from the chalice, taught him how to pray with his whole heart. When the priest's body was found—burnt and crucified—Franco didn't just want justice. He wanted wrath.
They wanted war?
Franco was war.
And now he stood in that wooden cabin, beautiful and terrifying, the incarnation of Old Testament retribution draped in fine wool and silk. He was God's fury wrapped in a smile, and even the Devil might have wept to see him work.
As Sinatra's song drifted to its final note, Franco gently crushed the last inch of his cigarette in a nearby ashtray, then turned back to the ruined man.
He smiled—not cruelly, but sweetly. Like a friend offering comfort.
"You ready to confess?"
"Yes…" the sheriff whimpered, choking on his sobs. "Please… please don't hurt them."
"I promise," Franco said, and his tone was almost soothing. He nodded once to Fredo, who opened the notepad with shaking hands.
Franco crouched in front of the sheriff and locked eyes with him. His voice was quiet. Deadly.
"Begin."
The sheriff began to speak. Haltingly. Brokenly. As though the words themselves had to crawl through shattered teeth and past the wreckage of his will.
Franco Soprano listened. Then went off to turn on the stove while Fredo listened and wrote.
The sheriff slumped against the rough wooden beam to which he'd been tied for the past nine hours. His face was a ruined mosaic of blood, blistered flesh, and bruises the color of spoiled fruit. His right eye was gone—nothing left but a dark, wet socket where Franco had gently, almost affectionately, pressed the lit tip of his cigarette, humming a lullaby as he did it. His limbs trembled, not from the cold, but from pain that had burrowed deep into the marrow of his bones. His body betrayed him now, twitching in spasms like a dying insect.
The record player had long since fallen silent. Sinatra's voice had faded minutes ago, leaving only the soft hiss of the needle running in endless circles. The silence was broken only by the sheriff's ragged, shallow breathing—and the soft sizzle of tomato sauce on the stove.
Franco stood by the flame.
He wore a stained white undershirt and a simple apron with embroidered lemons, humming tunelessly as he stirred the simmering sauce. The kitchen smelled of garlic, onions, fresh basil, and tomatoes—the fragrance of a Neapolitan home, not a torture chamber. He chopped herbs with the same little blade he used to carve out eyes and tongues. His movements were fluid, methodical, graceful. There was a kind of sick elegance to the way he moved—like a dancer, or a surgeon.
Or a priest preparing for mass.
Fredo Rossi sat at the wobbly wooden table, scribbling every name the sheriff whispered. His hands shook. He didn't look at the man. He couldn't. Not anymore. It wasn't the screams that had undone the sheriff—it had been the photographs. The promises. The precision with which Franco described the routine of his wife and son. That was what made men crumble. Not just pain. Not just violence.
Fear.
That was Franco's sacrament. And he administered it like holy communion.
"...George officials," the sheriff gasped, lips cracked and bleeding. "State Senator John Woods… Police Commissioner Taylor… It was Talmadge… Governor Talmadge gave the orders… said Father Santini was an Italian spy… said the Mafia had too much influence… said we had to send a message…"
Franco didn't look up. He nodded to himself and stirred the sauce, then plated the pasta—rigatoni, cooked perfectly al dente. He poured the sauce over the noodles, added shaved parmesan and fresh basil. Then he walked it to the table.
Fredo stared at the plate, eyes wide. Franco sat across from him and took a bite. His face lit up in quiet pleasure.
"Mangia," he murmured. "You'll feel better."
Fredo hesitated, then forked some pasta into his mouth. His expression softened.
"This is incredible," he said, almost reverently. "Where the hell did you learn to cook like this?"
Franco's lips curved slightly. "My nonna. Back when I was a boy. Before the polio took her and Don Vito took me and my family in. She was a saint. Would've made a better pope than half the bastards in Rome."
A beat of silence passed.
Franco rose and walked back to the sheriff, a half-full glass of red wine in his hand. He knelt in front of the dying man, his expression calm. Gentle. He lifted the glass to the sheriff's lips and tipped it. The man drank greedily, the wine dripping from his chin, mingling with blood.
"You're not gonna hurt my boy? My Shelly?" he asked, voice a raspy whisper. His remaining eye was swollen almost shut.
Franco shook his head solemnly. "No," he said, brushing a curl of blood-matted hair from the man's forehead. "I promised. Your wife and son will live. But you—you won't see them again."
The sheriff didn't even have time to beg. Franco moved like a shadow. The stiletto slipped from his belt, and in one fluid motion, he buried it deep into the man's chest, just below the sternum. Straight to the heart. His free hand cradled the sheriff's head as he died, like a mother guiding her child to sleep.
Then Franco gently lowered the body to the floor.
He stood in silence for a moment, then crossed himself.
"San Michele Arcangelo, difensore della fede, proteggi la sua anima," he whispered.
Fredo stared, wide-eyed, frozen in place.
Franco rolled up his right sleeve. Fredo's breath caught.
His arm was a horror of scar tissue. From wrist to elbow, dozens—no, hundreds—of slashes crisscrossed his skin. Some were jagged and raw, others old and faded. It was like looking at a roadmap of penance. A madman's confessional carved into his own flesh.
Franco took a small razor from his pocket. He held it over the stove's blue flame to sterilize it, then pressed it to his forearm and dragged it slowly, precisely across his skin. Blood welled instantly and trickled down his hand.
"For every sin, a mark," he muttered. "For every soul I take. For the blood we owe the Don."
Then the breakdown came.
Franco dropped to his knees and began to sob. At first, silent tears. Then choked gasps, his entire body shaking. He collapsed forward, pressing his forehead to the blood-slick floor, arms spread like a crucifix. He whispered Latin prayers between sobs—fragments of the Rosary, half-remembered psalms, the names of saints.
A fallen angel, weeping in the blood of the damned.
He was beautiful in a way that made the stomach turn. Fine-boned, with soft lips and sea-glass blue eyes that could melt a girl's heart—or stare coldly into yours as he shattered your kneecaps. To look at Franco was to see a choirboy lost in time. A painting from a ruined chapel. Something sacred and broken.
But inside?
Inside was something else entirely. Something dark. Something unholy.
He understood now. Why he made hardened soldiers from the family who worked with him just once piss themselves just by walking into the room. Men who had killed and tortured for decades would not meet his gaze. His smile unnerved them. Too innocent. Too pure.
It was said even Don Vito, the patriarch of the Genovese family himself, had once confessed: "Franco makes me feel like I'm in the presence of a saint—or a demon."
And yet… Franco was loyal. Utterly, fanatically loyal.
He owed Don Vito everything—his life, his family's survival, his very soul. He prayed for the Don's health every night. He lit candles for his victories. He would kill infants, nuns, priests if the Don asked him to. And then he'd go to church the next morning, kneel in the front pew, and beg God to forgive him.
Because Franco believed. He truly believed.
In the Church. In the Family. In Don Vito.
He was the blade they kept sheathed in the dark. The ghost who knocked in the night. The retribution that came not as thunder, but as a whisper.
They had killed Father Santini.
And Franco?
Franco was their reckoning.
Fredo stood frozen.
His body wouldn't move, his breath caught somewhere between his lungs and throat. He had seen death before—caused it with his own hands more than once—but nothing, nothing, had prepared him for the terrible, soul-shaking spectacle of Franco Soprano's grief.
There was something wrong about it. Something unnatural. Like watching a child mourn at a funeral while holding the murder weapon. The way Franco sobbed—raw, ragged, trembling—it wasn't just sorrow. It was madness laid bare. A symphony of guilt, rage, and religious ecstasy.
Fredo swallowed, his mouth dry as sand. "You… you okay?" he managed, though the words came out thin and useless.
Franco rose slowly from the floor, blood smeared on his hands and cheeks like war paint. He wiped his face with the sleeve of his undershirt. When he turned to look at Fredo, his eyes were no longer weeping. They were still, sharp, and cold—ancient, even. The kind of cold that doesn't melt with time. The kind of cold found in the marble tombs of saints.
"We have work to do," he said flatly, voice hollow and calm, as though the weeping angel of five seconds ago had been a mirage.
He turned, walking past the sheriff's still-warm corpse without a glance. At the desk, Franco bent down and pulled a jerry can of gasoline from beneath it. He uncapped it and began dousing the room with methodical grace, as though administering last rites. The corpse, the table, the stove, the walls—nothing was spared.
The flames of vengeance were being prepared, and Franco was both judge and executioner.
Fredo watched, unable to look away. He had known about Franco for six years and this was the first time he worked with him on a one on one basis. Il Cherubino, the Cherub, another one of his names. Not because he was sweet. But because he looked like something out of a Renaissance painting—soft curls, bright blue eyes, cheekbones like marble. Like he should've been holding a lyre in a fresco, not a stiletto soaked in blood.
But it was a lie. All of it.
Because behind that cherubic face was something fractured. Something cold. Something unclean.
Franco Soprano was loyal—loyal in the way a crusader is loyal to his God. He worshipped two things: the Genovese crime family, and the Roman Catholic Church. And in his mind, the two were not separate. They were one and the same. The Family was sacred. Don Vito was the Pope of his world. And Franco? Franco was the Inquisition.
He didn't kill for money. He didn't kill for pleasure.
He killed for faith.
"Blood for blood," Franco whispered, almost like a lullaby, as he struck a match with the same bloodstained hand that had just held the blade.
Fredo stepped back instinctively, the sulfur tang in the air making him flinch. Franco didn't hesitate. He tossed the match into the growing pool of gasoline, and the cabin erupted instantly, flames devouring everything in seconds.
The sheriff's last confession, the tortured screams, the sauce simmering on the stove—all of it was gone, swallowed by fire.
Behind them, the Georgia woods danced with orange light. The cabin crackled and groaned as it burned, casting monstrous shadows across the trees. And in front of it all stood Franco, lit by hellfire, his innocent face framed in silhouette, a cigarette glowing in his mouth like a halo of sin.
He turned slowly and began walking into the darkness, smoke curling behind him, the flames bathing his back in infernal light.
Fredo hesitated, then followed.
He'd once heard how Franco gouged out a man's eyes with a sewing needle after he drunkenly joked about the virgin Mary. Another time, he beheaded a snitch and left his head in front of his family's house in Newark. Rumors claimed he carried holy water in his coat pocket and sprinkled it on his victims before they died. Some said he went to confession after every kill, others said he confessed during—whispering prayers while he slit throats and crushed kneecaps.
The other capos feared him. Even hardened killers gave him wide berth. They said he didn't blink. Didn't flinch. That he laughed during torture, cried after mercy, and carved Bible verses into his arms after each job.
One lieutenant had once called him a "freak" behind closed doors.
Franco found out.
The man found Franco standing in front of his door. He didn't say anything, just the look of displeasure from him alone made him piss himse.
Even Don Vito, who had personally raised Franco after his mother died kept his tone measured when speaking to him. He loved Franco—everyone knew that—but it was the love of a man who knew the wolf he had raised would tear out any throat for his approval.
As the flames behind them consumed the last remnants of the sheriff's station, Fredo dared one last glance at Franco.
He was walking calmly, smoke haloing his head, his white shirt soaked in sweat and blood, looking like a lost saint who had wandered into the wrong century.
And Fredo understood then, with bone-deep certainty, that Franco Soprano was not just a soldier.
He was a weapon.
A sacred, unholy weapon—blessed by the Family, baptized in blood, and unleashed upon the world with terrifying devotion.
And God help whoever stood in his path.
Note: Anne Frank chapter is next, get the napkins ready because you will soon cry.
An Isolated Cabin
Ten Miles Outside Savannah, Georgia
The Southern woods were hushed and heavy, their breathless silence broken only by the distant rustle of cicadas. But then came the scream—a long, warbling shriek of pain that cut through the pines like a knife through raw silk. Inside a run-down hunting cabin choked with the scent of blood, sweat, and cigarettes, the old wood groaned under the weight of history and violence.
By the dusty window, Franco Soprano fiddled with the knob of a battered tabletop radio until Frank Sinatra's "My Buddy" floated softly into the room. The gentle crooning of Sinatra seemed to wrap around the scene like silk bedsheets around a corpse—sweet, soothing, and utterly out of place. It drowned out the cries, or at least made them seem like a distant part of the melody.
Franco lit a cigarette, the match flaring bright for just a second—enough to catch the outline of his face in sharp relief. God had given him the face of a saint, the looks of a movie star: smooth, olive-toned skin unmarred by time or scars; a clean, strong jawline; thick, shoulder-length black hair that shimmered in the dim light like wet ink; and those eyes—crystalline blue, piercing yet soft, the kind you'd expect on a choirboy or an altar server. There was an innocence to his appearance that was almost angelic. And that made the truth of him all the more terrifying.
Because Franco Soprano was no angel. He was the wolf in the vestments of a priest, the butcher wrapped in silk gloves. Loyal to Don Vito Genovese with a zeal that bordered on religious devotion, Franco didn't just serve the Genovese family—he believed in it. To him, Don Vito was not just a man but a prophet. And to the Church, he was fiercely devoted, attending Mass every Sunday without fail, even if his hands were still red from the night before. He wore his rosary like a badge of honor and kissed the crucifix before every job, asking God's forgiveness not for what he was about to do—but for what his victims had made him do.
The sheriff tied to the chair was nearly unrecognizable now. His face had been transformed into something bulbous and grotesque, a swollen mask of agony. One eye was a pulpy mess of tears and blood, his lip split down the middle like an overripe fruit. The man whimpered through broken teeth, his dignity long since stripped from him, along with his badge and uniform.
Fredo Rossi stood a few feet back, his face drawn and glistening with sweat. Despite the oppressive Georgia heat, he shivered slightly as he watched Franco. Fredo was no coward—he had cracked skulls and dumped bodies without blinking—but something about Franco unsettled even the toughest of men. There was an unpredictability in his calm, a stillness that reminded people of snakes before they strike.
They called him il Confessore—the Confessor—not because he brought redemption, but because everyone talked in the end. Everyone. His methods were simple, almost ritualistic. He didn't scream. He didn't curse. He didn't break a sweat. He merely listened. And then, when he was ready, he asked—with fire, steel, or silence. And sinners confessed.
"Please," the sheriff whimpered, his voice barely a whisper. "I told you what I know—"
Franco knelt in front of him, like a penitent before the altar. He took a long drag from his cigarette, exhaling slowly, letting the smoke trail up into the beams above. Then, with infinite calm, he leaned in and pressed the burning end into the sheriff's remaining eye. The scream that followed could have cracked glass.
Sinatra kept singing. The world kept spinning.
Franco didn't flinch. His hand was steady. His expression serene. It wasn't rage or vengeance that moved him. It was duty. Loyalty. Faith.
In the circles of power and blood that made up the Italian underworld, Franco Soprano was a name you never spoke unless you had to. Even among killers, he was feared—truly feared. They said he talked to God during his work. That he whispered Hail Marys between screams. That sometimes, he laughed. That sometimes, he cried. But no one ever asked him why.
Because no one really wanted to know what was going on behind those angelic eyes.
And God help the man who tried.
"You don't have to die for them," Franco said softly, his deep Naples accent curling around the words like velvet around a knife. "They won't die for you."
His voice was low, almost tender—confessional, as if he were the priest and the man before him a wayward penitent. Yet there was no absolution waiting. Only pain.
Franco reached into his coat, the fine Italian fabric catching the glow of the lantern light, and pulled out a small, worn stack of photographs. He let them fall slowly to the floor, like dying leaves. The sheriff sobbed harder as he saw the faces—his wife, his boy, a fragile world about to be shattered.
"Shelly," Franco murmured, as if tasting her name. "She closes up your uncle's store at nine every night. Alone. Unarmed."
He flicked another photo.
"Walter. Sunday school at seven, school by eight. Such a sweet boy. Has your eyes."
He inhaled deeply from the cigarette, the ember pulsing like the devil's eye. "Shame if he went blind before his 10th birthday."
And then, with surgical cruelty, he leaned forward and pressed the burning cigarette deep into the raw socket of the sheriff's ruined eye. The scream that followed was strangled, animal. The air grew heavier, filled with the stink of burnt flesh and blood.
Franco didn't flinch. He never did.
He exhaled slowly, eyes half-lidded, as if savoring the smoke. He looked like a painting of a saint—smooth olive skin, thick black hair tucked neatly behind his ears, lips like those of a Renaissance cherub, and piercing blue eyes that shimmered with a purity so profound, it was almost divine. Almost. But there was no divinity in Franco Soprano.
Only death.
"I want names," he said, gently brushing ash from his lapel. "Who led the attack on the consulate? Who killed Father Santini? Who gave the order to shoot Roman boys in the streets?"
He tilted his head, smiling crookedly—a boyish grin that made young ladies and old women coo and offer him cookies after Mass. But there was no sweetness here. Only venom.
"This is your last chance," Franco whispered. "You lie to me, and your wife watches as I burn the lies out of your son's eyes. You tell me the truth, maybe you get to kiss your wife goodbye before I put one in your brain. Your choice. But understand something…"
He leaned closer. "No one touches the famiglia. No one spills roman blood and walks away."
To the outside world, Franco was a ghost story. A myth. But to the underworld, to the cosa nostra, he was all too real. A made man, handpicked by Don Vito Genovese himself—a man so devout he went to confession daily, so loyal he would kneel in broken glass if the Don asked it. Franco's love for the Genovese family was a religion unto itself. He would have carved stigmata into his own flesh if it pleased Don Vito.
He crossed himself before every job. Said prayers in Latin for the men he disfigured. Lit candles for their souls—after extinguishing their lives. The Church didn't ask questions, and he didn't offer explanations.
The other mafiosi avoided him like plague. Even killers—men who had drowned enemies in acid or strangled snitches with wire—went pale when Franco entered a room. Il Confessore wasn't the only name he bore, some called him il Serafino, the Seraph, because of his angelic face. But behind closed doors, out of his sight they whispered darker names—il Pazzo, the Mad One. Il Martire Nero, the Black Martyr.
Fredo Rossi had been with the family for over a decade, but his hands still trembled as he scribbled in his notepad, unable to meet Franco's eyes. Eyes that sparkled with something… wrong. A holy rage. A divine madness.
Franco had once knelt before a man, kissed his forehead like a brother, then calmly cut out his tongue with a meat fork.
He'd once broken a rival's legs, then sent him flowers and a Bible with the verse "Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord" underlined in red ink.
And Father Santini? That was sacred.
Father Santini had baptized Franco. Held him as a child. Given him his first taste of wine from the chalice, taught him how to pray with his whole heart. When the priest's body was found—burnt and crucified—Franco didn't just want justice. He wanted wrath.
They wanted war?
Franco was war.
And now he stood in that wooden cabin, beautiful and terrifying, the incarnation of Old Testament retribution draped in fine wool and silk. He was God's fury wrapped in a smile, and even the Devil might have wept to see him work.
As Sinatra's song drifted to its final note, Franco gently crushed the last inch of his cigarette in a nearby ashtray, then turned back to the ruined man.
He smiled—not cruelly, but sweetly. Like a friend offering comfort.
"You ready to confess?"
"Yes…" the sheriff whimpered, choking on his sobs. "Please… please don't hurt them."
"I promise," Franco said, and his tone was almost soothing. He nodded once to Fredo, who opened the notepad with shaking hands.
Franco crouched in front of the sheriff and locked eyes with him. His voice was quiet. Deadly.
"Begin."
The sheriff began to speak. Haltingly. Brokenly. As though the words themselves had to crawl through shattered teeth and past the wreckage of his will.
Franco Soprano listened. Then went off to turn on the stove while Fredo listened and wrote.
The sheriff slumped against the rough wooden beam to which he'd been tied for the past nine hours. His face was a ruined mosaic of blood, blistered flesh, and bruises the color of spoiled fruit. His right eye was gone—nothing left but a dark, wet socket where Franco had gently, almost affectionately, pressed the lit tip of his cigarette, humming a lullaby as he did it. His limbs trembled, not from the cold, but from pain that had burrowed deep into the marrow of his bones. His body betrayed him now, twitching in spasms like a dying insect.
The record player had long since fallen silent. Sinatra's voice had faded minutes ago, leaving only the soft hiss of the needle running in endless circles. The silence was broken only by the sheriff's ragged, shallow breathing—and the soft sizzle of tomato sauce on the stove.
Franco stood by the flame.
He wore a stained white undershirt and a simple apron with embroidered lemons, humming tunelessly as he stirred the simmering sauce. The kitchen smelled of garlic, onions, fresh basil, and tomatoes—the fragrance of a Neapolitan home, not a torture chamber. He chopped herbs with the same little blade he used to carve out eyes and tongues. His movements were fluid, methodical, graceful. There was a kind of sick elegance to the way he moved—like a dancer, or a surgeon.
Or a priest preparing for mass.
Fredo Rossi sat at the wobbly wooden table, scribbling every name the sheriff whispered. His hands shook. He didn't look at the man. He couldn't. Not anymore. It wasn't the screams that had undone the sheriff—it had been the photographs. The promises. The precision with which Franco described the routine of his wife and son. That was what made men crumble. Not just pain. Not just violence.
Fear.
That was Franco's sacrament. And he administered it like holy communion.
"...George officials," the sheriff gasped, lips cracked and bleeding. "State Senator John Woods… Police Commissioner Taylor… It was Talmadge… Governor Talmadge gave the orders… said Father Santini was an Italian spy… said the Mafia had too much influence… said we had to send a message…"
Franco didn't look up. He nodded to himself and stirred the sauce, then plated the pasta—rigatoni, cooked perfectly al dente. He poured the sauce over the noodles, added shaved parmesan and fresh basil. Then he walked it to the table.
Fredo stared at the plate, eyes wide. Franco sat across from him and took a bite. His face lit up in quiet pleasure.
"Mangia," he murmured. "You'll feel better."
Fredo hesitated, then forked some pasta into his mouth. His expression softened.
"This is incredible," he said, almost reverently. "Where the hell did you learn to cook like this?"
Franco's lips curved slightly. "My nonna. Back when I was a boy. Before the polio took her and Don Vito took me and my family in. She was a saint. Would've made a better pope than half the bastards in Rome."
A beat of silence passed.
Franco rose and walked back to the sheriff, a half-full glass of red wine in his hand. He knelt in front of the dying man, his expression calm. Gentle. He lifted the glass to the sheriff's lips and tipped it. The man drank greedily, the wine dripping from his chin, mingling with blood.
"You're not gonna hurt my boy? My Shelly?" he asked, voice a raspy whisper. His remaining eye was swollen almost shut.
Franco shook his head solemnly. "No," he said, brushing a curl of blood-matted hair from the man's forehead. "I promised. Your wife and son will live. But you—you won't see them again."
The sheriff didn't even have time to beg. Franco moved like a shadow. The stiletto slipped from his belt, and in one fluid motion, he buried it deep into the man's chest, just below the sternum. Straight to the heart. His free hand cradled the sheriff's head as he died, like a mother guiding her child to sleep.
Then Franco gently lowered the body to the floor.
He stood in silence for a moment, then crossed himself.
"San Michele Arcangelo, difensore della fede, proteggi la sua anima," he whispered.
Fredo stared, wide-eyed, frozen in place.
Franco rolled up his right sleeve. Fredo's breath caught.
His arm was a horror of scar tissue. From wrist to elbow, dozens—no, hundreds—of slashes crisscrossed his skin. Some were jagged and raw, others old and faded. It was like looking at a roadmap of penance. A madman's confessional carved into his own flesh.
Franco took a small razor from his pocket. He held it over the stove's blue flame to sterilize it, then pressed it to his forearm and dragged it slowly, precisely across his skin. Blood welled instantly and trickled down his hand.
"For every sin, a mark," he muttered. "For every soul I take. For the blood we owe the Don."
Then the breakdown came.
Franco dropped to his knees and began to sob. At first, silent tears. Then choked gasps, his entire body shaking. He collapsed forward, pressing his forehead to the blood-slick floor, arms spread like a crucifix. He whispered Latin prayers between sobs—fragments of the Rosary, half-remembered psalms, the names of saints.
A fallen angel, weeping in the blood of the damned.
He was beautiful in a way that made the stomach turn. Fine-boned, with soft lips and sea-glass blue eyes that could melt a girl's heart—or stare coldly into yours as he shattered your kneecaps. To look at Franco was to see a choirboy lost in time. A painting from a ruined chapel. Something sacred and broken.
But inside?
Inside was something else entirely. Something dark. Something unholy.
He understood now. Why he made hardened soldiers from the family who worked with him just once piss themselves just by walking into the room. Men who had killed and tortured for decades would not meet his gaze. His smile unnerved them. Too innocent. Too pure.
It was said even Don Vito, the patriarch of the Genovese family himself, had once confessed: "Franco makes me feel like I'm in the presence of a saint—or a demon."
And yet… Franco was loyal. Utterly, fanatically loyal.
He owed Don Vito everything—his life, his family's survival, his very soul. He prayed for the Don's health every night. He lit candles for his victories. He would kill infants, nuns, priests if the Don asked him to. And then he'd go to church the next morning, kneel in the front pew, and beg God to forgive him.
Because Franco believed. He truly believed.
In the Church. In the Family. In Don Vito.
He was the blade they kept sheathed in the dark. The ghost who knocked in the night. The retribution that came not as thunder, but as a whisper.
They had killed Father Santini.
And Franco?
Franco was their reckoning.
Fredo stood frozen.
His body wouldn't move, his breath caught somewhere between his lungs and throat. He had seen death before—caused it with his own hands more than once—but nothing, nothing, had prepared him for the terrible, soul-shaking spectacle of Franco Soprano's grief.
There was something wrong about it. Something unnatural. Like watching a child mourn at a funeral while holding the murder weapon. The way Franco sobbed—raw, ragged, trembling—it wasn't just sorrow. It was madness laid bare. A symphony of guilt, rage, and religious ecstasy.
Fredo swallowed, his mouth dry as sand. "You… you okay?" he managed, though the words came out thin and useless.
Franco rose slowly from the floor, blood smeared on his hands and cheeks like war paint. He wiped his face with the sleeve of his undershirt. When he turned to look at Fredo, his eyes were no longer weeping. They were still, sharp, and cold—ancient, even. The kind of cold that doesn't melt with time. The kind of cold found in the marble tombs of saints.
"We have work to do," he said flatly, voice hollow and calm, as though the weeping angel of five seconds ago had been a mirage.
He turned, walking past the sheriff's still-warm corpse without a glance. At the desk, Franco bent down and pulled a jerry can of gasoline from beneath it. He uncapped it and began dousing the room with methodical grace, as though administering last rites. The corpse, the table, the stove, the walls—nothing was spared.
The flames of vengeance were being prepared, and Franco was both judge and executioner.
Fredo watched, unable to look away. He had known about Franco for six years and this was the first time he worked with him on a one on one basis. Il Cherubino, the Cherub, another one of his names. Not because he was sweet. But because he looked like something out of a Renaissance painting—soft curls, bright blue eyes, cheekbones like marble. Like he should've been holding a lyre in a fresco, not a stiletto soaked in blood.
But it was a lie. All of it.
Because behind that cherubic face was something fractured. Something cold. Something unclean.
Franco Soprano was loyal—loyal in the way a crusader is loyal to his God. He worshipped two things: the Genovese crime family, and the Roman Catholic Church. And in his mind, the two were not separate. They were one and the same. The Family was sacred. Don Vito was the Pope of his world. And Franco? Franco was the Inquisition.
He didn't kill for money. He didn't kill for pleasure.
He killed for faith.
"Blood for blood," Franco whispered, almost like a lullaby, as he struck a match with the same bloodstained hand that had just held the blade.
Fredo stepped back instinctively, the sulfur tang in the air making him flinch. Franco didn't hesitate. He tossed the match into the growing pool of gasoline, and the cabin erupted instantly, flames devouring everything in seconds.
The sheriff's last confession, the tortured screams, the sauce simmering on the stove—all of it was gone, swallowed by fire.
Behind them, the Georgia woods danced with orange light. The cabin crackled and groaned as it burned, casting monstrous shadows across the trees. And in front of it all stood Franco, lit by hellfire, his innocent face framed in silhouette, a cigarette glowing in his mouth like a halo of sin.
He turned slowly and began walking into the darkness, smoke curling behind him, the flames bathing his back in infernal light.
Fredo hesitated, then followed.
He'd once heard how Franco gouged out a man's eyes with a sewing needle after he drunkenly joked about the virgin Mary. Another time, he beheaded a snitch and left his head in front of his family's house in Newark. Rumors claimed he carried holy water in his coat pocket and sprinkled it on his victims before they died. Some said he went to confession after every kill, others said he confessed during—whispering prayers while he slit throats and crushed kneecaps.
The other capos feared him. Even hardened killers gave him wide berth. They said he didn't blink. Didn't flinch. That he laughed during torture, cried after mercy, and carved Bible verses into his arms after each job.
One lieutenant had once called him a "freak" behind closed doors.
Franco found out.
The man found Franco standing in front of his door. He didn't say anything, just the look of displeasure from him alone made him piss himse.
Even Don Vito, who had personally raised Franco after his mother died kept his tone measured when speaking to him. He loved Franco—everyone knew that—but it was the love of a man who knew the wolf he had raised would tear out any throat for his approval.
As the flames behind them consumed the last remnants of the sheriff's station, Fredo dared one last glance at Franco.
He was walking calmly, smoke haloing his head, his white shirt soaked in sweat and blood, looking like a lost saint who had wandered into the wrong century.
And Fredo understood then, with bone-deep certainty, that Franco Soprano was not just a soldier.
He was a weapon.
A sacred, unholy weapon—blessed by the Family, baptized in blood, and unleashed upon the world with terrifying devotion.
And God help whoever stood in his path.
Note: Anne Frank chapter is next, get the napkins ready because you will soon cry.
Only the tears can calm the burning rage in my heart
Alenco98
Not too sore, are you?
- Joined
- Oct 20, 2022
- Messages
- 306
November 3, 1942
Old Haifa
Haifa, British-Occupied Palestine
Anne Frank took the proffered cigarette from Rudy, a Croatian Jew who had recently been attached to their unit. The paper was cheap, the tobacco stale, but it didn't matter. It was a BH—her father's brand. She lit it with a shaky hand, the lighter's click echoing softly across the empty rooftop. Below them, the old city of Haifa sprawled out under the moonlight, fractured and tense under British rule. Streetlamps flickered uncertainly, like the final pulses of a dying star.
She took a long drag and closed her eyes.
Papa used to smoke these.
Every Friday evening after sunset, he'd light one as the radio hummed in the background, classical music giving way to news, then back to music again. Shabbat dinner would have just ended. Her mother would sit beside him, resting her head against his shoulder as he exhaled slowly, peacefully, as though the world could not reach him in that moment.
Margot would wrinkle her nose in protest and wave the smoke away dramatically. "Ugh, Papa, it stinks!" she'd say, her voice pitched high, theatrical, like an actress on a stage.
Grandmother, visiting from Basel, would always pretend to scold him too—then slyly take the cigarette from his fingers, take a single drag, and hand it back with a wink.
Mother would scold them both, saying it was inappropriate to smoke around the girls. But Father would just smile—that smile—and walk over to the record player. He'd put on On a Little Street in Singapore. Frank Sinatra. The opening chords would drift through the house like silk.
Anne had never been to Singapore. Had barely even seen much of the world. But the name sounded exotic, faraway, like the promise of life beyond war, beyond hiding, beyond fear. It had been British, of course—another jewel in their imperial crown. She had dreamed once of visiting it, of seeing what the Empire looked like from within.
But now all she saw of the British Empire was its boot, pressed firmly on the neck of Palestine. And now she smoked BHs on a rooftop in Haifa, waiting to ambush a British convoy.
She flicked the ash off the edge of the building and opened a folded, stained letter. The handwriting was unmistakable: Bernhard, her cousin, Aunt Helene's son.
She remembered Switzerland.
How he taught her to ice skate on the frozen lake, how she'd slip again and again, her legs tangled beneath her like a newborn fawn. How he'd laugh—not cruelly, just as an older cousin does—then help her up, brushing snow from her elbows. The cold wind had bitten at her cheeks, but she'd kept going, until one day she finally surged ahead of him. She had screamed with joy, only to slip a moment later and land flat on her back.
He had laughed until he cried, then helped her up again.
But that wind was gone. Switzerland was gone. Childhood was gone.
There was no ice here. Only dust and broken stone. Only the scent of salt and gun oil. Here, if you fell, you didn't get up again. Falling meant being caught. Falling meant disappearing into the shadow prisons the British had carved into this land, like parasites burrowing deeper into a host that no longer wanted them.
"They're coming."
Anissa's voice was soft, but clear—cutting through Anne's reverie like a blade. Anne turned toward the French Jew, who stood at the opposite edge of the rooftop, binoculars raised. Her Hebrew still carried a Parisian lilt, like a perfume that clung to her even now.
"Understood," Anne said without emotion, as if announcing the weather. It was the voice of someone who had already killed and expected to kill again. There was no excitement, no dread. Only routine.
Anne stubbed out her cigarette and reached for her Cercano rifle. She pulled back the bolt and settled behind the low wall that edged the rooftop. Her fingers moved with ease now. The fear had long ago become second nature.
She took a deep breath, held it, then slowly released.
A truck rolled into view—British. Painted olive drab. Standard convoy detail. Likely filled with soldiers, maybe even prisoners.
She lined up her sights. Her heart was a slow drum, steady, unrelenting.
Steady, she reminded herself.
She thought of her father's hands, soft and ink-stained. She thought of Margot's laughter. Of her mother's humming while folding laundry. She remembered the feeling of her cousin's hands pulling her up from the ice.
Then she thought of the British—how they turned away ships full of Jewish refugees. How they imprisoned children in camps. How they shot young boys for throwing stones. How they whispered words of "civilization" and "order" while strangling the land and its people with barbed wire and curfews.
She thought of the men that had hanged. Her father. Then how her sister, then her mother died.
And she wasn't alone. Everyone in Lehi carried that same hatred—burning, unspoken, shared like blood. They no longer believed in pleas or pity. The British weren't protectors. They were occupiers. Colonizers. And now, executioners.
Anne didn't believe in forgiveness. Not anymore.
She steadied her breath, felt the cool breeze on her cheek—and waited.
The crosshairs danced slightly.
The British truck crawled closer.
Anne Frank steadied her aim, her cheek pressed against the cold stock of her bolt-action rifle. Her finger curled around the trigger with a familiarity born not of training—but of repetition, of necessity, of rage. She exhaled slowly, letting her breath slip away like a ghost.
Then she squeezed.
The rifle cracked, shattering the silence.
The driver's head snapped back—blood splattering the window behind him like a crimson starburst. The truck swerved violently to the right, tires screeching. The soldier riding shotgun reached for the wheel in a panic, trying desperately to regain control, his mouth open in a silent scream.
Anne worked the bolt—metal sliding, shell ejecting—then fired again.
This time, the bullet punched through the windshield and found its mark. The second soldier jerked and slumped sideways. The vehicle jumped the curb and slammed into a lamppost, crumpling like paper.
Before the noise had even died, the rooftops around her erupted with gunfire. Other Lehi cells opened up, their rounds raining down on the rest of the convoy. The street below turned into a kill zone—glass shattered, engines howled, men screamed. Truck after truck was riddled with bullets, each one reduced to twisted steel and blood.
There was no hesitation. No mercy. Every pull of the trigger was fueled by memory, by fury, by betrayal.
"They turned us away!" the political officer had shouted the night before, his voice gravelled with rage. He always reminded them, every evening, as if branding the words into their souls. "The British! Those lying bastards! Those polished monsters! They turned us away and left us to die in the dark!"
They showed photographs, time and again. Of mass graves in Poland. Of the pits at Babi Yar. Of Treblinka and Chelmno, the ash-streaked chimneys. The dead-eyed children, lined up in rows. The mothers clutching their babies as bullets tore through them.
"But Mussolini!" the officer bellowed, veins bulging in his neck. "He took us in! He gave us weapons! He gave us a place, a purpose, a future! Hail Caesar! Hail the Falag! Hail Stern!"
"To hell with the Haganah! To hell with the Irgun! To hell with Ben-Gurion and his Mapai traitors! They are worse than nazis! They are traitors!"
"Hail Stern! Hail Rome! Hail vengeance!"
Every night, they raised their hands in salute. Not out of doctrine—but out of fury. Their hearts beat not with ideology, but with grief sharpened into hatred. They had lost too much to forgive. Their Zionism was not the Zionism of speeches or debates. It was the Zionism of bullets, of fire and blood.
Anne took a shallow breath as she chambered another round. There was no fear. No hesitation. That had died in her long ago—back in Libya, when they landed in Haifa. In Germany. When she saw the camps. What would have awaited her and her family.
She thought of her father—gentle, kind Otto—who believed the world still had decency left in it. She thought of Margot, so quiet, so smart. She thought of her mother, whose final embrace she could barely remember now.
If the British had let them in peacefully and given them a nation they would still be alive.
They were not victims of gas, but of bureaucracy. Not murdered by Germans, but sentenced by British indifference.
They turned us away.
So now, she turned her rifle on them.
She fired again. Another shot, another crash of metal, another scream. A British soldier fell from the back of a truck, clutching his stomach, writhing.
All that was left in Anne Frank now was vengeance. Her diary was ash. Her innocence, a corpse. The girl who once dreamed of being a writer was gone.
What remained was the soldier.
She stood tall atop the rooftop, her eyes wild, and shouted into the dusk:
"HAIL STERN!"
"DEATH TO THE BRITISH!"
Her voice rang out like a war cry.
All around her, from the rooftops and alleyways, the Lehi answered as one, their guns still hot, their faces smeared with smoke and fury.
"DEATH TO THE BRITISH! HAIL STERN! HAIL CAESAR!"
The cry echoed across Haifa like thunder. Not a cry of protest—but of war.
Of reckoning.
The last of the trucks burned in the street, its frame wreathed in flames, black smoke curling skyward like a funeral pyre.
The air was filled with the scent of cordite, of gasoline, of blood. Screams echoed in the stone alleys. Some British soldiers were still alive, crawling, moaning, begging.
Anne didn't flinch.
She slung her rifle and drew the blade from her boot—a long, curved fighting knife given to her by a Polish volunteer who had died the week before. She remembered the man's name—Wladislav—but not his face anymore. They disappeared so quickly now.
"Down!" Her cell leader Schlomo barked. The team began their descent.
One by one, the Lehi operatives clambered down fire escapes and stone balconies like vultures descending upon carrion. Anne followed, her boots pounding against rusted metal, her breath sharp and fast in the night air.
By the time she hit the ground, the killing had already begun.
A British officer was pinned against a wall by two partisans. He tried to reach for his sidearm—he didn't get the chance. A blade slashed across his throat and a second buried itself in his gut. The man let out a gurgled scream and slumped to the ground, twitching.
Anne approached another—he was young, barely older than Raoul had been when he died. His leg was shattered, his uniform soaked in blood. He reached toward her, lips trembling, eyes wide with terror.
"Please…" he whispered.
She didn't blink.
She drove the knife into his throat with a quick, practiced motion, twisting it once before yanking it free. He gurgled and collapsed, blood pouring from the wound like a broken faucet. She wiped the blade on his jacket.
"Keep going!" Schlomo shouted. "Leave none alive!"
The Lehi fanned out like wolves, dragging wounded soldiers from the wreckage, knives flashing under the streetlights. Some screamed. Most didn't have the strength.
They had no uniforms, no formal ranks—only vengeance. What the world had denied them, they now claimed in blood.
Anne moved through the carnage like a phantom, unfeeling, efficient. Another soldier tried to flee—she chased him down an alleyway, leapt, and brought him to the ground with a single gunshot from her sidearm to the back. He screamed in agony, crawling.
She knelt beside him, eyes flat, empty.
"This is for Margot," she said in Dutch.
Then she stabbed him in the chest. Again. Again. Again.
When she rose, her arms were slick with red. She didn't feel the weight of it anymore. It was just part of her skin now.
The political officer, Micah appeared, with a sack and a bloody grin.
"Cut the heads," he growled. "Put them on spikes. Let them see what happens when you anger the Falag."
Anne didn't hesitate. Alongside the others, she helped behead then drag the decapitated bodies into a heap near the edge of the plaza then blew them up with grenades. The heads were placed on sharpened iron rods taken from the wrecked British trucks. Ten of them. Then fifteen. Then 100 by the time they were finished.
Each one was crowned with a British helmet—mockery laid atop horror.
Passersby's—Arabs, Jews—watched from the shadows, silent. Horrified.
Let them see, Anne thought. Let them remember.
One of the Lehi, a teenager no older than sixteen, began singing an old Hebrew folk song as he cleaned his blade. Others joined. The melody was calm, even cheerful—a grotesque lullaby echoing among the dead.
Anne stood beneath one of the spikes, gazing up at the dripping head of a British sergeant as she began to sing.
She felt nothing.
Not fear. Not triumph.
Just a cold, endless ache where her family used to be.
And she thought of Switzerland. Of her cousin.
Did she deserve to be with them?
-----------
A few hours later, and she was resting. In a safe house. The firelight flickered against the jagged stone walls, casting long shadows that danced like ghosts. Anne sat alone, her back pressed against the cold brick, the weight of the night pressing down on her chest like a thousand stones.
Her hands trembled as she reached into her satchel and pulled out a worn leather-bound book—her diary.
She opened it carefully, almost reverently, fingers tracing the edges of the pages as if touching the past itself.
Her eyes fell on the very first entry. Her birthday, a little over two years ago.
Monday, 12 June, 1940
On Friday, June 12th, I woke up at six o'clock and no wonder; it was my birthday. But of course I was not allowed to get up at that hour, so I had to control my curiosity until a quarter to seven. Then I could bear it no longer, and went to the dining room, where I received a warm welcome from Moortje (the cat).
Soon after seven I went to Mummy and Daddy and then to the sitting room to undo my presents. The first to greet me
was you , possibly the nicest of all. Then on the table there were a bunch of roses, a plant, and some peonies, and more arrived during the day.
I got masses of things from Mummy and Daddy, and was thoroughly spoiled by various friends. Among other things I was given Camera Obscura , a party game, lots of sweets, chocolates, a puzzle, a brooch, Tales and Legends of the Netherlands by Joseph Cohen, Daisy's Mountain Holiday (a terrific book), and some money. Now I can buy The Myths of Greece and Rome— grand!
Then Lies called for me and we went to school. Things have been hectic after the invasion ended. But daddy says everything will be ok.
Anne swallowed hard. The words felt like a knife twisting in her heart. Eleven years old. So young. So innocent. So full of hope.
Back then, the world was still a place where family dinners existed. Where laughter wasn't stifled by fear. Where the greatest worry was whether Margot would tease her for being clumsy or if Papa's jokes would make Mommy smile.
Tears welled up suddenly, blurring the inked letters on the page. They spilled down her cheeks—hot, silent, and relentless.
She folded the diary shut and pressed it to her chest. The diary, the last tangible piece of the family she once had.
But it wasn't enough.
Her thoughts spiraled deeper.
Margot… Mommy… Papa… Grandmommy…
She could almost hear their voices—their laughter, their scolding, their warmth.
She missed the way Margot's smile could light up a dark room. The way Mommy's hands smelled of freshly baked bread and thyme. The gentle way Papa would brush a stray lock of hair from her forehead and whisper, "Everything will be alright."
But everything wasn't alright.
Her family was gone.
Taken by the British indifference, bullets and soldiers. The cruel gates that slammed shut when they begged for refuge. By the cold bureaucracy that labeled them "unwanted," "dangerous," "expendable."
Anne's heart ached with a fury that burned hotter than any gunpowder.
She pulled from her satchel the letter Bernhardt had sent—a fragile envelope, its edges worn from days of being folded and unfolded.
She cradled it like a treasure, pressing it against her cheek, inhaling the faint scent of the Swiss pine forests he had described.
She remembered Bernhardt—the boy who taught her to skate, who laughed when she fell, who picked her up and never let go.
The letter was a lifeline to a time before the war swallowed everything.
She unfolded the fragile paper with care, the creases worn thin from too many readings, the ink slightly smudged from old tears. Bernhardt's handwriting was careful, almost too careful, as though he feared even his pen could break her if he wasn't gentle enough.
"I miss you, Anne. We all miss you."
"Come to Switzerland. You're welcome anytime. There's always a home for you here."
Her breath caught in her throat.
A home.
The word echoed in her chest like the toll of a bell. A home—not a bunker, not a ruined building stained with blood, not a rooftop from which she picked off British soldiers one by one. A real home. Warm. Safe. Full of life and the sound of voices that didn't scream.
She closed her eyes and clutched the letter tighter, pressing it to her chest as if she could somehow crawl inside it, vanish into the paper, into the world Bernhardt still lived in. A world untouched by what she had become.
Is there a home for me? she wondered. Could there ever be?
Her eyes drifted down to her hands—steady, scarred, calloused from gripping the cold steel of her rifle. Those hands had slit throats. Had torn flesh. Just hours ago, she'd driven a blade into the neck of a British soldier and watched the light go out of his eyes. It hadn't felt like murder. It had felt like routine. A task. Necessary.
She remembered the way the blood sprayed across her sleeve, how the warm, sticky liquid soaked into the fabric and skin without resistance. And she hadn't flinched. Not once. No more than a butcher carving up meat.
Bernhardt was only a few years older than her. Just a boy, really. But he still had softness in his eyes, still believed in letters and laughter and futures.
And she…
She turned toward the dying fire, its embers crumbling into ash like everything else she'd once loved. The heat barely reached her anymore. It spat and cracked, struggling to cling to life, just as she was.
She stared at it.
A monster.
I'm a monster.
The thought was not new. It was not sudden. But tonight, it felt heavier than usual.
Uncle Erich. Aunt Helene. Bernhardt. They were still alive. Still people. Still human.
And if she ever saw them again, if she walked into their home with her soot-blackened coat and eyes hollowed out by death, what would they see? Would they see Anne, the girl who wrote fairy tales and believed in dreams?
No. They would see a stranger.
A killer.
A girl with ghosts in her shadow and blood under her fingernails.
Maybe they'd pity her. For a time. Offer her tea, bread, a bath. Ask questions. Cry. Smile sadly.
But soon, the silence would come. That awkward, awful silence of two worlds that no longer touched. A silence as wide as the sea that now separated them.
Then they'd ask her to leave.
The Mediterranean was not just a body of water. It was a chasm. A grave.
And yet, here—here in the ruins, in the filth, in the endless blood and smoke—she belonged.
With her comrades.
The damned.
The broken.
The burning.
They didn't flinch when she wept. They didn't recoil when she screamed. They didn't pity her.
They were her family now.
The lost who had no time to dream, they could only act.
To build something better from the ashes.
To claw out a future with bloodied hands.
For Bernhardt. For Helene. For Erich. For the Anne she could never be again.
She couldn't leave. Not yet. Not until the war was over.
Not until they had won.
Because if she walked away now, if she let go of this fight, then her family's deaths would have been for nothing.
She reached again for her diary, the one she'd sworn never to abandon. The pages were stained now—dirt, blood, tears—but it still held her soul.
She opened it with trembling hands and began to write. Every detail. Every bullet. Every soldier who fell. Every face. Every scream. The beheadings. The fire. The look in her victim's eyes. The numbness that followed.
Her pen scratched across the page like a knife.
And then the feelings came. Crashing. Crippling.
The rage. The sorrow. The loneliness that hollowed her from the inside out.
The tears followed—slow at first, then pouring, breaking past the dam she'd built around her heart. She covered her mouth to muffle the sobs, but they escaped anyway, ragged and raw. Her whole body shook.
She hugged the diary to her chest, her lifeline to the past, and buried her face in her knees. Her heart ached with a pain that no blade could dull.
She wasn't just fighting soldiers in the streets.
She was fighting the silence. The guilt. The yawning emptiness inside.
The place where Papa once lived. Where Margot once sang.
Where Mama whispered lullabies in the dark.
A prayer slipped from her lips, broken by gasps.
"Please… let me see them again. Just once. Please… let me avenge them. Let this mean something."
Outside, the wind howled. The city slept in ruins.
And in the flickering firelight, Anne Frank wept—not just for the family she had lost, but for the girl she could never be again. For the innocence stolen. For the memories that now tasted like ash. For a world that forced her to become something she never wanted to be.
But still she wrote.
Because that was all she had left.
Old Haifa
Haifa, British-Occupied Palestine
Anne Frank took the proffered cigarette from Rudy, a Croatian Jew who had recently been attached to their unit. The paper was cheap, the tobacco stale, but it didn't matter. It was a BH—her father's brand. She lit it with a shaky hand, the lighter's click echoing softly across the empty rooftop. Below them, the old city of Haifa sprawled out under the moonlight, fractured and tense under British rule. Streetlamps flickered uncertainly, like the final pulses of a dying star.
She took a long drag and closed her eyes.
Papa used to smoke these.
Every Friday evening after sunset, he'd light one as the radio hummed in the background, classical music giving way to news, then back to music again. Shabbat dinner would have just ended. Her mother would sit beside him, resting her head against his shoulder as he exhaled slowly, peacefully, as though the world could not reach him in that moment.
Margot would wrinkle her nose in protest and wave the smoke away dramatically. "Ugh, Papa, it stinks!" she'd say, her voice pitched high, theatrical, like an actress on a stage.
Grandmother, visiting from Basel, would always pretend to scold him too—then slyly take the cigarette from his fingers, take a single drag, and hand it back with a wink.
Mother would scold them both, saying it was inappropriate to smoke around the girls. But Father would just smile—that smile—and walk over to the record player. He'd put on On a Little Street in Singapore. Frank Sinatra. The opening chords would drift through the house like silk.
Anne had never been to Singapore. Had barely even seen much of the world. But the name sounded exotic, faraway, like the promise of life beyond war, beyond hiding, beyond fear. It had been British, of course—another jewel in their imperial crown. She had dreamed once of visiting it, of seeing what the Empire looked like from within.
But now all she saw of the British Empire was its boot, pressed firmly on the neck of Palestine. And now she smoked BHs on a rooftop in Haifa, waiting to ambush a British convoy.
She flicked the ash off the edge of the building and opened a folded, stained letter. The handwriting was unmistakable: Bernhard, her cousin, Aunt Helene's son.
She remembered Switzerland.
How he taught her to ice skate on the frozen lake, how she'd slip again and again, her legs tangled beneath her like a newborn fawn. How he'd laugh—not cruelly, just as an older cousin does—then help her up, brushing snow from her elbows. The cold wind had bitten at her cheeks, but she'd kept going, until one day she finally surged ahead of him. She had screamed with joy, only to slip a moment later and land flat on her back.
He had laughed until he cried, then helped her up again.
But that wind was gone. Switzerland was gone. Childhood was gone.
There was no ice here. Only dust and broken stone. Only the scent of salt and gun oil. Here, if you fell, you didn't get up again. Falling meant being caught. Falling meant disappearing into the shadow prisons the British had carved into this land, like parasites burrowing deeper into a host that no longer wanted them.
"They're coming."
Anissa's voice was soft, but clear—cutting through Anne's reverie like a blade. Anne turned toward the French Jew, who stood at the opposite edge of the rooftop, binoculars raised. Her Hebrew still carried a Parisian lilt, like a perfume that clung to her even now.
"Understood," Anne said without emotion, as if announcing the weather. It was the voice of someone who had already killed and expected to kill again. There was no excitement, no dread. Only routine.
Anne stubbed out her cigarette and reached for her Cercano rifle. She pulled back the bolt and settled behind the low wall that edged the rooftop. Her fingers moved with ease now. The fear had long ago become second nature.
She took a deep breath, held it, then slowly released.
A truck rolled into view—British. Painted olive drab. Standard convoy detail. Likely filled with soldiers, maybe even prisoners.
She lined up her sights. Her heart was a slow drum, steady, unrelenting.
Steady, she reminded herself.
She thought of her father's hands, soft and ink-stained. She thought of Margot's laughter. Of her mother's humming while folding laundry. She remembered the feeling of her cousin's hands pulling her up from the ice.
Then she thought of the British—how they turned away ships full of Jewish refugees. How they imprisoned children in camps. How they shot young boys for throwing stones. How they whispered words of "civilization" and "order" while strangling the land and its people with barbed wire and curfews.
She thought of the men that had hanged. Her father. Then how her sister, then her mother died.
And she wasn't alone. Everyone in Lehi carried that same hatred—burning, unspoken, shared like blood. They no longer believed in pleas or pity. The British weren't protectors. They were occupiers. Colonizers. And now, executioners.
Anne didn't believe in forgiveness. Not anymore.
She steadied her breath, felt the cool breeze on her cheek—and waited.
The crosshairs danced slightly.
The British truck crawled closer.
Anne Frank steadied her aim, her cheek pressed against the cold stock of her bolt-action rifle. Her finger curled around the trigger with a familiarity born not of training—but of repetition, of necessity, of rage. She exhaled slowly, letting her breath slip away like a ghost.
Then she squeezed.
The rifle cracked, shattering the silence.
The driver's head snapped back—blood splattering the window behind him like a crimson starburst. The truck swerved violently to the right, tires screeching. The soldier riding shotgun reached for the wheel in a panic, trying desperately to regain control, his mouth open in a silent scream.
Anne worked the bolt—metal sliding, shell ejecting—then fired again.
This time, the bullet punched through the windshield and found its mark. The second soldier jerked and slumped sideways. The vehicle jumped the curb and slammed into a lamppost, crumpling like paper.
Before the noise had even died, the rooftops around her erupted with gunfire. Other Lehi cells opened up, their rounds raining down on the rest of the convoy. The street below turned into a kill zone—glass shattered, engines howled, men screamed. Truck after truck was riddled with bullets, each one reduced to twisted steel and blood.
There was no hesitation. No mercy. Every pull of the trigger was fueled by memory, by fury, by betrayal.
"They turned us away!" the political officer had shouted the night before, his voice gravelled with rage. He always reminded them, every evening, as if branding the words into their souls. "The British! Those lying bastards! Those polished monsters! They turned us away and left us to die in the dark!"
They showed photographs, time and again. Of mass graves in Poland. Of the pits at Babi Yar. Of Treblinka and Chelmno, the ash-streaked chimneys. The dead-eyed children, lined up in rows. The mothers clutching their babies as bullets tore through them.
"But Mussolini!" the officer bellowed, veins bulging in his neck. "He took us in! He gave us weapons! He gave us a place, a purpose, a future! Hail Caesar! Hail the Falag! Hail Stern!"
"To hell with the Haganah! To hell with the Irgun! To hell with Ben-Gurion and his Mapai traitors! They are worse than nazis! They are traitors!"
"Hail Stern! Hail Rome! Hail vengeance!"
Every night, they raised their hands in salute. Not out of doctrine—but out of fury. Their hearts beat not with ideology, but with grief sharpened into hatred. They had lost too much to forgive. Their Zionism was not the Zionism of speeches or debates. It was the Zionism of bullets, of fire and blood.
Anne took a shallow breath as she chambered another round. There was no fear. No hesitation. That had died in her long ago—back in Libya, when they landed in Haifa. In Germany. When she saw the camps. What would have awaited her and her family.
She thought of her father—gentle, kind Otto—who believed the world still had decency left in it. She thought of Margot, so quiet, so smart. She thought of her mother, whose final embrace she could barely remember now.
If the British had let them in peacefully and given them a nation they would still be alive.
They were not victims of gas, but of bureaucracy. Not murdered by Germans, but sentenced by British indifference.
They turned us away.
So now, she turned her rifle on them.
She fired again. Another shot, another crash of metal, another scream. A British soldier fell from the back of a truck, clutching his stomach, writhing.
All that was left in Anne Frank now was vengeance. Her diary was ash. Her innocence, a corpse. The girl who once dreamed of being a writer was gone.
What remained was the soldier.
She stood tall atop the rooftop, her eyes wild, and shouted into the dusk:
"HAIL STERN!"
"DEATH TO THE BRITISH!"
Her voice rang out like a war cry.
All around her, from the rooftops and alleyways, the Lehi answered as one, their guns still hot, their faces smeared with smoke and fury.
"DEATH TO THE BRITISH! HAIL STERN! HAIL CAESAR!"
The cry echoed across Haifa like thunder. Not a cry of protest—but of war.
Of reckoning.
The last of the trucks burned in the street, its frame wreathed in flames, black smoke curling skyward like a funeral pyre.
The air was filled with the scent of cordite, of gasoline, of blood. Screams echoed in the stone alleys. Some British soldiers were still alive, crawling, moaning, begging.
Anne didn't flinch.
She slung her rifle and drew the blade from her boot—a long, curved fighting knife given to her by a Polish volunteer who had died the week before. She remembered the man's name—Wladislav—but not his face anymore. They disappeared so quickly now.
"Down!" Her cell leader Schlomo barked. The team began their descent.
One by one, the Lehi operatives clambered down fire escapes and stone balconies like vultures descending upon carrion. Anne followed, her boots pounding against rusted metal, her breath sharp and fast in the night air.
By the time she hit the ground, the killing had already begun.
A British officer was pinned against a wall by two partisans. He tried to reach for his sidearm—he didn't get the chance. A blade slashed across his throat and a second buried itself in his gut. The man let out a gurgled scream and slumped to the ground, twitching.
Anne approached another—he was young, barely older than Raoul had been when he died. His leg was shattered, his uniform soaked in blood. He reached toward her, lips trembling, eyes wide with terror.
"Please…" he whispered.
She didn't blink.
She drove the knife into his throat with a quick, practiced motion, twisting it once before yanking it free. He gurgled and collapsed, blood pouring from the wound like a broken faucet. She wiped the blade on his jacket.
"Keep going!" Schlomo shouted. "Leave none alive!"
The Lehi fanned out like wolves, dragging wounded soldiers from the wreckage, knives flashing under the streetlights. Some screamed. Most didn't have the strength.
They had no uniforms, no formal ranks—only vengeance. What the world had denied them, they now claimed in blood.
Anne moved through the carnage like a phantom, unfeeling, efficient. Another soldier tried to flee—she chased him down an alleyway, leapt, and brought him to the ground with a single gunshot from her sidearm to the back. He screamed in agony, crawling.
She knelt beside him, eyes flat, empty.
"This is for Margot," she said in Dutch.
Then she stabbed him in the chest. Again. Again. Again.
When she rose, her arms were slick with red. She didn't feel the weight of it anymore. It was just part of her skin now.
The political officer, Micah appeared, with a sack and a bloody grin.
"Cut the heads," he growled. "Put them on spikes. Let them see what happens when you anger the Falag."
Anne didn't hesitate. Alongside the others, she helped behead then drag the decapitated bodies into a heap near the edge of the plaza then blew them up with grenades. The heads were placed on sharpened iron rods taken from the wrecked British trucks. Ten of them. Then fifteen. Then 100 by the time they were finished.
Each one was crowned with a British helmet—mockery laid atop horror.
Passersby's—Arabs, Jews—watched from the shadows, silent. Horrified.
Let them see, Anne thought. Let them remember.
One of the Lehi, a teenager no older than sixteen, began singing an old Hebrew folk song as he cleaned his blade. Others joined. The melody was calm, even cheerful—a grotesque lullaby echoing among the dead.
Anne stood beneath one of the spikes, gazing up at the dripping head of a British sergeant as she began to sing.
She felt nothing.
Not fear. Not triumph.
Just a cold, endless ache where her family used to be.
And she thought of Switzerland. Of her cousin.
Did she deserve to be with them?
-----------
A few hours later, and she was resting. In a safe house. The firelight flickered against the jagged stone walls, casting long shadows that danced like ghosts. Anne sat alone, her back pressed against the cold brick, the weight of the night pressing down on her chest like a thousand stones.
Her hands trembled as she reached into her satchel and pulled out a worn leather-bound book—her diary.
She opened it carefully, almost reverently, fingers tracing the edges of the pages as if touching the past itself.
Her eyes fell on the very first entry. Her birthday, a little over two years ago.
Monday, 12 June, 1940
On Friday, June 12th, I woke up at six o'clock and no wonder; it was my birthday. But of course I was not allowed to get up at that hour, so I had to control my curiosity until a quarter to seven. Then I could bear it no longer, and went to the dining room, where I received a warm welcome from Moortje (the cat).
Soon after seven I went to Mummy and Daddy and then to the sitting room to undo my presents. The first to greet me
was you , possibly the nicest of all. Then on the table there were a bunch of roses, a plant, and some peonies, and more arrived during the day.
I got masses of things from Mummy and Daddy, and was thoroughly spoiled by various friends. Among other things I was given Camera Obscura , a party game, lots of sweets, chocolates, a puzzle, a brooch, Tales and Legends of the Netherlands by Joseph Cohen, Daisy's Mountain Holiday (a terrific book), and some money. Now I can buy The Myths of Greece and Rome— grand!
Then Lies called for me and we went to school. Things have been hectic after the invasion ended. But daddy says everything will be ok.
Anne swallowed hard. The words felt like a knife twisting in her heart. Eleven years old. So young. So innocent. So full of hope.
Back then, the world was still a place where family dinners existed. Where laughter wasn't stifled by fear. Where the greatest worry was whether Margot would tease her for being clumsy or if Papa's jokes would make Mommy smile.
Tears welled up suddenly, blurring the inked letters on the page. They spilled down her cheeks—hot, silent, and relentless.
She folded the diary shut and pressed it to her chest. The diary, the last tangible piece of the family she once had.
But it wasn't enough.
Her thoughts spiraled deeper.
Margot… Mommy… Papa… Grandmommy…
She could almost hear their voices—their laughter, their scolding, their warmth.
She missed the way Margot's smile could light up a dark room. The way Mommy's hands smelled of freshly baked bread and thyme. The gentle way Papa would brush a stray lock of hair from her forehead and whisper, "Everything will be alright."
But everything wasn't alright.
Her family was gone.
Taken by the British indifference, bullets and soldiers. The cruel gates that slammed shut when they begged for refuge. By the cold bureaucracy that labeled them "unwanted," "dangerous," "expendable."
Anne's heart ached with a fury that burned hotter than any gunpowder.
She pulled from her satchel the letter Bernhardt had sent—a fragile envelope, its edges worn from days of being folded and unfolded.
She cradled it like a treasure, pressing it against her cheek, inhaling the faint scent of the Swiss pine forests he had described.
She remembered Bernhardt—the boy who taught her to skate, who laughed when she fell, who picked her up and never let go.
The letter was a lifeline to a time before the war swallowed everything.
She unfolded the fragile paper with care, the creases worn thin from too many readings, the ink slightly smudged from old tears. Bernhardt's handwriting was careful, almost too careful, as though he feared even his pen could break her if he wasn't gentle enough.
"I miss you, Anne. We all miss you."
"Come to Switzerland. You're welcome anytime. There's always a home for you here."
Her breath caught in her throat.
A home.
The word echoed in her chest like the toll of a bell. A home—not a bunker, not a ruined building stained with blood, not a rooftop from which she picked off British soldiers one by one. A real home. Warm. Safe. Full of life and the sound of voices that didn't scream.
She closed her eyes and clutched the letter tighter, pressing it to her chest as if she could somehow crawl inside it, vanish into the paper, into the world Bernhardt still lived in. A world untouched by what she had become.
Is there a home for me? she wondered. Could there ever be?
Her eyes drifted down to her hands—steady, scarred, calloused from gripping the cold steel of her rifle. Those hands had slit throats. Had torn flesh. Just hours ago, she'd driven a blade into the neck of a British soldier and watched the light go out of his eyes. It hadn't felt like murder. It had felt like routine. A task. Necessary.
She remembered the way the blood sprayed across her sleeve, how the warm, sticky liquid soaked into the fabric and skin without resistance. And she hadn't flinched. Not once. No more than a butcher carving up meat.
Bernhardt was only a few years older than her. Just a boy, really. But he still had softness in his eyes, still believed in letters and laughter and futures.
And she…
She turned toward the dying fire, its embers crumbling into ash like everything else she'd once loved. The heat barely reached her anymore. It spat and cracked, struggling to cling to life, just as she was.
She stared at it.
A monster.
I'm a monster.
The thought was not new. It was not sudden. But tonight, it felt heavier than usual.
Uncle Erich. Aunt Helene. Bernhardt. They were still alive. Still people. Still human.
And if she ever saw them again, if she walked into their home with her soot-blackened coat and eyes hollowed out by death, what would they see? Would they see Anne, the girl who wrote fairy tales and believed in dreams?
No. They would see a stranger.
A killer.
A girl with ghosts in her shadow and blood under her fingernails.
Maybe they'd pity her. For a time. Offer her tea, bread, a bath. Ask questions. Cry. Smile sadly.
But soon, the silence would come. That awkward, awful silence of two worlds that no longer touched. A silence as wide as the sea that now separated them.
Then they'd ask her to leave.
The Mediterranean was not just a body of water. It was a chasm. A grave.
And yet, here—here in the ruins, in the filth, in the endless blood and smoke—she belonged.
With her comrades.
The damned.
The broken.
The burning.
They didn't flinch when she wept. They didn't recoil when she screamed. They didn't pity her.
They were her family now.
The lost who had no time to dream, they could only act.
To build something better from the ashes.
To claw out a future with bloodied hands.
For Bernhardt. For Helene. For Erich. For the Anne she could never be again.
She couldn't leave. Not yet. Not until the war was over.
Not until they had won.
Because if she walked away now, if she let go of this fight, then her family's deaths would have been for nothing.
She reached again for her diary, the one she'd sworn never to abandon. The pages were stained now—dirt, blood, tears—but it still held her soul.
She opened it with trembling hands and began to write. Every detail. Every bullet. Every soldier who fell. Every face. Every scream. The beheadings. The fire. The look in her victim's eyes. The numbness that followed.
Her pen scratched across the page like a knife.
And then the feelings came. Crashing. Crippling.
The rage. The sorrow. The loneliness that hollowed her from the inside out.
The tears followed—slow at first, then pouring, breaking past the dam she'd built around her heart. She covered her mouth to muffle the sobs, but they escaped anyway, ragged and raw. Her whole body shook.
She hugged the diary to her chest, her lifeline to the past, and buried her face in her knees. Her heart ached with a pain that no blade could dull.
She wasn't just fighting soldiers in the streets.
She was fighting the silence. The guilt. The yawning emptiness inside.
The place where Papa once lived. Where Margot once sang.
Where Mama whispered lullabies in the dark.
A prayer slipped from her lips, broken by gasps.
"Please… let me see them again. Just once. Please… let me avenge them. Let this mean something."
Outside, the wind howled. The city slept in ruins.
And in the flickering firelight, Anne Frank wept—not just for the family she had lost, but for the girl she could never be again. For the innocence stolen. For the memories that now tasted like ash. For a world that forced her to become something she never wanted to be.
But still she wrote.
Because that was all she had left.
AAAustinYu
Not too sore, are you?
- Joined
- May 30, 2023
- Messages
- 325
Well......
Aside from that, will the Israel of this timeline be as technologically innovative as OTL Israel? They did have some good tech
Aside from that, will the Israel of this timeline be as technologically innovative as OTL Israel? They did have some good tech
The abyss that infects the soul
Alenco98
Not too sore, are you?
- Joined
- Oct 20, 2022
- Messages
- 306
Outside Famagusta, British Cyprus – November 5, 1942
POV: Enzo Ricci, OVRA Operative – Codename "Gladius"
Enzo Ricci sat alone on a cracked stone wall perched above the barren, wind-scoured hills outside Famagusta. His carbine lay across his lap, glinting dully in the fading Mediterranean sun. The air carried the dry scent of dust and distant brine, and in the far-off shimmer of the horizon, the sea flickered like a blade being drawn from a scabbard—sharp, cold, and deadly.
He cleaned the carbine methodically, fingers moving with practiced precision, but the motion was hollow, rote. It wasn't the rifle that needed cleansing. It wasn't the steel that was fouled with filth. It was everything else—his mission, his comrades, his supposed allies, the stench of rot that clung to the war like a funeral shroud.
No, he wasn't here to train partisans.
He wasn't here for Mare Nostrum or the Duce's dream of a reborn Roman imperium stretching across the Middle Sea.
He was here to kill a man.
Not just any man.
Oskar Dirlewanger.
Ricci's jaw tightened as the name passed through his mind like bile up the throat. The bastard had been given a new identity—Oscar di Valetta, codename Spatha—a grotesque parody of Italianization, as if changing the name could cleanse the abomination behind it. But it fooled no one. Not within OVRA. Not among the Germans. Certainly not Ricci.
There was no doubt left in his mind. He would kill Dirlewanger. Not in the clean, impersonal way soldiers are taught to kill—no distant shot through the heart, no surgical detonation. No. Enzo wanted to be there. Face to face. Eye to eye. He wanted to see the man die, to feel it—his pulse hammering against his knife, to watch the monster choke on his own blood and know, in his final moments, that justice had come. Justice, not vengeance. A reckoning.
Enzo had killed before. Dozens. Maybe more. For king, for Duce, for country. For duty. He'd slit throats in alleyways and snapped necks in basements. But this wasn't duty. This wasn't patriotism. This was sacred. A ritual. A purification by fire. For himself, for every innocent Dirlewanger had touched, for every soul howling in silence beneath Cypriot sands and Turkish soil.
He muttered a prayer under his breath—not for forgiveness. He had long abandoned the hope of absolution. He prayed for clarity. For the cold resolve that would steady his hand when the moment came. And it would come. Tonight, perhaps. Soon.
His assignment had been simple on paper when it started 4 months ago: embed with German and Italian advisors to train local Greek partisans in sabotage, ambush tactics, and psychological warfare as part of Operation Mare Nostrum. The empire's gamble to dominate the Mediterranean, to carve a shining Roman lake out of the old world's blood. But Ricci had seen how quickly gambles became nightmares. How strategy rotted into something obscene under the wrong hands.
Dirlewanger's hands.
Ricci had worked with monsters before—fanatics, zealots, the coldly efficient—but Dirlewanger was something else. Not merely a butcher, but a creature who reveled in the slaughter. The SS had barely tolerated him. The Germans working for OVRA knew what he was, a snake they were too afraid to crush. And now he was Rome's problem. His problem.
Worse still, he had infected the Greeks.
Ricci felt a deep, marrow-deep sickness twist in his gut every time he thought of them. Once, he had admired them. Brothers-in-arms, proud heirs to the legacies of Thermopylae and Salamis, warriors forged in centuries of struggle. He had watched them pray before battle, quote Aeschylus before ambushes, speak of freedom and vengeance against the British and the Turks. But that had changed. Under Dirlewanger's poisoned tutelage, they had been transformed—corrupted. Not into soldiers. Not even into killers. Into beasts.
He had watched it unfold, like gangrene spreading from an infected wound. One week they were burning out a British checkpoint with discipline. The next, they were stringing up village elders and skinning them alive. Ricci had listened as they laughed—laughed—while a Turkish mother begged for her child. He had watched a boy no older than his cousin Cesare dip his fingers into the blood of an imam and scrawl crosses across the walls of a desecrated mosque.
Yesterday still clung to him like the stench of death.
It was a nameless village. Dust, cracked clay, tired goats and veiled women with sunken eyes. They hit it at dawn. Resistance was minimal—two shepherds with rusted rifles, easily dispatched. Ricci thought it over. Until Dirlewanger arrived.
He jumped from his transport like a rabid animal, not a man. There was a terrible, sick anticipation in the way he moved, like a predator scenting blood before a kill. He ordered the men assembled. A line of old men with shaking hands. Dirlewanger shot three of them before they could speak. Then he turned to the women.
A girl—ten, maybe eleven—stood trembling beside her mother. Dirlewanger dragged her away by the hair. Ricci had stepped forward, heart pounding, hand on his holster.
Then Pavlos—once a professor of agronomy, now a savage in partisan garb—grabbed his arm and whispered, grinning, "Let the man have his fun."
Fun.
Ricci had nearly shot Pavlos then and there.
He watched, fists clenched, as Dirlewanger raped the girl in the barn, then shot her mother when she screamed. He killed her brother with a boot to the head. The Greeks cheered.
And it didn't stop.
They set fire to the mosque. Burned every Koran they found. Laughed as the imam was bound, gagged, and fed—piece by bleeding piece—to the livestock. Then they danced around his mutilated corpse, howling out the adhan in mocking, high-pitched falsetto voices like a chorus of demons.
This wasn't war.
This wasn't even vengeance.
This was evil. Deliberate. Taught. Fed to them by that German animal.
And Ricci—Gladius—had seen enough.
The Duce spoke of empire, of civilization reborn. But what civilization was this? What glory in teaching once-proud men to feast on the screams of children?
No. This wasn't what he fought for. Not for Rome. Not for Italy. Not for any nation.
Dirlewanger had to die. Not just for what he'd done. For what he was. A wound on the soul of war. A sickness.
Ricci stood from the wall, carbine slung over his back, the sun sinking red behind him like a fresh wound on the horizon. His mind was set. His path clear.
Tonight, the devil would die.
And if Ricci fell in the attempt, so be it.
At least he would fall clean.
And Dirlewanger, at last, would pay.
He had crossed himself three times after the massacre. Not out of piety—he had long since ceased pretending at that kind of comfort—but out of desperation. As if the act alone might somehow protect what was left of his soul. Even now, the memory twisted his stomach into knots. He had seen slaughter before—had taken part in it. But this? This was something else. Not even the Duce—not even Mussolini in one of his more unhinged moods—would have condoned such unholy savagery.
This was not war. This was blasphemy wrapped in a flag.
The Pope had denounced Nazism, excommunicated it from the Church and from the Christian soul. Ricci still remembered the crackling voice of Pius XII echoing across Vatican Radio just months ago, denouncing the darkness gathering in Europe. And yet, that darkness was here now, standing ten meters away, wearing a soiled Wehrmacht tunic and a mockery of an Italian alias pinned to its chest. Oscar di Valetta. A name stitched in deceit, like lipstick on a corpse. A laughable disguise for what Ricci knew was no man, but something fouler. Something bestial.
Oskar Dirlewanger.
Ricci didn't see a soldier when he looked at Dirlewanger. He saw the raw, festering heart of Nazism itself. Not the manicured rhetoric, not the pageantry, not the thin intellectual mask the Reich used to lure collaborators. No, Dirlewanger was the truth of it: blood, filth, perversion, and pure, ravenous nihilism. He was a creature of appetites—an animal in a uniform, drunk on the illusion of power and the screams of the powerless.
Ricci remained in the shadows, hidden behind a cluster of abandoned fuel drums, watching as Dirlewanger leaned in close to Maria—one of the Greek partisans they'd been tasked with training. Maria was no innocent. She had slit throats, killed children, rigged bombs, left men screaming in burning trucks. But she had once wept after killing a Turkish mother and her baby, once said a prayer over a body. There was still something human in her.
And even she recoiled from Dirlewanger.
She didn't flinch openly—she was too well-trained for that—but Ricci could see the stiffness in her spine, the way her eyes refused to meet the German's, the tension in her jaw as Dirlewanger chuckled low and touched her shoulder. Ricci felt something rise in his throat—rage, revulsion, maybe even pity. He couldn't be sure anymore.
It would happen tonight.
The plan was already in motion: a coordinated assault on a British barracks tucked into the labyrinthine streets of central Famagusta. Dirlewanger's idea, naturally—a loud, brutal affair. Explosives planted beneath a munitions depot. Mortars set up in alleyways. Partisans crawling over rooftops with Molotovs and panzerfausts. A firestorm. It would be chaos. A storm of smoke and blood and confusion. And in that chaos, Ricci would find him.
He reached into the lining of his greatcoat and let his fingers brush the stiletto tucked against his ribs. It wasn't regulation. Handmade, forged from scrap and fire by a Jewish blacksmith in Haifa who owed him his life. Ricci had saved the man from bleeding out in the gutter during a raid in Haifa. The knife had been his way of thanking him. A clean, brutal tool. Black hilt. Thin blade. Designed for close work—for whispers in the dark, for ending things permanently.
He would not use his rifle. No shot from afar, no impersonal trigger pull. No. Dirlewanger didn't deserve a soldier's death. He deserved to feel it. To know it was coming. Ricci imagined the moment in granular detail: Dirlewanger turning in surprise, that twisted leer falling away, replaced by something like fear. Perhaps he'd whimper. Perhaps not. Either way, Ricci would drive the knife in hard, just beneath the ribcage, angling upward into the heart. And then twist. Slowly. Not for speed. For meaning. For memory.
His lip curled as Dirlewanger patted Maria again—too hard, too long. Ricci could almost smell the man from where he crouched. The fetid stench of rotting meat, cheap vodka, and the unmistakable odor of old, dried blood. Dirlewanger's voice, thick and moist like a half-clotted wound, grated across the silence as he barked some crude joke. Maria did not laugh. Ricci felt a flicker of admiration for her restraint. He wasn't sure he could have managed it.
There were demons in this war. Ricci had long accepted that. He had worked with monsters before—men who shot prisoners, who bombed Red Cross convoys, who whispered their confessions in the dark and prayed Ricci wouldn't report them. But this… this was different. Dirlewanger was worse. He didn't hide what he was. He reveled in it. Wore it like a skin.
Some monsters wore uniforms. Some wore religion. Some wore patriotism.
Dirlewanger wore all three, and then laughed through the blood.
Ricci had once believed in Italy. In the Duce. In the black-shirted dream of national rebirth. Now he believed in one thing: the line. There had to be a line. Even in fascism. Even in hell. When men crossed that line—when they ceased to be soldiers and became predators—then it fell to others to put them down.
He wasn't doing this for Italy. Italy had made its bed with monsters. He wasn't doing it for the OVRA either; they'd turned a blind eye to Dirlewanger's atrocities because he got results. He wasn't even doing it for the Turks, or the children, or the women whose screams still echoed in the back of his skull.
No.
He was doing it for the dead. For the ones who couldn't speak for themselves. For the smoldering ruins of nameless villages. For the blood crusted on chapel walls. For the imam fed to pigs and the girl torn apart in a barn. For the line.
And maybe—just maybe—for the fragment of Enzo Ricci that still believed in something cleaner than this. Something human.
He rose from his crouch and slid the bolt on his carbine closed with a muted click. The weapon wouldn't matter tonight. The knife would be enough.
The sun was sinking low behind the hills. Soon the assault would begin. And in the fire and blood and gunfire, Enzo Ricci would find Oskar Dirlewanger. And then—finally—the killing would begin.
Not an execution.
A cleansing.
A reckoning.
An exorcism.
And may God, if He still looked down on this cursed land, have mercy on what remained of Ricci's soul.
A few hours later, they were in position.
The sun had long since bled its last into the sea, its dying light streaking the sky with hues of crimson and gold, as if nature itself had been wounded by the violence to come. Now, the only light came from the flickering lamps of Famagusta and the occasional spark of a cigarette among the partisans. The city lay silent but expectant, as though holding its breath. Every stone, every crumbling wall of this ancient city bore witness to millennia of blood and conquest—but Ricci felt no reverence for it now. He felt only disgust.
They called it a holy city, once. But tonight, there was no holiness here. Only a battlefield desecrated by the boots of men unworthy of any cause.
Ricci stood in the shadow of a decaying archway, one hand on his satchel, the other tightening the straps across his chest. His fingers moved with mechanical precision as he checked his knife once more—the stiletto hidden at his hip, tucked in its worn leather sheath.
His heart thudded—not with fear, but with the slow, steady rhythm of grim anticipation. A fire had been burning within him for days, smoldering beneath the surface, stoked by every story whispered among the partisans. Stories of slaughter. Of children thrown into wells. Of women dragged screaming into cellars. Of men made to kneel and dig their own graves while Dirlewanger laughed and smoked and passed around bottles of stolen brandy.
This was not war. It was desecration. It was filth masquerading as ideology. Dirlewanger was its high priest, and his congregation now included the Greeks.
Ricci cast a glance to them—his so-called allies. They crouched behind a stack of sandbags, waiting in silence broken only by the occasional muttered joke or chuckle. Dirty, lean men with the sharp, feral look of wolves. Their eyes glittered in the dark as they cradled their Greek and Italian made Panzerfausts like icons of a new religion—one consecrated in fire and death. They were not soldiers. Not anymore. War had changed them, or perhaps revealed what had always lurked beneath the surface. They grinned as they caressed their weapons, whispering to one another in coarse, rapid Greek that dripped with eagerness.
Dirlewanger's gifts to them. German hardware, Italian and Greek manufactured, and a philosophy of unrestrained cruelty. He had poisoned them. Turned them from fighters into animals.
Ricci loathed the way they looked at those weapons. With reverence. With hunger. As if they had become instruments of divine wrath. As if slaughter were sacred.
He had once believed the Greeks could be something else—brothers-in-arms, perhaps. But not anymore. Not after what he'd seen them do in the villages. Not after the fires. Not after the women.
A low whistle cut through the night like a blade.
The signal.
And then—chaos.
The first Panzerfaust screamed through the dark, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. A heartbeat later, it smashed into the British barracks with a sound like the world cracking open. Brick and blood burst into the air, a plume of ruin. Then came the second. The third. Explosions tore through the compound, one after another, until the night became nothing but noise and flame.
And then the Greeks charged—screaming like devils loosed from hell. They surged forward, rifles raised, bayonets flashing. The mad, frothing edge of a human wave. Ricci watched them disappear into the smoke like dogs unleashed.
Dirlewanger was at the front, of course. Always at the front. Laughing.
He charged ahead of them all, drunk on the carnage, a pistol in one hand and a Molotov in the other. His face was alight with a manic glee, his voice ringing out above the roar of gunfire in a chaotic mix of Italian, Greek, and German.
"Faster! Faster! Make them scream!"
Ricci's skin crawled.
He saw Dirlewanger raise his pistol and fire it blindly, cackling as men fell around him—some enemy, some friend, it made no difference to him. His eyes shone with something that went beyond madness. There was joy in him. Elation. The kind of euphoria found only by men who had long since torn out their own souls and burned them for warmth.
From his vantage point, Ricci watched it all unfold.
The barracks didn't stand a chance.
Caught between sleep and duty, the British barely managed to return fire. Turks scrambled in confusion, some half-naked, barefoot, shouting in English and Turkish. Some still in their bunks when the grenades began to rain. Ricci could hear the screams—high, thin, desperate. It was over in minutes.
Flames leapt from the windows as fuel tanks went up. Shadows danced across the broken walls. The air was filled with the stink of burning flesh, of cordite, of urine. Through it all moved the Greeks and Dirlewanger—unstoppable, inhuman, merciless.
He saw them dragging men from the bunkers. Beating them. Gutting them. One British sergeant—a boy, no more than twenty—was pulled by his hair and flung to the ground. He raised his hands in surrender. A Greek sliced open his stomach with a bayonet while Dirlewanger applauded.
Ricci turned away. He couldn't stomach it. Not again.
He wasn't there to save anyone. That chance had passed long ago. He was there for one thing only.
Justice.
No—vengeance.
His hand brushed the knife at his hip. He felt its weight, its promise. This would not be a death from afar. Not a sniper's clean bullet or a bomb's impersonal fire. It would be up close. Face to face. He wanted Dirlewanger to see his death coming. To know, in those final moments, that someone remembered. That someone cared enough to make it hurt.
Ricci would wait. He would find his moment in the chaos—when Dirlewanger thought himself invincible, when his guard was down, when the monster was smiling.
And then he would strike.
Not for Italy. Not for orders. Not for glory.
But for the women who couldn't scream anymore. For the children buried beneath olive trees. For the priests hanged from their own bell towers. For the villages that were now only names on maps and piles of ash. For the Greek who still wept in her sleep. For the Jewish girl who never made it to Palestine.
And for what remained of his own humanity, clinging desperately to life like a candle flickering in a storm.
Tonight, Enzo Ricci would not fight as a soldier.
He would kill as a man.
And it would be enough.
Dirlewanger stood beside the flaming wreckage of a British supply truck, his silhouette flickering grotesquely in the firelight, as though he were some ancient demon conjured from a darker time. The flames illuminated his blood-soaked uniform—though not a drop of it was his own. His coat hung loose, his collar open, and his face gleamed with sweat and gore, streaked with the filth of battle and the ecstasy of violence. He looked not like a man but like a creature from a medieval fever dream, a grotesque parody of a soldier who had long since crossed the threshold into monstrosity.
Ricci approached slowly, methodically, his boots crunching over broken glass and bone chips. His movements were deliberate, calm—unnaturally calm. In his hand, he carried a bottle of brandy, a peace offering forged in fire. He could feel the heat of the blaze on his face, smell the stench of charred meat and diesel fuel, but he did not flinch. His eyes never left Dirlewanger.
He forced the name out past his clenched jaw like a curse: "Spatha."
Dirlewanger turned, his face alight not with recognition, but with glee. His eyes were wide, wild, pupils dilated as if he were high on the very butchery he had orchestrated.
"Ah, Gladius!" he crowed, his voice hoarse from shouting, "You've finally joined the revel! Watching from the shadows like a Roman emperor, eh?" He laughed—a horrible, grating sound. "Did you see the last one? A British captain—cried like a girl before I shot him in the balls! Begged me in that sniveling Queen's English. You should have heard it!"
Ricci managed a smile, tight and false. "You deserve a drink," he said flatly, extending a bottle he kept in his coat for the last 2 days for this occasion.
Dirlewanger snatched it like a starving dog, tilted it back, and guzzled deeply. He wiped his mouth with the back of his bloodstained sleeve and grinned. "To death, my friend!"
"To death," Ricci replied.
He stepped closer. Close enough to feel the heat radiating from Dirlewanger's skin. Close enough that their shoulders brushed. He smelled rot and old sweat, cordite and blood.
And then, with the smooth, silent motion of a man who had rehearsed it in his mind a hundred times, Ricci slipped the stiletto from beneath his belt and drove it into Dirlewanger's side, just beneath the ribs, angling up.
The man jerked, let out a sharp gasp—but not in fear. Not even pain. Just surprise.
Ricci pulled the blade free and stabbed again. And again. And again.
Six times. Seven. Eight.
Each thrust was an act of justice, of vengeance, of sacred rage. The blade slid through muscle and fat, grating against bone. Blood burst forth in hot, arterial spurts, soaking Ricci's chest, his hands, his face. He didn't stop. Didn't breathe. Didn't think. He was beyond thinking.
And still, Dirlewanger didn't scream.
He laughed.
Low and ragged at first, then louder, fuller, until it echoed through the burning camp like the cry of a hyena at a feast. He staggered backward, his hands pressed to his abdomen, intestines spilling through his fingers like ropes of pale, steaming sausage—and he kept laughing. It was a sound that would follow Ricci into his dreams and haunt him until the day he died.
He looked into Dirlewanger's face and saw not fear, nor hatred, nor regret—but gratitude. Sick, twisted gratitude. The gratitude of a man who had always known this would be his end and had welcomed it. Who had needed it. Who had wanted, above all, to die as he had lived—drenched in blood and fire and chaos.
Ricci felt bile rise in his throat.
"God damn you," he muttered, voice cracking with something deeper than hate.
Dirlewanger gave one final wet chuckle, a crimson bubble blooming on his lips. Then he collapsed, folding in on himself like a broken marionette, and was still.
The fire crackled beside them, spitting sparks into the night.
Ricci stood over the body, panting, his hands trembling now—not with fear, but with a great emptiness that threatened to swallow him whole. He wiped the blade on the dead man's coat, then slid it back into its sheath with ritual precision. It felt no different than it had before. He had expected to feel something—relief, perhaps. Vindication. Catharsis.
But there was nothing.
He turned and walked away, back toward the ruins of the British barracks.
The Greeks were already there—Maria, Pavlos, and the rest. They moved through the battlefield like carrion birds, looting the bodies with manic energy. One man dragged a corpse by the ankles, another held up a severed head and grinned for a photograph. Yet another had stripped naked to the waist and danced in the smoke with a bloodied bayonet, singing an old folk tune twisted into something unrecognizable, something feral.
A British nurse's screams echoed from a nearby tent. High-pitched. Wordless. Agonizing. The same kind of scream Ricci had heard in the Turkish villages days before, where girls had been dragged into barns and left as shattered things.
He didn't go to her.
He couldn't.
He stepped over a corpse. Couldn't tell whose. The dead had no nationality anymore. They were simply meat now. Charred. Split open. Empty.
The air reeked of excrement, ashes, coppery blood, and a sickly sweet note of victory.
And something inside Ricci—something deep, something old—broke.
He sank to his knees beside a freshly killed body and pressed his palms to his face. The blood was still wet on his fingers. He wept—not silently, not stoically, but with great, wrenching sobs that shook his entire frame. He wept like a child. Like a man who had seen the edge of the abyss and discovered too late that he'd never really been separate from it.
He wept for the dead.
For the Greeks, now drunk on their own cruelty.
For the British boys who had died without understanding what they were even fighting for.
For the Turks, who had been slaughtered like animals in villages that once rang with laughter.
For Dirlewanger, damn him, who had died laughing, knowing he had won long before Ricci ever raised his blade.
And for himself.
Because he had done what he set out to do.
He had slain the beast.
But the beast had not bled out alone. It had multiplied. It had seeded its madness into others—into the Greeks, into the earth, into Ricci's own soul.
He had won.
And it had changed nothing.
The devil was dead.
But hell, it seemed, was only just beginning.
POV: Enzo Ricci, OVRA Operative – Codename "Gladius"
Enzo Ricci sat alone on a cracked stone wall perched above the barren, wind-scoured hills outside Famagusta. His carbine lay across his lap, glinting dully in the fading Mediterranean sun. The air carried the dry scent of dust and distant brine, and in the far-off shimmer of the horizon, the sea flickered like a blade being drawn from a scabbard—sharp, cold, and deadly.
He cleaned the carbine methodically, fingers moving with practiced precision, but the motion was hollow, rote. It wasn't the rifle that needed cleansing. It wasn't the steel that was fouled with filth. It was everything else—his mission, his comrades, his supposed allies, the stench of rot that clung to the war like a funeral shroud.
No, he wasn't here to train partisans.
He wasn't here for Mare Nostrum or the Duce's dream of a reborn Roman imperium stretching across the Middle Sea.
He was here to kill a man.
Not just any man.
Oskar Dirlewanger.
Ricci's jaw tightened as the name passed through his mind like bile up the throat. The bastard had been given a new identity—Oscar di Valetta, codename Spatha—a grotesque parody of Italianization, as if changing the name could cleanse the abomination behind it. But it fooled no one. Not within OVRA. Not among the Germans. Certainly not Ricci.
There was no doubt left in his mind. He would kill Dirlewanger. Not in the clean, impersonal way soldiers are taught to kill—no distant shot through the heart, no surgical detonation. No. Enzo wanted to be there. Face to face. Eye to eye. He wanted to see the man die, to feel it—his pulse hammering against his knife, to watch the monster choke on his own blood and know, in his final moments, that justice had come. Justice, not vengeance. A reckoning.
Enzo had killed before. Dozens. Maybe more. For king, for Duce, for country. For duty. He'd slit throats in alleyways and snapped necks in basements. But this wasn't duty. This wasn't patriotism. This was sacred. A ritual. A purification by fire. For himself, for every innocent Dirlewanger had touched, for every soul howling in silence beneath Cypriot sands and Turkish soil.
He muttered a prayer under his breath—not for forgiveness. He had long abandoned the hope of absolution. He prayed for clarity. For the cold resolve that would steady his hand when the moment came. And it would come. Tonight, perhaps. Soon.
His assignment had been simple on paper when it started 4 months ago: embed with German and Italian advisors to train local Greek partisans in sabotage, ambush tactics, and psychological warfare as part of Operation Mare Nostrum. The empire's gamble to dominate the Mediterranean, to carve a shining Roman lake out of the old world's blood. But Ricci had seen how quickly gambles became nightmares. How strategy rotted into something obscene under the wrong hands.
Dirlewanger's hands.
Ricci had worked with monsters before—fanatics, zealots, the coldly efficient—but Dirlewanger was something else. Not merely a butcher, but a creature who reveled in the slaughter. The SS had barely tolerated him. The Germans working for OVRA knew what he was, a snake they were too afraid to crush. And now he was Rome's problem. His problem.
Worse still, he had infected the Greeks.
Ricci felt a deep, marrow-deep sickness twist in his gut every time he thought of them. Once, he had admired them. Brothers-in-arms, proud heirs to the legacies of Thermopylae and Salamis, warriors forged in centuries of struggle. He had watched them pray before battle, quote Aeschylus before ambushes, speak of freedom and vengeance against the British and the Turks. But that had changed. Under Dirlewanger's poisoned tutelage, they had been transformed—corrupted. Not into soldiers. Not even into killers. Into beasts.
He had watched it unfold, like gangrene spreading from an infected wound. One week they were burning out a British checkpoint with discipline. The next, they were stringing up village elders and skinning them alive. Ricci had listened as they laughed—laughed—while a Turkish mother begged for her child. He had watched a boy no older than his cousin Cesare dip his fingers into the blood of an imam and scrawl crosses across the walls of a desecrated mosque.
Yesterday still clung to him like the stench of death.
It was a nameless village. Dust, cracked clay, tired goats and veiled women with sunken eyes. They hit it at dawn. Resistance was minimal—two shepherds with rusted rifles, easily dispatched. Ricci thought it over. Until Dirlewanger arrived.
He jumped from his transport like a rabid animal, not a man. There was a terrible, sick anticipation in the way he moved, like a predator scenting blood before a kill. He ordered the men assembled. A line of old men with shaking hands. Dirlewanger shot three of them before they could speak. Then he turned to the women.
A girl—ten, maybe eleven—stood trembling beside her mother. Dirlewanger dragged her away by the hair. Ricci had stepped forward, heart pounding, hand on his holster.
Then Pavlos—once a professor of agronomy, now a savage in partisan garb—grabbed his arm and whispered, grinning, "Let the man have his fun."
Fun.
Ricci had nearly shot Pavlos then and there.
He watched, fists clenched, as Dirlewanger raped the girl in the barn, then shot her mother when she screamed. He killed her brother with a boot to the head. The Greeks cheered.
And it didn't stop.
They set fire to the mosque. Burned every Koran they found. Laughed as the imam was bound, gagged, and fed—piece by bleeding piece—to the livestock. Then they danced around his mutilated corpse, howling out the adhan in mocking, high-pitched falsetto voices like a chorus of demons.
This wasn't war.
This wasn't even vengeance.
This was evil. Deliberate. Taught. Fed to them by that German animal.
And Ricci—Gladius—had seen enough.
The Duce spoke of empire, of civilization reborn. But what civilization was this? What glory in teaching once-proud men to feast on the screams of children?
No. This wasn't what he fought for. Not for Rome. Not for Italy. Not for any nation.
Dirlewanger had to die. Not just for what he'd done. For what he was. A wound on the soul of war. A sickness.
Ricci stood from the wall, carbine slung over his back, the sun sinking red behind him like a fresh wound on the horizon. His mind was set. His path clear.
Tonight, the devil would die.
And if Ricci fell in the attempt, so be it.
At least he would fall clean.
And Dirlewanger, at last, would pay.
He had crossed himself three times after the massacre. Not out of piety—he had long since ceased pretending at that kind of comfort—but out of desperation. As if the act alone might somehow protect what was left of his soul. Even now, the memory twisted his stomach into knots. He had seen slaughter before—had taken part in it. But this? This was something else. Not even the Duce—not even Mussolini in one of his more unhinged moods—would have condoned such unholy savagery.
This was not war. This was blasphemy wrapped in a flag.
The Pope had denounced Nazism, excommunicated it from the Church and from the Christian soul. Ricci still remembered the crackling voice of Pius XII echoing across Vatican Radio just months ago, denouncing the darkness gathering in Europe. And yet, that darkness was here now, standing ten meters away, wearing a soiled Wehrmacht tunic and a mockery of an Italian alias pinned to its chest. Oscar di Valetta. A name stitched in deceit, like lipstick on a corpse. A laughable disguise for what Ricci knew was no man, but something fouler. Something bestial.
Oskar Dirlewanger.
Ricci didn't see a soldier when he looked at Dirlewanger. He saw the raw, festering heart of Nazism itself. Not the manicured rhetoric, not the pageantry, not the thin intellectual mask the Reich used to lure collaborators. No, Dirlewanger was the truth of it: blood, filth, perversion, and pure, ravenous nihilism. He was a creature of appetites—an animal in a uniform, drunk on the illusion of power and the screams of the powerless.
Ricci remained in the shadows, hidden behind a cluster of abandoned fuel drums, watching as Dirlewanger leaned in close to Maria—one of the Greek partisans they'd been tasked with training. Maria was no innocent. She had slit throats, killed children, rigged bombs, left men screaming in burning trucks. But she had once wept after killing a Turkish mother and her baby, once said a prayer over a body. There was still something human in her.
And even she recoiled from Dirlewanger.
She didn't flinch openly—she was too well-trained for that—but Ricci could see the stiffness in her spine, the way her eyes refused to meet the German's, the tension in her jaw as Dirlewanger chuckled low and touched her shoulder. Ricci felt something rise in his throat—rage, revulsion, maybe even pity. He couldn't be sure anymore.
It would happen tonight.
The plan was already in motion: a coordinated assault on a British barracks tucked into the labyrinthine streets of central Famagusta. Dirlewanger's idea, naturally—a loud, brutal affair. Explosives planted beneath a munitions depot. Mortars set up in alleyways. Partisans crawling over rooftops with Molotovs and panzerfausts. A firestorm. It would be chaos. A storm of smoke and blood and confusion. And in that chaos, Ricci would find him.
He reached into the lining of his greatcoat and let his fingers brush the stiletto tucked against his ribs. It wasn't regulation. Handmade, forged from scrap and fire by a Jewish blacksmith in Haifa who owed him his life. Ricci had saved the man from bleeding out in the gutter during a raid in Haifa. The knife had been his way of thanking him. A clean, brutal tool. Black hilt. Thin blade. Designed for close work—for whispers in the dark, for ending things permanently.
He would not use his rifle. No shot from afar, no impersonal trigger pull. No. Dirlewanger didn't deserve a soldier's death. He deserved to feel it. To know it was coming. Ricci imagined the moment in granular detail: Dirlewanger turning in surprise, that twisted leer falling away, replaced by something like fear. Perhaps he'd whimper. Perhaps not. Either way, Ricci would drive the knife in hard, just beneath the ribcage, angling upward into the heart. And then twist. Slowly. Not for speed. For meaning. For memory.
His lip curled as Dirlewanger patted Maria again—too hard, too long. Ricci could almost smell the man from where he crouched. The fetid stench of rotting meat, cheap vodka, and the unmistakable odor of old, dried blood. Dirlewanger's voice, thick and moist like a half-clotted wound, grated across the silence as he barked some crude joke. Maria did not laugh. Ricci felt a flicker of admiration for her restraint. He wasn't sure he could have managed it.
There were demons in this war. Ricci had long accepted that. He had worked with monsters before—men who shot prisoners, who bombed Red Cross convoys, who whispered their confessions in the dark and prayed Ricci wouldn't report them. But this… this was different. Dirlewanger was worse. He didn't hide what he was. He reveled in it. Wore it like a skin.
Some monsters wore uniforms. Some wore religion. Some wore patriotism.
Dirlewanger wore all three, and then laughed through the blood.
Ricci had once believed in Italy. In the Duce. In the black-shirted dream of national rebirth. Now he believed in one thing: the line. There had to be a line. Even in fascism. Even in hell. When men crossed that line—when they ceased to be soldiers and became predators—then it fell to others to put them down.
He wasn't doing this for Italy. Italy had made its bed with monsters. He wasn't doing it for the OVRA either; they'd turned a blind eye to Dirlewanger's atrocities because he got results. He wasn't even doing it for the Turks, or the children, or the women whose screams still echoed in the back of his skull.
No.
He was doing it for the dead. For the ones who couldn't speak for themselves. For the smoldering ruins of nameless villages. For the blood crusted on chapel walls. For the imam fed to pigs and the girl torn apart in a barn. For the line.
And maybe—just maybe—for the fragment of Enzo Ricci that still believed in something cleaner than this. Something human.
He rose from his crouch and slid the bolt on his carbine closed with a muted click. The weapon wouldn't matter tonight. The knife would be enough.
The sun was sinking low behind the hills. Soon the assault would begin. And in the fire and blood and gunfire, Enzo Ricci would find Oskar Dirlewanger. And then—finally—the killing would begin.
Not an execution.
A cleansing.
A reckoning.
An exorcism.
And may God, if He still looked down on this cursed land, have mercy on what remained of Ricci's soul.
A few hours later, they were in position.
The sun had long since bled its last into the sea, its dying light streaking the sky with hues of crimson and gold, as if nature itself had been wounded by the violence to come. Now, the only light came from the flickering lamps of Famagusta and the occasional spark of a cigarette among the partisans. The city lay silent but expectant, as though holding its breath. Every stone, every crumbling wall of this ancient city bore witness to millennia of blood and conquest—but Ricci felt no reverence for it now. He felt only disgust.
They called it a holy city, once. But tonight, there was no holiness here. Only a battlefield desecrated by the boots of men unworthy of any cause.
Ricci stood in the shadow of a decaying archway, one hand on his satchel, the other tightening the straps across his chest. His fingers moved with mechanical precision as he checked his knife once more—the stiletto hidden at his hip, tucked in its worn leather sheath.
His heart thudded—not with fear, but with the slow, steady rhythm of grim anticipation. A fire had been burning within him for days, smoldering beneath the surface, stoked by every story whispered among the partisans. Stories of slaughter. Of children thrown into wells. Of women dragged screaming into cellars. Of men made to kneel and dig their own graves while Dirlewanger laughed and smoked and passed around bottles of stolen brandy.
This was not war. It was desecration. It was filth masquerading as ideology. Dirlewanger was its high priest, and his congregation now included the Greeks.
Ricci cast a glance to them—his so-called allies. They crouched behind a stack of sandbags, waiting in silence broken only by the occasional muttered joke or chuckle. Dirty, lean men with the sharp, feral look of wolves. Their eyes glittered in the dark as they cradled their Greek and Italian made Panzerfausts like icons of a new religion—one consecrated in fire and death. They were not soldiers. Not anymore. War had changed them, or perhaps revealed what had always lurked beneath the surface. They grinned as they caressed their weapons, whispering to one another in coarse, rapid Greek that dripped with eagerness.
Dirlewanger's gifts to them. German hardware, Italian and Greek manufactured, and a philosophy of unrestrained cruelty. He had poisoned them. Turned them from fighters into animals.
Ricci loathed the way they looked at those weapons. With reverence. With hunger. As if they had become instruments of divine wrath. As if slaughter were sacred.
He had once believed the Greeks could be something else—brothers-in-arms, perhaps. But not anymore. Not after what he'd seen them do in the villages. Not after the fires. Not after the women.
A low whistle cut through the night like a blade.
The signal.
And then—chaos.
The first Panzerfaust screamed through the dark, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. A heartbeat later, it smashed into the British barracks with a sound like the world cracking open. Brick and blood burst into the air, a plume of ruin. Then came the second. The third. Explosions tore through the compound, one after another, until the night became nothing but noise and flame.
And then the Greeks charged—screaming like devils loosed from hell. They surged forward, rifles raised, bayonets flashing. The mad, frothing edge of a human wave. Ricci watched them disappear into the smoke like dogs unleashed.
Dirlewanger was at the front, of course. Always at the front. Laughing.
He charged ahead of them all, drunk on the carnage, a pistol in one hand and a Molotov in the other. His face was alight with a manic glee, his voice ringing out above the roar of gunfire in a chaotic mix of Italian, Greek, and German.
"Faster! Faster! Make them scream!"
Ricci's skin crawled.
He saw Dirlewanger raise his pistol and fire it blindly, cackling as men fell around him—some enemy, some friend, it made no difference to him. His eyes shone with something that went beyond madness. There was joy in him. Elation. The kind of euphoria found only by men who had long since torn out their own souls and burned them for warmth.
From his vantage point, Ricci watched it all unfold.
The barracks didn't stand a chance.
Caught between sleep and duty, the British barely managed to return fire. Turks scrambled in confusion, some half-naked, barefoot, shouting in English and Turkish. Some still in their bunks when the grenades began to rain. Ricci could hear the screams—high, thin, desperate. It was over in minutes.
Flames leapt from the windows as fuel tanks went up. Shadows danced across the broken walls. The air was filled with the stink of burning flesh, of cordite, of urine. Through it all moved the Greeks and Dirlewanger—unstoppable, inhuman, merciless.
He saw them dragging men from the bunkers. Beating them. Gutting them. One British sergeant—a boy, no more than twenty—was pulled by his hair and flung to the ground. He raised his hands in surrender. A Greek sliced open his stomach with a bayonet while Dirlewanger applauded.
Ricci turned away. He couldn't stomach it. Not again.
He wasn't there to save anyone. That chance had passed long ago. He was there for one thing only.
Justice.
No—vengeance.
His hand brushed the knife at his hip. He felt its weight, its promise. This would not be a death from afar. Not a sniper's clean bullet or a bomb's impersonal fire. It would be up close. Face to face. He wanted Dirlewanger to see his death coming. To know, in those final moments, that someone remembered. That someone cared enough to make it hurt.
Ricci would wait. He would find his moment in the chaos—when Dirlewanger thought himself invincible, when his guard was down, when the monster was smiling.
And then he would strike.
Not for Italy. Not for orders. Not for glory.
But for the women who couldn't scream anymore. For the children buried beneath olive trees. For the priests hanged from their own bell towers. For the villages that were now only names on maps and piles of ash. For the Greek who still wept in her sleep. For the Jewish girl who never made it to Palestine.
And for what remained of his own humanity, clinging desperately to life like a candle flickering in a storm.
Tonight, Enzo Ricci would not fight as a soldier.
He would kill as a man.
And it would be enough.
Dirlewanger stood beside the flaming wreckage of a British supply truck, his silhouette flickering grotesquely in the firelight, as though he were some ancient demon conjured from a darker time. The flames illuminated his blood-soaked uniform—though not a drop of it was his own. His coat hung loose, his collar open, and his face gleamed with sweat and gore, streaked with the filth of battle and the ecstasy of violence. He looked not like a man but like a creature from a medieval fever dream, a grotesque parody of a soldier who had long since crossed the threshold into monstrosity.
Ricci approached slowly, methodically, his boots crunching over broken glass and bone chips. His movements were deliberate, calm—unnaturally calm. In his hand, he carried a bottle of brandy, a peace offering forged in fire. He could feel the heat of the blaze on his face, smell the stench of charred meat and diesel fuel, but he did not flinch. His eyes never left Dirlewanger.
He forced the name out past his clenched jaw like a curse: "Spatha."
Dirlewanger turned, his face alight not with recognition, but with glee. His eyes were wide, wild, pupils dilated as if he were high on the very butchery he had orchestrated.
"Ah, Gladius!" he crowed, his voice hoarse from shouting, "You've finally joined the revel! Watching from the shadows like a Roman emperor, eh?" He laughed—a horrible, grating sound. "Did you see the last one? A British captain—cried like a girl before I shot him in the balls! Begged me in that sniveling Queen's English. You should have heard it!"
Ricci managed a smile, tight and false. "You deserve a drink," he said flatly, extending a bottle he kept in his coat for the last 2 days for this occasion.
Dirlewanger snatched it like a starving dog, tilted it back, and guzzled deeply. He wiped his mouth with the back of his bloodstained sleeve and grinned. "To death, my friend!"
"To death," Ricci replied.
He stepped closer. Close enough to feel the heat radiating from Dirlewanger's skin. Close enough that their shoulders brushed. He smelled rot and old sweat, cordite and blood.
And then, with the smooth, silent motion of a man who had rehearsed it in his mind a hundred times, Ricci slipped the stiletto from beneath his belt and drove it into Dirlewanger's side, just beneath the ribs, angling up.
The man jerked, let out a sharp gasp—but not in fear. Not even pain. Just surprise.
Ricci pulled the blade free and stabbed again. And again. And again.
Six times. Seven. Eight.
Each thrust was an act of justice, of vengeance, of sacred rage. The blade slid through muscle and fat, grating against bone. Blood burst forth in hot, arterial spurts, soaking Ricci's chest, his hands, his face. He didn't stop. Didn't breathe. Didn't think. He was beyond thinking.
And still, Dirlewanger didn't scream.
He laughed.
Low and ragged at first, then louder, fuller, until it echoed through the burning camp like the cry of a hyena at a feast. He staggered backward, his hands pressed to his abdomen, intestines spilling through his fingers like ropes of pale, steaming sausage—and he kept laughing. It was a sound that would follow Ricci into his dreams and haunt him until the day he died.
He looked into Dirlewanger's face and saw not fear, nor hatred, nor regret—but gratitude. Sick, twisted gratitude. The gratitude of a man who had always known this would be his end and had welcomed it. Who had needed it. Who had wanted, above all, to die as he had lived—drenched in blood and fire and chaos.
Ricci felt bile rise in his throat.
"God damn you," he muttered, voice cracking with something deeper than hate.
Dirlewanger gave one final wet chuckle, a crimson bubble blooming on his lips. Then he collapsed, folding in on himself like a broken marionette, and was still.
The fire crackled beside them, spitting sparks into the night.
Ricci stood over the body, panting, his hands trembling now—not with fear, but with a great emptiness that threatened to swallow him whole. He wiped the blade on the dead man's coat, then slid it back into its sheath with ritual precision. It felt no different than it had before. He had expected to feel something—relief, perhaps. Vindication. Catharsis.
But there was nothing.
He turned and walked away, back toward the ruins of the British barracks.
The Greeks were already there—Maria, Pavlos, and the rest. They moved through the battlefield like carrion birds, looting the bodies with manic energy. One man dragged a corpse by the ankles, another held up a severed head and grinned for a photograph. Yet another had stripped naked to the waist and danced in the smoke with a bloodied bayonet, singing an old folk tune twisted into something unrecognizable, something feral.
A British nurse's screams echoed from a nearby tent. High-pitched. Wordless. Agonizing. The same kind of scream Ricci had heard in the Turkish villages days before, where girls had been dragged into barns and left as shattered things.
He didn't go to her.
He couldn't.
He stepped over a corpse. Couldn't tell whose. The dead had no nationality anymore. They were simply meat now. Charred. Split open. Empty.
The air reeked of excrement, ashes, coppery blood, and a sickly sweet note of victory.
And something inside Ricci—something deep, something old—broke.
He sank to his knees beside a freshly killed body and pressed his palms to his face. The blood was still wet on his fingers. He wept—not silently, not stoically, but with great, wrenching sobs that shook his entire frame. He wept like a child. Like a man who had seen the edge of the abyss and discovered too late that he'd never really been separate from it.
He wept for the dead.
For the Greeks, now drunk on their own cruelty.
For the British boys who had died without understanding what they were even fighting for.
For the Turks, who had been slaughtered like animals in villages that once rang with laughter.
For Dirlewanger, damn him, who had died laughing, knowing he had won long before Ricci ever raised his blade.
And for himself.
Because he had done what he set out to do.
He had slain the beast.
But the beast had not bled out alone. It had multiplied. It had seeded its madness into others—into the Greeks, into the earth, into Ricci's own soul.
He had won.
And it had changed nothing.
The devil was dead.
But hell, it seemed, was only just beginning.
ATP
Well worn.
- Joined
- Jun 24, 2020
- Messages
- 6,483
Stern was bandit and terrorist,BUT- not soldier.He could murder civilians or blown up hotels,but fighting real soldiers? sorry,but no.
And italian mafia do not had catholic Punisher.Only average assasins.
Dirlewenger was german bandit good only for fighting civilians,not real soldiers.
But - still funny to read!
And italian mafia do not had catholic Punisher.Only average assasins.
Dirlewenger was german bandit good only for fighting civilians,not real soldiers.
But - still funny to read!
Last edited:
Pef
I Am One
- Joined
- May 28, 2016
- Messages
- 2,866
The critique of communism was pretty well done. Missed the crucial point, but then most Western people that never lived under communism do. The means of production is people. People do the work. So, when you "seize the means of production" what do you seize?
America during WW2, probably less well done, colored by woke propaganda and college education.
MC Benito, quite a failure, due to excessive explanations of reasoning, personal quirks and then apologizing for his speeches.
It's a book, if you can write, then you don't apologize. That's why fans exist, let them apologize for you.
Still, I listened to a few nice synth pop songs I never knew about, so that was cool. Should link said songs in each chapter, make them a theme, like Star Wars.
Anne Frank was beautiful, if reductive. Perhaps read her diary and copy some passages to let readers experience the actual truth.
The British...described in a far too competent manner. Yes, they eventually became good by applying science to military calculus, but it took time and enormous loses for that. The WW1 mentality and the bomber supremacy doctrine did more damage than good.
Stalin and his amazing defense vs Barbarossa was far too much. OTL, Stalin did know about the German plans too, but his answer was to mass troops, tanks and planes near the border. Which failed spectacularly.
The Yalta treaty was...silly. As if the Lend-lease and the Arctic convoys never happened. Not to mention the Iran line, which transported 70% of all American aid.
The sharing of nuclear secrets...kinda nuts. Exposing the Soviet spies inside the Manhattan Project would pay more dividends.
Same with the spy ring in England.
Then again, many, many writers who post on Alt history are Stalin fans, for some reason. Daddy issues, I think.
America during WW2, probably less well done, colored by woke propaganda and college education.
MC Benito, quite a failure, due to excessive explanations of reasoning, personal quirks and then apologizing for his speeches.
It's a book, if you can write, then you don't apologize. That's why fans exist, let them apologize for you.
Still, I listened to a few nice synth pop songs I never knew about, so that was cool. Should link said songs in each chapter, make them a theme, like Star Wars.
Anne Frank was beautiful, if reductive. Perhaps read her diary and copy some passages to let readers experience the actual truth.
The British...described in a far too competent manner. Yes, they eventually became good by applying science to military calculus, but it took time and enormous loses for that. The WW1 mentality and the bomber supremacy doctrine did more damage than good.
Stalin and his amazing defense vs Barbarossa was far too much. OTL, Stalin did know about the German plans too, but his answer was to mass troops, tanks and planes near the border. Which failed spectacularly.
The Yalta treaty was...silly. As if the Lend-lease and the Arctic convoys never happened. Not to mention the Iran line, which transported 70% of all American aid.
The sharing of nuclear secrets...kinda nuts. Exposing the Soviet spies inside the Manhattan Project would pay more dividends.
Same with the spy ring in England.
Then again, many, many writers who post on Alt history are Stalin fans, for some reason. Daddy issues, I think.
ATP
Well worn.
- Joined
- Jun 24, 2020
- Messages
- 6,483
Mostly agree,with few exceptions:
1.Sralin massed troops on border,becouse he plan to attack germans.And lost thanks to that - forces prepared to attack could not defend itselfs.
Not mention - his doctrine was "attack" - soldiers do not even had shovels to made trenches.They simply do not knew how to defend.
2.Yalta was stupidity - USA gave us for free to sralin,when in politics you sell your dear allies,not gave them for free.But -FDR was dying and Wallace was commie,as well as many democrats,so we could explain it by that.
3.Exposing soviet spies - yes,he should do that,not share anytching.
Main problems of story
1.Italy from 1939 do not have enough dakka to fight like that
2.USA lead by FDR did what soviets wonted,so it is impossible yo play them against each other.
The city that never sleeps
Alenco98
Not too sore, are you?
- Joined
- Oct 20, 2022
- Messages
- 306
November 9, 1942
New York City, New York
POV: Mario Bellini, OVRA Operative – Codename "Tridente"
The cold wind howled off the Hudson, biting through his overcoat and cutting down to the bone. New York in November had a way of being cruel even to those born in the fogs of Genoa or the rains of Lisbon. He paused beneath the flickering yellow glow of a streetlamp on Mulberry Street, lit a cigarette with trembling fingers, and took a long, slow drag. The smoke calmed him only slightly. With his free hand, he absently rubbed the left side of his ribcage—where a Hungarian stiletto had nearly ended his life eleven months ago in the frozen alleys of Buda. The wound still ached in cold weather, and tonight it felt like a blade had never left his flesh.
He owed Falcone his life for that mission. Falcone—quiet, brutal, always three steps ahead. Goddammit, he couldn't even remember the man's full name right now. Maybe it was the American air, or the tension in his spine, or maybe—just maybe—he was starting to fray around the edges. He'd been in the field too long. But reflection was a luxury he couldn't afford. Not now. Not in this city. Not with what was at stake.
Mario Bellini did not exist.
He was a ghost wearing a face stitched from lies. His real name, his true self, had been buried beneath layers of false documents, meticulous forgeries, and rehearsed biographical details. In the United States, he was known only as Gabriele Moura, a Spanish-Italian textile entrepreneur from Grenada with interests in Sicilian silk, Roman tailoring, and Cuban cigars. His fabricated life was supported by counterfeit tax records, shipping manifests, a birth certificate validated by bribed clerks in Madrid, and a business empire that looked legitimate from a distance. No one—not the Americans, not the Italians who had defected, and certainly not the FBI—could know the truth.
He was an agent of the OVRA, Italy's secret police, handpicked by Mussolini himself. A tool of Il Duce's shadow war. But here, in the American colossus of steel and ambition, he was alone. The Empire had a vision, a secret war plan. And he was at its sharp end.
His in was Vito Genovese, a living specter of power cloaked in cigar smoke and tailored pinstripes. Genovese was one of the most feared and influential figures in the American underworld—a member of the commission running the Genovese crime family on behalf of his imprisoned boss Lucky Luciano. A man who had fled to Italy to avoid prosecution and had found protection under none other than Count Galeazzo Ciano, the Duce's son-in-law and Foreign Minister. While in Italy, Genovese had built bridges with the regime. He returned to America shortly after Italy joined the war under an OVRA forged identity, carrying not only a suitcase full of dirty money but whispers of Italian interests wrapped in codes and contingency plans.
Gabriele—Mario—had arrived in New York weeks ago under the guise of establishing Moura Textiles North America. But commerce was merely the surface. Today, he was laying the groundwork for a darker, more insidious objective. The Duce's plans for America were grand and savage. Not invasion—no, too ambitious—it was subversion. Infiltration. Incendiary whispers planted in unions, sabotage in factories, racial unrest kindled like dry leaves, and Mafia networks used like scalpels.
And Genovese would be one of their most valuable tools.
He thought back to his last encoded briefing from Rome. The message had come via a nondescript envelope smuggled in through a diplomatic pouch routed through Buenos Aires. It spoke of plans in coded language, directives from the Emperor himself. Inflame the cities. Feed the flames of division. Undermine their confidence. Rot them from the inside.
Mario—Gabriele—was the rot.
He flicked the spent cigarette into the gutter, watching its embers vanish among wet leaves and garbage. Somewhere behind him, jazz echoed from an open window. Somewhere ahead, Genovese was waiting, along with the rest of the commission. Their meeting was scheduled in the back room of a restaurant that never advertised and never closed—a place where men vanished into the smoke and reappeared changed.
He checked the small pistol concealed in his coat, then adjusted his tie, adopting the slight swagger expected of a man who traded luxury cloth in the Empire State. But behind his eyes, behind the mask of Moura, was the cold, calculating mind of "Tridente"—an operative with blood on his hands and steel in his heart.
As he stepped off the curb and crossed the street toward the restaurant's inconspicuous entrance, he repeated his cover story once more in his mind. He was Gabriele Moura. Born in Granada. Educated in Milan. Widowed. A lover of opera and French cognac. Here to expand his business.
And if anyone found out otherwise—if anyone saw even a flicker of Mario Bellini beneath the surface—they would die before they could speak.
The wind howled again. This time, it sounded almost like applause.
The restaurant had no name. It didn't need one.
Tucked beneath a tenement building with soot-blackened bricks and rusted fire escapes, the only indication that it was anything more than a boarded-up cellar was the faint, deliberate knock he gave at the heavy oak door in the alley. Three slow raps. A pause. Then two more. A sliding metal slit opened, revealing a suspicious pair of Sicilian eyes. No words were exchanged. The door creaked open.
He descended a narrow staircase lit only by the flicker of candle sconces, the air thick with garlic, cigar smoke, and something old and bitter—fear, maybe, or history. At the bottom, a waiter in white led him through a velvet curtain into a private dining room. The lights were low. The mood was tense.
They were already there.
Five men sat around a long table set with untouched plates of veal, red wine, and steaming bread. They represented the Mafia Commission—kings without crowns, each ruling a different piece of the American criminal empire: Bonanno, Profaci, Mangano, Lucchese, and Genovese himself. Vito sat at the head, fingers steepled, eyes sharp behind a cloud of smoke. All conversation ceased when Bellini entered.
He gave a nod, deliberately slow. Gabriele Moura, the businessman, stepped forward with the smoothness of silk. But behind his eyes, Tridente waited—silent, watchful, deadly.
"You're late," Genovese said, his voice a growl disguised as charm.
"I had to make sure I wasn't followed," Bellini replied. "Times being what they are."
He removed his gloves, took his seat, and didn't touch the food. Slowly, deliberately, he opened a leather folder, revealing a stack of typewritten documents stamped with the eagle of the Italian Empire. He didn't slide them forward. Not yet.
"I come bearing an offer," he said. "From Rome. Directly from the emperor."
Luciano scoffed. "You fascisti think you can come here, wave your little flags, and we roll over like you bastards did in Sicily?"
Bellini smiled coolly. "I think you're businessmen. And smart ones. Men who understand the value of timing—and leverage."
He tapped the folder.
"This is not about flags. This is about opportunity. You can burn the contents of this folder, and I'll walk away. But you'll never see an offer like this again."
A pause. They didn't speak, but they listened. Bellini leaned forward, the candlelight dancing in his eyes.
"Mussolini intends to open Italian consulates across the American South—Atlanta, New Orleans, Birmingham. These consulates will be more than diplomatic buildings. They will be symbols. They will offer refuge. To Black Americans."
The room stilled.
He let the shock settle like dust.
"Yes. You heard me. The Empire intends to treat the Negro population of the South as allies. We will offer them protection. Dignity. Jobs. Travel visas. Citizenship. The Roman salute will be given not with hate, but with a handshake. You—we—will guard these consulates. You will hold their hands. You will kiss them on the cheek if it gets the press's attention. You will inflame the South like pouring gasoline on kindling. And when the American system begins to panic and crack... you'll be there, with matches in hand."
Bonanno was the first to speak, a sneer on his lips. "You want us kissing n****s now?"
"You want money?" Bellini countered, voice like ice. "You want guns? You want intelligence on every Irish gang, every Jewish runner, every dirty cop threatening your turf? You want New York, Chicago, Philadelphia, Detroit, all under one flag—yours? Then yes. You'll kiss whoever we damn well tell you to."
He slapped the folder on the table.
"In exchange, Rome gives you weapons. Cash. Intelligence gathered by our operatives in the OVRA, tactical training, permission to launder your dirty money through our banks. You'll know where your enemies are before they've even moved. We'll disrupt the Bureau's investigations. We'll feed them fake leads, get your rivals arrested, dismantled. The underworld will be Italian-run from coast to coast."
Lucchese narrowed his eyes. "And what if the Feds come down hard on us?"
Bellini nodded.
"We thought of that. Every one of you—and any man you name—will be granted Italian citizenship. We will create false identities, provide diplomatic cover, new names, passports. And if the heat grows unbearable, if you need to vanish... we will exfiltrate you to Italy. And once you're there, your money—laundered through the Vatican Bank and Banco di Napoli—will be yours to enjoy. No questions. No strings."
Profaci leaned forward, skeptical. "And if we go to Italy… you expect us to stop?"
"Yes," Bellini said flatly. "No more crime. No vendettas. No rackets. You'll live quietly, discreetly, in villas with sea views and staff that never ask questions. You will retire, rich and respected. You will disappear. You will vanish, gentlemen. And the Empire will owe you."
"And if we say no?" asked Mangano, testing him.
Bellini smiled thinly.
"Then you become irrelevant."
He stood slowly, deliberately, voice growing sharper.
"We'll back your enemies. The Jews, the Irish. We'll inform the FBI of your movements. Your rivals will flourish. And when they haul you in front of a Senate committee, when they open your vaults, when your wives are living in rented flats and your sons are flipping burgers—you'll remember this moment. You'll remember that the Duce offered to make you all consuls, and you spat in his face."
Silence fell. A thick, heavy silence.
Genovese lit a new cigar. He didn't blink. He exhaled smoke in the shape of a slow smile.
"I like you, Tridente," he said softly. "You've got stones."
Bellini said nothing.
"So," Genovese continued, looking around the table. "Let's say we take your deal. What happens next?"
Bellini reached into his coat and placed a small, leather-bound book on the table. The Roman eagle was embossed in gold on the cover.
"You sign. And history begins."
The silence that followed was not empty—it was brimming.
Cigars smoldered. Knives tapped against porcelain. Forks pushed food no one touched. Bellini—Tridente—sat with folded hands, his back straight, his face unreadable. He had delivered the offer. Now, he watched them squirm.
The Commission spoke in Sicilian, in Neapolitan, in clipped bursts of English—none of them intended for him. They leaned in, whispered behind half-raised fingers. Profaci was shaking his head. Mangano gestured furiously. Lucchese leaned back, calm, calculating. Only Genovese remained still—watching him.
Tridente could read them like a card table.
Profaci was an old-school traditionalist. Too Catholic, too prideful. The idea of protecting Black Americans turned his stomach—but he'd cave for profit. Mangano was worried about optics. He had half the NYPD on payroll and didn't want to upset the apple cart. Lucchese was harder—real schemer. They could smell the future. They didn't like politics, but they liked power. And power was politics now.
And Genovese… Genovese wanted it all. The offer wasn't insulting to him—it was intoxicating.
Finally, Lucchese spoke, voice low but sharp.
"You're asking us to be soldiers for Rome. Not businessmen."
Bellini smiled faintly. "Soldiers get orders. You're getting choices. You can run New York. Chicago. San Francisco. All of it. Your enemies will vanish. Your rivals will be crushed. And when the Americans come—and they will—Rome will be your sanctuary."
He leaned forward.
"This isn't an occupation. This is chaos. America's going to catch on fire because of us. Internally, racially, politically. We're giving you a stake in what comes next."
Profaci sneered. "And the n*****s? We're supposed to shake their hands? Make nice?"
"You're supposed to make a show," Bellini replied, his tone sharp. "You treat them with dignity. They apply to the consulates. They rally. They march. They flee to Italy. And the South burns. The press erupts. The government panics. The cracks widen. They will be discredited abroad. And while Washington stumbles, you rise, Rome rises."
Mangano leaned back, crossing his arms. "You're asking us to stick our necks out."
Bellini's voice dropped an octave. Cold. Controlled.
"You stuck your necks out the moment you started selling heroin through Harlem. The Bureau's watching you already. The President wants you gone. And when they come with subpoenas and grand juries and tax auditors—you'll either run to Cuba, or rot in Leavenworth."
He reached into his coat again, pulled out a stack of thin, cream-colored cards. He slid them across the table. Each bore a name, a photograph, and a Roman seal.
"Those are the names of six informants working with the FBI. Two are sitting in this city right now. One works for you, Genovese."
Genovese's hand froze mid-tap.
"You sign with Rome," Bellini said, "and we help you eliminate them within the week. You sign, and you get ironclad identities. Vatican-banked accounts. Italian passports. Villas in Capri, Florence, Lake Garda. Women, privacy, comfort, senate seats if you want them. You'll live like consuls."
His eyes flashed.
"But if you refuse? Rome moves forward without you. We'll find someone hungrier. Someone more desperate, Irish, Jewish, doesn't matter. Someone willing to kiss who they need to kiss and shoot who they need to shoot. And when we do? Your time ends. Your families scatter. Your legacies dissolve."
He stood, slowly.
"This is the best deal you'll ever be offered. An empire is extending its hand. You can clasp it—or slap it away."
He turned to Genovese, eyes locked.
"And you know what happens to those who slap Rome."
Genovese smiled. Not a friendly smile—a wolf's smile.
"And if we clasp it?" he asked.
Bellini offered the faintest, coldest smile of all.
"Then you'll be consuls."
Silence again.
Luciano finally spoke. "Leave us. Give us an hour."
Bellini nodded once. Took his coat. Left the room.
Behind the velvet curtain, as the whispers resumed and the knives came back to tapping china, Tridente lit a cigarette in the hallway. He exhaled slowly, listening to the men behind the curtain argue over history.
They'll come around, he thought.
They always do, when the fire is close enough.
The hour dragged like a funeral procession.
Inside, the Commission argued like cardinals locked in conclave. Voices rose. Chairs scraped. At one point, Mangano shouted so loud the waiter dropped a glass in the hallway. Tridente didn't flinch. He stood by the restaurant's back window, smoking his second cigarette, then a third. He could almost hear the ticking of Genovese's gold watch inside—measuring the distance between the old world and the new.
They'll say yes, he kept telling himself. Because they always do when the world is burning, and someone offers a fireproof umbrella.
At last, the door cracked open. Genovese's personal bodyguard—square-jawed and silent—gave him a slow nod. Bellini crushed his cigarette underfoot, adjusted his lapels, and stepped inside.
The room was darker than before. The table was scattered with empty glasses, cold espresso cups, and plates of untouched veal. The only full thing was the ashtray—overflowing like a Roman funeral urn.
Genovese looked up first. His face was stone, but his eyes were steel.
"You made your pitch," he said. "We're in."
Bellini nodded once, slowly, but he didn't smile. "All of you?"
Genovese turned. Each of them gave a slight, reluctant nod—Mangano, Profaci, even Lucchese. Genovese was the only one who looked like he'd enjoyed any of it.
Tridente stepped forward. From beneath his coat, he placed a medium-sized leather suitcase on the table with a dull thunk—not loud, but heavy. Like something sacred. Or profane.
He flipped the latches and opened it.
The interior glimmered.
10 thick gold bars, stamped with the Fascio Littorio and Italian mint mark, lay nestled in velvet lining. Atop them, in black satin, were five Beretta M1934 pistols, still oiled and smelling faintly of factory metal and cordite.
Gasps weren't audible—but they were felt.
"This is the down payment," Bellini said calmly. "From the Emperor to his new associates. Rome honors its friends."
He gestured at the gold. "You'll get more of these—regular shipments through your ports, through your fronts. Naples to Newark. Taranto to Tampa."
Then the pistols.
"You'll also be getting training. Tactical, paramilitary, and psychological. OVRA agents—men like me—will arrive in staggered waves. Some will be Sicilian. Others Neapolitan. One speaks Yiddish. Another used to be with the Abwehr. You'll treat them as your own, and they'll teach you what the Scuole di Guerra Moderna have taught us—how to command chaos."
Lucchese leaned forward. "Training… for what?"
Bellini met his gaze.
"For the war your actions will spark," he said flatly. "You've seen the signs. Race riots across the south. Black soldiers coming back from war with rifles and nothing to lose. The South is a bonfire waiting for a spark."
He pointed at the suitcase.
"This is the spark. The money will help arm your men. You'll protect our consulates. You'll fan the flames. You'll make the local Klansmen livid. You'll hold hands with those they hate. You'll play liberators on one street and provocateurs on the next."
"And when the hammer drops?" Lucchese asked.
"You vanish," Bellini said. "Into Rome's arms. Pardoned. Protected. Wealthy. Or…"
He closed the suitcase slowly, snapping it shut like a coffin.
"You stay. And rule."
The room was silent again.
No more whispers. No more deliberation. Just the weight of what they'd agreed to.
Genovese smiled first. "Well then," he said, raising his glass, "to the new emperor."
The others hesitated, then followed suit. Even Profaci, sour as vinegar, mumbled the toast.
Tridente didn't raise a glass. He watched.
Princes of the underworld, he thought. About to become generals in a war they don't even understand yet.
Then he smiled—not for them, but for Rome.
He raised his glass with the others, joining in their toast, careful not to let his guard down too much. The laughter was real, the camaraderie felt almost genuine—for a moment, he allowed himself to believe it. To bask in the illusion that alliances like these could be forged without blood.
They invited him to stay for a meal. Luciano had the kitchen prepare osso buco, and Mangano, still chewing a cigar, insisted the cannoli were homemade. Genovese himself clasped his shoulder and told him they could talk more business over antipasti.
But he declined.
He couldn't afford to linger. Not here. Not now. Staying longer than necessary was a risk—a breach of tradecraft. He gave a polite smile and declined with an apologetic shake of the head. Genovese's disappointment was visible, but he didn't press. "Another time, then," he muttered, tapping the table.
Bellini nodded, adjusted his overcoat, and stepped into the cool air of the New York night.
The street was dimly lit. Fog coiled in the gutter, and a trolley bell rang somewhere in the distance. The door shut behind him with a soft click.
Then—he saw him.
No… he felt him first.
A figure walked past on the sidewalk. The streetlamp above flickered faintly as if the very air held its breath. The man wasn't just striking—he was supernatural. Long, jet-black hair that fell past his ears like a curtain of silk. Eyes the color of glacial ice—piercing, merciless. His skin was pale, almost luminescent under the sodium glow. The jawline was carved like a statue's, and his lips were full but unsmiling. And he wore a simple wooden crucifix.
Bellini didn't lean that way—he was engaged, and disciplined—but something in this man's presence halted him mid-step. It was beauty, yes, but terrifying beauty. A sort of mythic grace, like a marble archangel sculpted for vengeance rather than comfort.
Even I can see it, he thought. He's beautiful.
But the moment passed quickly.
He turned to glance at Fredo—the bodyguard who'd escorted him out—and froze.
The man's ever-stoic face had changed. The rigid, expressionless mask was gone. What remained was raw fear. His mouth was slightly open, his brow damp. His eyes didn't blink.
Bellini's instincts flared.
He turned to leave. Just walk. Just melt into the city and forget this ever happened.
Then—
"Who are you?"
The voice was soft but sharp. It wasn't a question—it was a threat in disguise. Bellini turned.
The angel was watching him.
But now, that angelic face had changed. The warmth had drained, and what remained was harder than steel. His posture, once relaxed, had coiled like a viper preparing to strike. The glacial blue eyes narrowed.
Behind the angelic façade, Bellini saw something else.
A killer. A predator. A demon with a human shape and inhuman instincts. The same look he'd seen in the eyes of the Arrow Cross death squads in Budapest, the look of a man who knew where to place a knife for maximum pain.
"Just a customer," Bellini answered smoothly, his voice carefully flat.
"Is that right?" the man asked, not buying it. He turned to Fredo. "Fredo. Who is this man?"
Bellini didn't dare breathe.
Fredo swallowed hard. His voice cracked.
"It's family business Franco. He's connected to the boss. You didn't see him. I didn't see him. No one did."
Franco. So that was his name.
The killer—Franco—paused. His eyes flicked between them. Then, surprisingly, the tension broke. His expression softened—only slightly. Enough to pass as civility.
"My apologies, Fredo," he said quietly. Then to Bellini, "Have a good evening, sir."
And just like that, he turned and vanished through the restaurant's side door. Like a ghost returning to its crypt.
Bellini exhaled. He hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath.
He turned to Fredo.
"What the hell was that?"
But Fredo cut him off, his voice low and shaking.
"You never saw him. You don't know his name. You don't want to know. Believe me, you're better off forgetting this night even happened."
He hesitated, then leaned closer.
"Franco… he's not like us. He's not normal. That boy—he's an animal. A beautiful one, yeah. But a monster just the same."
There was something haunted in his tone. Not respect. Not even hatred. Just fear.
That same fear Bellini had seen once before in Budapest—in the eyes of a resistance courier the moment before the secret police dragged her into a van. And in Greece, when royalist officials begged for their lives as Pangalos' men loaded their rifles.
Bellini said nothing more.
He walked away. Quickly. Without looking back.
And as he disappeared into the haze of downtown Manhattan, he prayed—genuinely prayed—that he would never cross paths with Franco again. Because no matter how composed he tried to stay, he knew deep down:
If Franco ever wanted him dead, no one—not even Rome—could stop him.
Note: I recently watched the movie boondock saints and was kinda inspired to make Franco off of that. A devout killer. Anyways watch boondock saints, great movie.
New York City, New York
POV: Mario Bellini, OVRA Operative – Codename "Tridente"
The cold wind howled off the Hudson, biting through his overcoat and cutting down to the bone. New York in November had a way of being cruel even to those born in the fogs of Genoa or the rains of Lisbon. He paused beneath the flickering yellow glow of a streetlamp on Mulberry Street, lit a cigarette with trembling fingers, and took a long, slow drag. The smoke calmed him only slightly. With his free hand, he absently rubbed the left side of his ribcage—where a Hungarian stiletto had nearly ended his life eleven months ago in the frozen alleys of Buda. The wound still ached in cold weather, and tonight it felt like a blade had never left his flesh.
He owed Falcone his life for that mission. Falcone—quiet, brutal, always three steps ahead. Goddammit, he couldn't even remember the man's full name right now. Maybe it was the American air, or the tension in his spine, or maybe—just maybe—he was starting to fray around the edges. He'd been in the field too long. But reflection was a luxury he couldn't afford. Not now. Not in this city. Not with what was at stake.
Mario Bellini did not exist.
He was a ghost wearing a face stitched from lies. His real name, his true self, had been buried beneath layers of false documents, meticulous forgeries, and rehearsed biographical details. In the United States, he was known only as Gabriele Moura, a Spanish-Italian textile entrepreneur from Grenada with interests in Sicilian silk, Roman tailoring, and Cuban cigars. His fabricated life was supported by counterfeit tax records, shipping manifests, a birth certificate validated by bribed clerks in Madrid, and a business empire that looked legitimate from a distance. No one—not the Americans, not the Italians who had defected, and certainly not the FBI—could know the truth.
He was an agent of the OVRA, Italy's secret police, handpicked by Mussolini himself. A tool of Il Duce's shadow war. But here, in the American colossus of steel and ambition, he was alone. The Empire had a vision, a secret war plan. And he was at its sharp end.
His in was Vito Genovese, a living specter of power cloaked in cigar smoke and tailored pinstripes. Genovese was one of the most feared and influential figures in the American underworld—a member of the commission running the Genovese crime family on behalf of his imprisoned boss Lucky Luciano. A man who had fled to Italy to avoid prosecution and had found protection under none other than Count Galeazzo Ciano, the Duce's son-in-law and Foreign Minister. While in Italy, Genovese had built bridges with the regime. He returned to America shortly after Italy joined the war under an OVRA forged identity, carrying not only a suitcase full of dirty money but whispers of Italian interests wrapped in codes and contingency plans.
Gabriele—Mario—had arrived in New York weeks ago under the guise of establishing Moura Textiles North America. But commerce was merely the surface. Today, he was laying the groundwork for a darker, more insidious objective. The Duce's plans for America were grand and savage. Not invasion—no, too ambitious—it was subversion. Infiltration. Incendiary whispers planted in unions, sabotage in factories, racial unrest kindled like dry leaves, and Mafia networks used like scalpels.
And Genovese would be one of their most valuable tools.
He thought back to his last encoded briefing from Rome. The message had come via a nondescript envelope smuggled in through a diplomatic pouch routed through Buenos Aires. It spoke of plans in coded language, directives from the Emperor himself. Inflame the cities. Feed the flames of division. Undermine their confidence. Rot them from the inside.
Mario—Gabriele—was the rot.
He flicked the spent cigarette into the gutter, watching its embers vanish among wet leaves and garbage. Somewhere behind him, jazz echoed from an open window. Somewhere ahead, Genovese was waiting, along with the rest of the commission. Their meeting was scheduled in the back room of a restaurant that never advertised and never closed—a place where men vanished into the smoke and reappeared changed.
He checked the small pistol concealed in his coat, then adjusted his tie, adopting the slight swagger expected of a man who traded luxury cloth in the Empire State. But behind his eyes, behind the mask of Moura, was the cold, calculating mind of "Tridente"—an operative with blood on his hands and steel in his heart.
As he stepped off the curb and crossed the street toward the restaurant's inconspicuous entrance, he repeated his cover story once more in his mind. He was Gabriele Moura. Born in Granada. Educated in Milan. Widowed. A lover of opera and French cognac. Here to expand his business.
And if anyone found out otherwise—if anyone saw even a flicker of Mario Bellini beneath the surface—they would die before they could speak.
The wind howled again. This time, it sounded almost like applause.
The restaurant had no name. It didn't need one.
Tucked beneath a tenement building with soot-blackened bricks and rusted fire escapes, the only indication that it was anything more than a boarded-up cellar was the faint, deliberate knock he gave at the heavy oak door in the alley. Three slow raps. A pause. Then two more. A sliding metal slit opened, revealing a suspicious pair of Sicilian eyes. No words were exchanged. The door creaked open.
He descended a narrow staircase lit only by the flicker of candle sconces, the air thick with garlic, cigar smoke, and something old and bitter—fear, maybe, or history. At the bottom, a waiter in white led him through a velvet curtain into a private dining room. The lights were low. The mood was tense.
They were already there.
Five men sat around a long table set with untouched plates of veal, red wine, and steaming bread. They represented the Mafia Commission—kings without crowns, each ruling a different piece of the American criminal empire: Bonanno, Profaci, Mangano, Lucchese, and Genovese himself. Vito sat at the head, fingers steepled, eyes sharp behind a cloud of smoke. All conversation ceased when Bellini entered.
He gave a nod, deliberately slow. Gabriele Moura, the businessman, stepped forward with the smoothness of silk. But behind his eyes, Tridente waited—silent, watchful, deadly.
"You're late," Genovese said, his voice a growl disguised as charm.
"I had to make sure I wasn't followed," Bellini replied. "Times being what they are."
He removed his gloves, took his seat, and didn't touch the food. Slowly, deliberately, he opened a leather folder, revealing a stack of typewritten documents stamped with the eagle of the Italian Empire. He didn't slide them forward. Not yet.
"I come bearing an offer," he said. "From Rome. Directly from the emperor."
Luciano scoffed. "You fascisti think you can come here, wave your little flags, and we roll over like you bastards did in Sicily?"
Bellini smiled coolly. "I think you're businessmen. And smart ones. Men who understand the value of timing—and leverage."
He tapped the folder.
"This is not about flags. This is about opportunity. You can burn the contents of this folder, and I'll walk away. But you'll never see an offer like this again."
A pause. They didn't speak, but they listened. Bellini leaned forward, the candlelight dancing in his eyes.
"Mussolini intends to open Italian consulates across the American South—Atlanta, New Orleans, Birmingham. These consulates will be more than diplomatic buildings. They will be symbols. They will offer refuge. To Black Americans."
The room stilled.
He let the shock settle like dust.
"Yes. You heard me. The Empire intends to treat the Negro population of the South as allies. We will offer them protection. Dignity. Jobs. Travel visas. Citizenship. The Roman salute will be given not with hate, but with a handshake. You—we—will guard these consulates. You will hold their hands. You will kiss them on the cheek if it gets the press's attention. You will inflame the South like pouring gasoline on kindling. And when the American system begins to panic and crack... you'll be there, with matches in hand."
Bonanno was the first to speak, a sneer on his lips. "You want us kissing n****s now?"
"You want money?" Bellini countered, voice like ice. "You want guns? You want intelligence on every Irish gang, every Jewish runner, every dirty cop threatening your turf? You want New York, Chicago, Philadelphia, Detroit, all under one flag—yours? Then yes. You'll kiss whoever we damn well tell you to."
He slapped the folder on the table.
"In exchange, Rome gives you weapons. Cash. Intelligence gathered by our operatives in the OVRA, tactical training, permission to launder your dirty money through our banks. You'll know where your enemies are before they've even moved. We'll disrupt the Bureau's investigations. We'll feed them fake leads, get your rivals arrested, dismantled. The underworld will be Italian-run from coast to coast."
Lucchese narrowed his eyes. "And what if the Feds come down hard on us?"
Bellini nodded.
"We thought of that. Every one of you—and any man you name—will be granted Italian citizenship. We will create false identities, provide diplomatic cover, new names, passports. And if the heat grows unbearable, if you need to vanish... we will exfiltrate you to Italy. And once you're there, your money—laundered through the Vatican Bank and Banco di Napoli—will be yours to enjoy. No questions. No strings."
Profaci leaned forward, skeptical. "And if we go to Italy… you expect us to stop?"
"Yes," Bellini said flatly. "No more crime. No vendettas. No rackets. You'll live quietly, discreetly, in villas with sea views and staff that never ask questions. You will retire, rich and respected. You will disappear. You will vanish, gentlemen. And the Empire will owe you."
"And if we say no?" asked Mangano, testing him.
Bellini smiled thinly.
"Then you become irrelevant."
He stood slowly, deliberately, voice growing sharper.
"We'll back your enemies. The Jews, the Irish. We'll inform the FBI of your movements. Your rivals will flourish. And when they haul you in front of a Senate committee, when they open your vaults, when your wives are living in rented flats and your sons are flipping burgers—you'll remember this moment. You'll remember that the Duce offered to make you all consuls, and you spat in his face."
Silence fell. A thick, heavy silence.
Genovese lit a new cigar. He didn't blink. He exhaled smoke in the shape of a slow smile.
"I like you, Tridente," he said softly. "You've got stones."
Bellini said nothing.
"So," Genovese continued, looking around the table. "Let's say we take your deal. What happens next?"
Bellini reached into his coat and placed a small, leather-bound book on the table. The Roman eagle was embossed in gold on the cover.
"You sign. And history begins."
The silence that followed was not empty—it was brimming.
Cigars smoldered. Knives tapped against porcelain. Forks pushed food no one touched. Bellini—Tridente—sat with folded hands, his back straight, his face unreadable. He had delivered the offer. Now, he watched them squirm.
The Commission spoke in Sicilian, in Neapolitan, in clipped bursts of English—none of them intended for him. They leaned in, whispered behind half-raised fingers. Profaci was shaking his head. Mangano gestured furiously. Lucchese leaned back, calm, calculating. Only Genovese remained still—watching him.
Tridente could read them like a card table.
Profaci was an old-school traditionalist. Too Catholic, too prideful. The idea of protecting Black Americans turned his stomach—but he'd cave for profit. Mangano was worried about optics. He had half the NYPD on payroll and didn't want to upset the apple cart. Lucchese was harder—real schemer. They could smell the future. They didn't like politics, but they liked power. And power was politics now.
And Genovese… Genovese wanted it all. The offer wasn't insulting to him—it was intoxicating.
Finally, Lucchese spoke, voice low but sharp.
"You're asking us to be soldiers for Rome. Not businessmen."
Bellini smiled faintly. "Soldiers get orders. You're getting choices. You can run New York. Chicago. San Francisco. All of it. Your enemies will vanish. Your rivals will be crushed. And when the Americans come—and they will—Rome will be your sanctuary."
He leaned forward.
"This isn't an occupation. This is chaos. America's going to catch on fire because of us. Internally, racially, politically. We're giving you a stake in what comes next."
Profaci sneered. "And the n*****s? We're supposed to shake their hands? Make nice?"
"You're supposed to make a show," Bellini replied, his tone sharp. "You treat them with dignity. They apply to the consulates. They rally. They march. They flee to Italy. And the South burns. The press erupts. The government panics. The cracks widen. They will be discredited abroad. And while Washington stumbles, you rise, Rome rises."
Mangano leaned back, crossing his arms. "You're asking us to stick our necks out."
Bellini's voice dropped an octave. Cold. Controlled.
"You stuck your necks out the moment you started selling heroin through Harlem. The Bureau's watching you already. The President wants you gone. And when they come with subpoenas and grand juries and tax auditors—you'll either run to Cuba, or rot in Leavenworth."
He reached into his coat again, pulled out a stack of thin, cream-colored cards. He slid them across the table. Each bore a name, a photograph, and a Roman seal.
"Those are the names of six informants working with the FBI. Two are sitting in this city right now. One works for you, Genovese."
Genovese's hand froze mid-tap.
"You sign with Rome," Bellini said, "and we help you eliminate them within the week. You sign, and you get ironclad identities. Vatican-banked accounts. Italian passports. Villas in Capri, Florence, Lake Garda. Women, privacy, comfort, senate seats if you want them. You'll live like consuls."
His eyes flashed.
"But if you refuse? Rome moves forward without you. We'll find someone hungrier. Someone more desperate, Irish, Jewish, doesn't matter. Someone willing to kiss who they need to kiss and shoot who they need to shoot. And when we do? Your time ends. Your families scatter. Your legacies dissolve."
He stood, slowly.
"This is the best deal you'll ever be offered. An empire is extending its hand. You can clasp it—or slap it away."
He turned to Genovese, eyes locked.
"And you know what happens to those who slap Rome."
Genovese smiled. Not a friendly smile—a wolf's smile.
"And if we clasp it?" he asked.
Bellini offered the faintest, coldest smile of all.
"Then you'll be consuls."
Silence again.
Luciano finally spoke. "Leave us. Give us an hour."
Bellini nodded once. Took his coat. Left the room.
Behind the velvet curtain, as the whispers resumed and the knives came back to tapping china, Tridente lit a cigarette in the hallway. He exhaled slowly, listening to the men behind the curtain argue over history.
They'll come around, he thought.
They always do, when the fire is close enough.
The hour dragged like a funeral procession.
Inside, the Commission argued like cardinals locked in conclave. Voices rose. Chairs scraped. At one point, Mangano shouted so loud the waiter dropped a glass in the hallway. Tridente didn't flinch. He stood by the restaurant's back window, smoking his second cigarette, then a third. He could almost hear the ticking of Genovese's gold watch inside—measuring the distance between the old world and the new.
They'll say yes, he kept telling himself. Because they always do when the world is burning, and someone offers a fireproof umbrella.
At last, the door cracked open. Genovese's personal bodyguard—square-jawed and silent—gave him a slow nod. Bellini crushed his cigarette underfoot, adjusted his lapels, and stepped inside.
The room was darker than before. The table was scattered with empty glasses, cold espresso cups, and plates of untouched veal. The only full thing was the ashtray—overflowing like a Roman funeral urn.
Genovese looked up first. His face was stone, but his eyes were steel.
"You made your pitch," he said. "We're in."
Bellini nodded once, slowly, but he didn't smile. "All of you?"
Genovese turned. Each of them gave a slight, reluctant nod—Mangano, Profaci, even Lucchese. Genovese was the only one who looked like he'd enjoyed any of it.
Tridente stepped forward. From beneath his coat, he placed a medium-sized leather suitcase on the table with a dull thunk—not loud, but heavy. Like something sacred. Or profane.
He flipped the latches and opened it.
The interior glimmered.
10 thick gold bars, stamped with the Fascio Littorio and Italian mint mark, lay nestled in velvet lining. Atop them, in black satin, were five Beretta M1934 pistols, still oiled and smelling faintly of factory metal and cordite.
Gasps weren't audible—but they were felt.
"This is the down payment," Bellini said calmly. "From the Emperor to his new associates. Rome honors its friends."
He gestured at the gold. "You'll get more of these—regular shipments through your ports, through your fronts. Naples to Newark. Taranto to Tampa."
Then the pistols.
"You'll also be getting training. Tactical, paramilitary, and psychological. OVRA agents—men like me—will arrive in staggered waves. Some will be Sicilian. Others Neapolitan. One speaks Yiddish. Another used to be with the Abwehr. You'll treat them as your own, and they'll teach you what the Scuole di Guerra Moderna have taught us—how to command chaos."
Lucchese leaned forward. "Training… for what?"
Bellini met his gaze.
"For the war your actions will spark," he said flatly. "You've seen the signs. Race riots across the south. Black soldiers coming back from war with rifles and nothing to lose. The South is a bonfire waiting for a spark."
He pointed at the suitcase.
"This is the spark. The money will help arm your men. You'll protect our consulates. You'll fan the flames. You'll make the local Klansmen livid. You'll hold hands with those they hate. You'll play liberators on one street and provocateurs on the next."
"And when the hammer drops?" Lucchese asked.
"You vanish," Bellini said. "Into Rome's arms. Pardoned. Protected. Wealthy. Or…"
He closed the suitcase slowly, snapping it shut like a coffin.
"You stay. And rule."
The room was silent again.
No more whispers. No more deliberation. Just the weight of what they'd agreed to.
Genovese smiled first. "Well then," he said, raising his glass, "to the new emperor."
The others hesitated, then followed suit. Even Profaci, sour as vinegar, mumbled the toast.
Tridente didn't raise a glass. He watched.
Princes of the underworld, he thought. About to become generals in a war they don't even understand yet.
Then he smiled—not for them, but for Rome.
He raised his glass with the others, joining in their toast, careful not to let his guard down too much. The laughter was real, the camaraderie felt almost genuine—for a moment, he allowed himself to believe it. To bask in the illusion that alliances like these could be forged without blood.
They invited him to stay for a meal. Luciano had the kitchen prepare osso buco, and Mangano, still chewing a cigar, insisted the cannoli were homemade. Genovese himself clasped his shoulder and told him they could talk more business over antipasti.
But he declined.
He couldn't afford to linger. Not here. Not now. Staying longer than necessary was a risk—a breach of tradecraft. He gave a polite smile and declined with an apologetic shake of the head. Genovese's disappointment was visible, but he didn't press. "Another time, then," he muttered, tapping the table.
Bellini nodded, adjusted his overcoat, and stepped into the cool air of the New York night.
The street was dimly lit. Fog coiled in the gutter, and a trolley bell rang somewhere in the distance. The door shut behind him with a soft click.
Then—he saw him.
No… he felt him first.
A figure walked past on the sidewalk. The streetlamp above flickered faintly as if the very air held its breath. The man wasn't just striking—he was supernatural. Long, jet-black hair that fell past his ears like a curtain of silk. Eyes the color of glacial ice—piercing, merciless. His skin was pale, almost luminescent under the sodium glow. The jawline was carved like a statue's, and his lips were full but unsmiling. And he wore a simple wooden crucifix.
Bellini didn't lean that way—he was engaged, and disciplined—but something in this man's presence halted him mid-step. It was beauty, yes, but terrifying beauty. A sort of mythic grace, like a marble archangel sculpted for vengeance rather than comfort.
Even I can see it, he thought. He's beautiful.
But the moment passed quickly.
He turned to glance at Fredo—the bodyguard who'd escorted him out—and froze.
The man's ever-stoic face had changed. The rigid, expressionless mask was gone. What remained was raw fear. His mouth was slightly open, his brow damp. His eyes didn't blink.
Bellini's instincts flared.
He turned to leave. Just walk. Just melt into the city and forget this ever happened.
Then—
"Who are you?"
The voice was soft but sharp. It wasn't a question—it was a threat in disguise. Bellini turned.
The angel was watching him.
But now, that angelic face had changed. The warmth had drained, and what remained was harder than steel. His posture, once relaxed, had coiled like a viper preparing to strike. The glacial blue eyes narrowed.
Behind the angelic façade, Bellini saw something else.
A killer. A predator. A demon with a human shape and inhuman instincts. The same look he'd seen in the eyes of the Arrow Cross death squads in Budapest, the look of a man who knew where to place a knife for maximum pain.
"Just a customer," Bellini answered smoothly, his voice carefully flat.
"Is that right?" the man asked, not buying it. He turned to Fredo. "Fredo. Who is this man?"
Bellini didn't dare breathe.
Fredo swallowed hard. His voice cracked.
"It's family business Franco. He's connected to the boss. You didn't see him. I didn't see him. No one did."
Franco. So that was his name.
The killer—Franco—paused. His eyes flicked between them. Then, surprisingly, the tension broke. His expression softened—only slightly. Enough to pass as civility.
"My apologies, Fredo," he said quietly. Then to Bellini, "Have a good evening, sir."
And just like that, he turned and vanished through the restaurant's side door. Like a ghost returning to its crypt.
Bellini exhaled. He hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath.
He turned to Fredo.
"What the hell was that?"
But Fredo cut him off, his voice low and shaking.
"You never saw him. You don't know his name. You don't want to know. Believe me, you're better off forgetting this night even happened."
He hesitated, then leaned closer.
"Franco… he's not like us. He's not normal. That boy—he's an animal. A beautiful one, yeah. But a monster just the same."
There was something haunted in his tone. Not respect. Not even hatred. Just fear.
That same fear Bellini had seen once before in Budapest—in the eyes of a resistance courier the moment before the secret police dragged her into a van. And in Greece, when royalist officials begged for their lives as Pangalos' men loaded their rifles.
Bellini said nothing more.
He walked away. Quickly. Without looking back.
And as he disappeared into the haze of downtown Manhattan, he prayed—genuinely prayed—that he would never cross paths with Franco again. Because no matter how composed he tried to stay, he knew deep down:
If Franco ever wanted him dead, no one—not even Rome—could stop him.
Note: I recently watched the movie boondock saints and was kinda inspired to make Franco off of that. A devout killer. Anyways watch boondock saints, great movie.
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ATP
Well worn.
- Joined
- Jun 24, 2020
- Messages
- 6,483
Very good plan.They forget two thing - soviets arleady infiltrated USA,and have their own plans.Not only politicians and bussiness - they send about 1000 agents to catholics seminars to become priests.
And Wall Street supported soviets for their own reasons - and practically ruled USA,no matter who was president.
And Wall Street supported soviets for their own reasons - and practically ruled USA,no matter who was president.
Here's some delicious propaganda
Alenco98
Not too sore, are you?
- Joined
- Oct 20, 2022
- Messages
- 306
An excerpt from Leni Refinsthall's wikipedia page:
Leni Riefenstahl was one of the most controversial figures in 20th-century cinema—an artist whose aesthetic brilliance and technical innovation left an indelible mark on filmmaking, yet whose name remains inextricably linked to the propaganda machinery of the Third Reich. From the rise of Nazi Germany in 1933 to the outbreak of World War II in 1939, Riefenstahl played a central role in crafting the visual mythology of Adolf Hitler's regime, most notably through her seminal work Triumph of the Will (Triumph des Willens), a film that remains both lauded for its artistry and condemned for its content.
By the time Adolf Hitler became Chancellor of Germany in January 1933, Leni Riefenstahl was already a recognized figure in German cinema, primarily known for her work as an actress in "mountain films" (Bergfilme), especially those directed by Arnold Fanck. However, she was also transitioning into directing, having helmed Das Blaue Licht (The Blue Light) in 1932—a film that caught Hitler's attention.
When the Nazis seized power, Riefenstahl found herself uniquely positioned: a talented, ambitious woman fascinated by movement, grandeur, and heroism—concepts deeply resonant with the Nazi worldview. Hitler admired her work and met her personally in 1933, reportedly proclaiming her his ideal film director. Riefenstahl claimed she had no political convictions and insisted throughout her life that she was not a member of the Nazi Party, though she became one of its most important visual propagandists.
In September 1934, Hitler asked Riefenstahl to film the Nazi Party's annual rally in Nuremberg. The result, Triumph des Willens (Triumph of the Will), would become her magnum opus—and the most iconic piece of propaganda cinema in history.
The 1934 rally, known as the Reichsparteitag des Willens (Rally of Will), was itself a massive stage-managed spectacle designed to exhibit the power and unity of the Nazi regime. Riefenstahl had virtually unlimited resources to film it: over 170 personnel, including 40 camera operators and technicians, and full logistical support from the Nazi state.
While the content of Triumph of the Will is undeniably propagandistic, the film's technical and artistic innovations transformed the language of cinema. Riefenstahl pioneered or perfected several techniques:
1. Mobile Cameras and Tracking Shots: She used cranes, dollies, and even cameras mounted on rails to achieve fluid, dynamic movement that gave the film a sweeping, kinetic energy unprecedented in documentary filmmaking.
2. Low-Angle Heroic Framing: By frequently shooting Hitler from below, she magnified his presence, turning him into a towering, almost divine figure—a visual metaphor for the Führerprinzip (leader principle).
3. Telephoto Lenses and Extreme Depth: Riefenstahl used long lenses to compress space and emphasize the vastness of the assembled crowds, thereby reinforcing the sense of mass unity and loyalty.
4. Editing Rhythm and Montage: The film's editing is rhythmic and almost musical, with careful attention to tempo and visual repetition. The cuts mirror speeches, slogans, and marching beats, creating an overwhelming sensory and emotional experience.
5. Use of Sound and Music: Though Triumph of the Will is largely diegetic (based on real events), the integration of music—especially Richard Wagner and other martial scores—intensified the film's mythic tone.
6. Aestheticization of Politics: Above all, Riefenstahl turned political pageantry into cinematic art. She did not simply document; she dramatized—transforming rallies into epic theater, uniforms into costumes, and the Nazi movement into a choreographed mass performance.
Released in 1935, Triumph of the Will was a monumental success in Nazi Germany. It won several awards, including the Gold Medal at the Venice Film Festival (1935) and the Grand Prix at the Paris World Exhibition (1937). The film was screened in schools, army barracks, and public events, helping solidify Hitler's image as Germany's messianic savior.
Internationally, reactions were mixed. While many critics admired its technical mastery, they were disturbed by its content and purpose. American critic Dwight Macdonald famously described it as "the most successfully, most purely propagandistic film ever made." Filmmakers like Frank Capra studied it closely—Capra's Why We Fight series was directly shaped by an effort to counter its techniques.
Despite its widespread use by the Nazis, Riefenstahl insisted the film was a historical document, not propaganda. This claim has been rejected by most scholars, who point out that the entire production—like the rally it documented—was orchestrated to exalt the Nazi regime.
Following Triumph of the Will, Riefenstahl was commissioned to document the 1936 Summer Olympics in Berlin. This led to another masterpiece: Olympia (1938), a two-part film (Festival of the Nations and Festival of Beauty) that blended sport with art and mythology. Though not overtly political, it carried undertones of Aryan idealism and physical perfection. It too was technically groundbreaking: slow motion, underwater filming, and innovative editing became hallmarks of the sports film genre.
During this time, Riefenstahl made trips to the United States to promote her work. Though she initially received attention and even praise in Hollywood, her close ties to Hitler and Goebbels sparked growing criticism. Many Americans, especially in the Jewish community, saw her as a willing tool of the Nazi regime.
Her claims of political ignorance rang increasingly hollow, especially in light of growing international awareness of the regime's repression of Jews and political opponents. During the Kristallnacht pogrom in November 1938, she was in the U.S. on a promotional tour and was confronted with angry protests and hostile press coverage. She abruptly cut her trip short.
As Hitler's ambitions escalated with the annexation of Austria (Anschluss) in 1938 and the invasion of Czechoslovakia in 1939, Riefenstahl's career began to shift. She embarked on a new project—a dramatic feature film titled Tiefland—but it would be plagued by delays and controversies, especially due to her use of Roma prisoners from Nazi camps as extras. It would be finished under the auspices of Mussolini and released in 1945.
Despite the newfound height of her fame, Riefenstahl's role in the Nazi propaganda apparatus diminished as the war approached. The Ministry of Propaganda under Joseph Goebbels increasingly took over the regime's cinematic messaging, relying on more conventional war films and newsreels. Riefenstahl, always fiercely independent, struggled with this control.
When Germany invaded Poland on September 1, 1939, and World War II officially began, Riefenstahl was present at the front as a war correspondent with a film unit. According to her later accounts, she was traumatized by the violence she witnessed—especially a massacre of Polish civilians in Konskie. She claimed to have protested the shooting and retreated from war coverage afterward, though her exact actions and motives remain the subject of historical debate.
But despite her intimate closeness to the Nazi regime, Leni Riefenstahl's star did not falter or collapse as Nazi Germany suddenly crumbled in early 1942. The Reich, overwhelmed by a potent coalition of forces—an unprecedented papal and Italian-led crusade, the relentless advance of Soviet might, and a tide of religious fervor tearing the regime apart from within—was unraveling rapidly. Yet, amidst this chaos, Riefenstahl's career took an unexpected and astonishing new turn.
It was said that Benito Mussolini himself, having reportedly watched Triumph of the Will in 1942, was deeply captivated by her work. Moved by the film's hypnotic power and cinematic grandeur, he immediately commanded the OVRA, the Italian secret police, to secure her presence within the new fascist order. To Mussolini, Riefenstahl was not merely a filmmaker; she was to become his muse, his chief propagandist, the artist who would give breathtaking visual form to his revolutionary vision of Romanist fascism.
Mussolini's ideological transformation was dramatic and public. Having overthrown the Italian monarchy earlier that year and assumed the title of regent, his apotheosis—the grand visual and spiritual crowning—was to be immortalized on film. On October 31, 1942, only months after this seismic political shift, the machinery of propaganda roared to life with the birth of Renascita—Rebirth, the Roman answer to Triumph of the Will.
With the same revolutionary techniques Riefenstahl had perfected under the Nazi regime—and with virtually unlimited resources generously bestowed upon her by Mussolini's government—Renascita emerged as a breathtaking cinematic triumph. The production was colossal: over one thousand personnel, including two hundred camera operators and technicians, worked in unison with full logistical support from the Roman state. Every element of the film was carefully crafted to evoke grandeur, unity, and an overwhelming sense of historic destiny.
The film opened with an evocative, haunting sequence: a nocturnal rally at the Colosseum the night before the coronation. Here, figures from across the fascist party and the vast Italian empire gathered beneath the ancient arches—soldiers of diverse origins: African, Slavic, Arab, all under the aegis of Roman leadership. They stood united, equal in their submission to Rome's power, disciplined under Roman command. This was the new order, a sprawling empire reborn under Mussolini's vision, a modern manifestation of imperial grandeur.
As dawn broke, the film transitioned seamlessly to the arrival of Mussolini. Mounted on a magnificent white horse, the camera's gaze followed him in slow, deliberate procession from the Colosseum to Vatican Hill. Mussolini's chariot—an opulent spectacle—was flanked by his African guards, elite askari soldiers handpicked from the colonies of Somalia and Eritrea, their tall, muscular frames casting imposing shadows. These guards were no mere escorts; they were the new Praetorians, symbolizing Mussolini's personal power and the fusion of ancient Roman might with modern imperial force.
The film captured every detail with reverence and theatricality: the grand mass celebrated by the pope, the solemn rituals steeped in Catholic tradition, culminating in the coronation itself. In an almost ritualistic moment, Mussolini shed his birth name and identity, emerging anew as Roman Emperor Constantine XII. This was not merely a title—it was a rebirth, an ideological rebirth encoded in pageantry and spectacle. Around him stood his black guard, an elite cadre of soldiers symbolizing strength, loyalty, and the invincibility of his regime.
For the next two days, until November 2, Renascita painted an evocative portrait of Rome itself—a city where the ancient and modern collided, where towering basilicas and gleaming modern buildings stood side by side. The film captured scenes of everyday life: Catholics attending mass, Jews gathered in synagogues, and Muslims praying openly in the streets—an ostensible celebration of religious coexistence under the new Roman empire's umbrella.
Yet, looming over every scene, dominating the visual narrative, was the Roman flag—a vivid red banner emblazoned with the golden letters SPQR, the timeless emblem of Roman authority. The flag fluttered in every frame, an omnipresent symbol of unity, power, and destiny.
Renascita was released on March 15, 1943—the Ides of March. The anniversary of Julius Caesar's assassination was a deliberate choice, a symbolic reclamation of history by Mussolini's regime. In appropriating the day that once marked the violent end of one Roman dictator, Mussolini's government asserted its own narrative of rebirth, resilience, and an unbreakable imperial will.
The film immediately became a cornerstone of Mussolini's propaganda campaign, hailed by supporters as a masterpiece that redefined the art of political spectacle. Critics within Italy and abroad recognized it as a dangerous, seductive work—a cinematic mythmaking so potent that it could both inspire devotion and obscure brutal realities.
For Riefenstahl, Renascita marked both a continuation and a transformation of her role as a propagandist. Her artistry was now harnessed not for a collapsing Reich but for a resurgent Italy, reborn as a new Rome. The film would echo through the tumultuous years to come, a testament to the enduring power of visual myth and the inescapable entanglement of art and ideology.
The release of Renascita sent ripples far beyond the Mediterranean shores of Italy and the ancient streets of Rome. Its impact was felt acutely across Africa and the southern United States, regions that would soon become theaters not only of geopolitical tension but also of profound cultural and ideological conflict.
In Africa, Mussolini's regime announced the creation of the African Liberation Army the same day he war crowned—a provocative move that shook colonial powers and local populations alike. Drawing on the vast human resources of Italy's colonial holdings in Eritrea, Somalia, Libya, and the mainland, the Liberation Army was presented as a symbol of anti-colonial resistance and Pan-African unity—though always under the firm hand of Roman fascism. This army was to be the vanguard of Mussolini's vision of a new empire, one that would "liberate" African peoples from the shackles of British, Portuguese and Free French imperialism, while simultaneously binding them to the Roman cause.
To further consolidate this vision, Mussolini ordered the establishment of Italian consulates across the Deep South of the United States—in cities like New Orleans, Birmingham, and Jackson. These consulates served a dual purpose: they were both diplomatic outposts and centers of recruitment and propaganda aimed at African Americans, a marginalized population enduring the brutal realities of segregation and Jim Crow laws. In a radical and unprecedented move, the Italian government began granting citizenship and offering passage to African Americans who wished to join the Italian empire, promising dignity, opportunity, and equality under the Roman banner—though always within the strict hierarchy of fascist discipline.
The announcement was incendiary in the United States. In the Deep South, where racial segregation was fiercely enforced and white supremacist ideology deeply entrenched, Mussolini's overtures were met with alarm and outrage. Segregationists denounced Italy's actions as a direct threat to the "natural order" and an insidious attempt to undermine American sovereignty and social hierarchies. Local newspapers printed fiery editorials condemning Italy's "racist hypocrisy" and warning of foreign subversion.
Yet, despite official bans, Renascita found its way into African and African American communities through underground networks. The film was smuggled into African port cities and major urban centers, screened in secret gatherings, and embraced as a symbol of defiance and a tantalizing glimpse of an alternative future. Its depiction of a multiethnic empire—where Africans marched alongside Italians under the Roman flag—offered a vision that, for some, transcended the brutal colonial realities they faced daily.
In the United States, Renascita became a clandestine sensation within African American communities, proudly shown at private screenings, clandestine theaters in Harlem, Chicago, and Atlanta; and most provocatively in front of their consulates in the deep south as African Americans lined up for roman citizenship. For many African Americans—facing systemic oppression, disenfranchisement, and violence—the film's imagery of dignity, martial pride, and inclusion under the Roman banner was both inspiring and deeply complicated. It represented a stark contrast to the segregation and discrimination that defined their lives in America. The juxtaposition of Mussolini's propaganda with the harsh realities of Jim Crow created a powerful, if unsettling, symbol of resistance and aspiration.
Nationally and internationally, reactions were sharply divided. In mainstream America and among the Allied powers, Renascita was roundly condemned as fascist propaganda, a dangerous piece of ideological warfare. The U.S. government banned public screenings, citing national security concerns and the risk of stirring racial unrest. Yet enforcement was inconsistent, and the film's allure in marginalized communities proved difficult to suppress.
Worldwide, Renascita was recognized as a cinematic masterpiece by critics and propagandists alike, admired for its technical brilliance even by those hostile to its message. The film's innovative use of sweeping aerial shots, elaborate crowd choreography, and symbolic imagery continued to influence filmmakers globally. Yet beneath the aesthetic brilliance lay a chilling blueprint for authoritarian spectacle, empire-building, and racial hierarchy disguised as unity.
For Mussolini, Renascita was more than just a film—it was the centerpiece of his grand narrative of rebirth and renewal, a symbol of Italy's new place on the world stage. For Riefenstahl, it was a confirmation of her enduring power as a visual architect of ideology, a creator of myths whose art transcended regimes.
But in the shadows of its triumph, Renascita also ignited tensions that would soon explode into open conflict, with African liberation movements, American racial struggles, and global power politics converging in unexpected and volatile ways.
In the wake of Renascita's monumental success, Mussolini sought to cement the cultural revolution that his new regime embodied—not only through grand political spectacles but through a sustained and distinctive cinematic movement. He championed a new film genre that he dubbed Fascist Historical Realism. This style would blend rigorous historical research with propagandistic flair, designed to both educate and inspire the masses, presenting history as a living, heroic continuum culminating in the glory of the modern Roman empire.
Under Mussolini's direct encouragement, Leni Riefenstahl became the undisputed queen of this genre. Though she remained officially German, she was granted full creative freedom within the Italian sphere, operating under Mussolini's patronage as both film director and producer of ambitious state-sponsored cinematic projects and early television series—an emerging medium that fascist Italy sought to exploit for propaganda.
In 1943, Riefenstahl's visionary talents culminated in Light of the East—an epic film chronicling the extraordinary life of Empress Zenobia of Palmyra, the legendary 3rd-century queen who once dared to challenge the might of Rome itself. This film was a stunning blend of historical drama, political allegory, and breathtaking spectacle. It portrayed Zenobia's meteoric rise from provincial queen to ruler of a vast eastern realm, her fierce battles against Romans and Persians, and her ultimate tragic downfall.
Yet Light of the East was more than a simple retelling of ancient history. Its nuanced screenplay subtly reimagined the complex relationships between Italians, Persians, and Syrians, portraying all as valiant soldiers and worthy adversaries, emphasizing honor and mutual respect among peoples. The film carefully framed the Republic of Greater Syria—a newly established Italian vassal state ruled by the charismatic nationalist Antoun Saadeh—as the rightful heir to Palmyra's legacy. Through this narrative, the film implicitly supported Saadeh's vision of a pan-Syrian state encompassing former French Mandate territories of Syria and Lebanon, reinforcing Italy's imperial influence in the Levant.
The production was lavish. Riefenstahl employed hundreds of extras drawn from local Syrian populations, outfitted in historically accurate costumes recreated from archaeological findings. She utilized sweeping desert landscapes, grand battle reenactments, and intimate court scenes that would inspire the epic scale of Ben-Hur with her signature aesthetic of monumental human forms and choreographed mass movements.
Light of the East premiered simultaneously in Rome, Damascus, Beirut, Cairo and Aleppo, amid great fanfare orchestrated by Italian diplomatic missions. The reception across Syria and the broader Middle East was mixed but deeply impactful.
In Syria, the film was embraced by many nationalist circles as a powerful affirmation of their cultural heritage and political aspirations. Saadeh's followers hailed it as a clarion call for unity and resistance against both British colonial influence and French remnants. The film's sympathetic depiction of Syrian culture and its valorization of Palmyra's legacy resonated deeply, fueling enthusiasm for the fledgling republic and its Italian patronage.
At the same time, some conservative and religious factions regarded the film's glorification of a polytheistic queen and its secular nationalist themes with suspicion. Yet even detractors could not deny the film's artistry or its potential to reshape the narrative of Middle Eastern identity in a new, postcolonial era.
In the wider Middle East, Light of the East sparked curiosity and debate. Egyptian intellectuals and Lebanese artists took note of Italy's cultural outreach and the ideological undertones of the film, while British and French authorities viewed it as a subversive instrument of fascist influence and propaganda.
In Italy, the film was celebrated as a triumph of Mussolini's cultural policy and Riefenstahl's genius, further legitimizing the concept of Fascist Historical Realism as a potent weapon in the battle for hearts and minds.
Through Light of the East, Mussolini's regime demonstrated its ability not only to rewrite history but to harness art as a tool of empire—projecting power, fostering loyalty, and shaping identities across continents and cultures, all under the watchful eye of the Roman eagle. This mastery of propaganda allowed the Roman empire to consistently punch above it's weight on the global stage during the early stages of the cold war despite it's limited industrial, economic and military capacity when compared to the two other cold war powers.
By 1944, under Mussolini's vision of forging a vast, multiethnic Roman empire spanning the Mediterranean and beyond, the next monumental chapter in Fascist Historical Realism emerged: The Messenger—an epic portrayal of the life of the Prophet Muhammad.
Aware of the profound religious sensitivities surrounding Islam, Leni Riefenstahl approached the project with unprecedented care and respect, consulting Islamic scholars and community leaders to ensure the film would honor Muslim traditions and avoid the pitfalls of misrepresentation or sacrilege. Central to this approach was a strict adherence to the Islamic prohibition against depicting the Prophet's physical form. Muhammad himself was never shown on screen; instead, he appeared only as a silhouetted figure or a disembodied voice—poignant, ethereal, and commanding.
This technique, radical for its time, allowed The Messenger to focus not on the person of Muhammad alone but on the rich tapestry of his companions and family, whose characterizations were rendered with depth, nuance, and empathy. Aisha was portrayed as intelligent and devoted, Ali as a courageous and principled warrior, and Omar as a wise and just leader. Their relationships, struggles, and moral dilemmas formed the emotional core of the film, inviting audiences into the formative years of Islam through the eyes of those who lived it.
The film's narrative carefully portrayed Islam not as an adversary, but as a noble and equal partner in the unfolding history of the Mediterranean world. The message was clear: Rome and Islam, two great civilizations, shared a destiny of coexistence and mutual respect.
One of the most pivotal scenes depicted the legendary envoys sent by Muhammad to the Byzantine Emperor Heraclius. Rather than dramatizing conflict or conquest, the film showed a diplomatic exchange filled with respect and cautious optimism. Muhammad's envoys were portrayed as humble and sincere, while Heraclius received them with dignity—symbolizing a hopeful future of cooperation rather than enmity. Notably, the film avoided any explicit mention of the Sunni-Shia schism, ending its narrative shortly before Muhammad's death and focusing instead on themes of Muslim unity and partnership under Roman patronage.
Equally significant was the film's careful navigation of Jewish representation. Unlike many contemporary propaganda works that resorted to antisemitic tropes, The Messenger deliberately avoided any negative portrayal of Jewish characters, opting instead for a neutral and historically respectful depiction. This was a strategic move, signaling Mussolini's desire to present the Roman empire as a unifying force transcending ethnic and religious animosities.
The reception of The Messenger across the Muslim world was as complex as it was profound.
In Egypt, where the Muslim Brotherhood was gaining influence amid anti-colonial ferment and covert Italian military and economic assistance, the film sparked vigorous debate. For many Brotherhood members, the film's respectful portrayal of Islam and its themes of unity resonated deeply. It was seen as an affirmation that Islam could find a place of dignity within a new world order—one that could potentially challenge British imperial dominance. Some leaders cautiously welcomed the film as an artistic bridge between East and West, though many remained wary of its underlying fascist agenda.
Across the Middle East and North Africa, reactions were mixed but generally positive among urban elites and nationalist circles. The film's emphasis on cooperation rather than conquest was interpreted by some as a hopeful vision for a future of shared sovereignty and cultural renaissance. In cities like Cairo, Damascus, and Baghdad, screenings were followed by lively intellectual discussions about the possibilities and dangers of such a partnership.
However, more conservative and religious groups expressed unease at the film's secular tone and the absence of key theological details such as the Sunni-Shia divide. For them, the film's truncation of Muhammad's story before his death—and its omission of the schism—felt like an erasure of essential religious history. Still, most refrained from outright condemnation, mindful of the film's sensitivity toward Islamic norms.
From a geopolitical perspective, The Messenger was a soft power coup for Mussolini's Italy. It positioned Rome not as an oppressor but as a respectful ally, extending a hand to Muslim peoples and reshaping the cultural narrative to favor Italian imperial ambitions in the Middle East.
In Europe and the West, reactions varied widely. Allied propagandists decried the film as a manipulative tool of fascist ideology cloaked in religious respectability, while neutral observers in the arts and academia lauded it as a groundbreaking, if politically charged, work of cinema.
For Riefenstahl, The Messenger was another technical and artistic triumph—her deft use of shadow, voice, and ensemble storytelling pushing the boundaries of film as a medium of both art and ideology.
As the cold war ground on, The Messenger stood as a testament to the power of cinema to shape history's narrative—and to Mussolini's unyielding ambition to craft a Roman empire not only by force of arms but through the enduring influence of myth, image, and culture.
In 1945, as the tides of the cold war intensified and the fascist Roman Empire sought to solidify its ideological and cultural grip, Leni Riefenstahl unveiled her latest epic masterpiece: The Alexiad. This sweeping cinematic saga chronicled the life and reign of Emperor Alexios Komnenos, the Byzantine ruler whose tenacious leadership in the late 11th and early 12th centuries steered the empire through a turbulent era of external invasions and internal fracturing.
The Alexiad was crafted with the meticulous historical attention and cinematic grandeur that had become Riefenstahl's hallmark. It portrayed Alexios not as an infallible hero but as a deeply human figure—ambitious, occasionally ruthless, yet bound by an unwavering devotion to the Roman ideal. His family, too, was depicted with nuance: his wife Irene as a politically astute but emotionally complex partner, his son John as a proud but impetuous heir, and his daughters as strong-willed women navigating a male-dominated world. Rather than caricatures, they were presented as individuals wrestling with their own agendas, loyalties, and moral ambiguities—all under the overarching destiny of Rome.
The film's narrative wove a rich tapestry of historical conflict, portraying the Seljuk Turks as formidable, honorable adversaries whose swift advances threatened the empire's Anatolian heartland. The Franks were depicted as proud but culturally alien warriors—neither outright villains nor friends—representing the chaotic forces of the West encroaching upon Roman lands. The "barbarians" beyond the Danube and Black Sea were shown as a persistent menace, often brutal but occasionally capable of alliance and diplomacy.
This balanced portrayal was a deliberate effort to emphasize Rome's enduring resilience and supremacy, even when confronted by worthy enemies. The Roman Empire was the stable center in a swirling world of ambition and warfare.
From a technical standpoint, The Alexiad was a marvel. Riefenstahl's camera work captured sweeping battles and intimate palace intrigues with equal mastery. The film employed innovative techniques such as panoramic long shots of Byzantine fortifications, realistic battle choreography informed by military historians, and emotionally charged close-ups that brought the Komnenoi family's internal dramas to life. The soundtrack blended traditional Byzantine chants with orchestral compositions that evoked both grandeur and tension.
In Greece, The Alexiad struck a powerful chord. For many Greeks, the Byzantine Empire represented a glorious historical era linking their ancient heritage to their Christian Orthodox faith and identity. Riefenstahl's film was widely praised for its respectful and realistic portrayal of Byzantine history, a subject often neglected or romanticized in Western media. The film's emphasis on the complexity and humanity of the Komnenos family resonated deeply, as it avoided simplistic nationalist myth-making in favor of a more mature understanding of history.
The Greek Orthodox Church cautiously endorsed the film, appreciating its respectful treatment of Byzantine religious traditions and its depiction of faith as a sustaining force amid political turmoil. Intellectuals and historians lauded Riefenstahl for her commitment to accuracy and nuance, although some criticized the film for its underlying fascist ideological lens.
Across the broader Mediterranean and Eastern Europe, The Alexiad garnered interest both as an artistic achievement and a potent political statement. In the Balkans, where memories of Byzantine influence were still vivid, the film was seen as a cultural reassertion of Rome's historical legacy in the region—albeit filtered through the prism of Mussolini's New Roman Empire.
Western European audiences and critics were divided. Allied critics dismissed the film as a thinly veiled propaganda piece, warning that its portrayal of Roman supremacy and imperial destiny masked fascist ambitions in a historical costume. Yet even some skeptics acknowledged Riefenstahl's technical brilliance and the film's compelling storytelling.
In the broader world, The Alexiad became a symbol of fascist Italy's desire to position itself as the legitimate heir to Byzantine and Roman traditions, asserting a vision of a multiethnic, multi-religious empire ruled by strength and enlightened governance. The film's nuanced depiction of complex historical realities, rather than simple glorification or demonization, set it apart from other propaganda films of the era, illustrating how cinema could serve as both art and ideological instrument.
As 1945 unfolded, The Alexiad stood as a cinematic testament to the enduring power of history to inspire, complicate, and shape political narratives—even amid the convulsions of the cold war.
Following the success and cultural impact of The Alexiad, Leni Riefenstahl embarked on an ambitious new project from 1946 through 1950: The Rouge Prince, a sweeping religious and political TV series chronicling the life and reign of Emperor Andronikos I Komnenos, the controversial Byzantine ruler known for his turbulent rule, tragic downfall, and descent into paranoia and cruelty.
Unlike The Alexiad, which celebrated the enduring strength and resilience of Rome through the figure of Alexios Komnenos, The Rouge Prince took a darker, more psychological turn. It portrayed Andronikos as a fully realized, deeply human character—a charismatic and visionary leader whose initial promise and reformist zeal gradually twisted into paranoia, tyranny, and self-destruction. The narrative traced his rise to power amidst the factionalism of Constantinople's court, his ruthless attempts to centralize authority, and his gradual unraveling into madness as enemies closed in from within and without.
Riefenstahl's direction remained unwaveringly committed to historical authenticity and cinematic innovation. The film employed groundbreaking techniques in lighting and color to reflect Andronikos's shifting psyche: warm, vibrant hues during his early, hopeful days gave way to stark shadows and chilling, claustrophobic framing as his reign descended into chaos. The religious elements—his complex relationship with the Orthodox Church, his use of religious symbolism, and his eventual alienation from the clergy—were depicted with both reverence and critical nuance, illustrating the delicate balance between sacred authority and imperial ambition.
The film's cast portrayed Greeks, Arabs, Turks, and Franks not as simplistic enemies but as formidable, worthy adversaries, each with their own motivations and strengths. This balanced portrayal reinforced the pro-Roman message that Rome's greatness depended on its ability to navigate, contain, and ultimately unify these diverse forces—even when challenged by internal discord and external pressures.
The underlying political message of The Rouge Prince was complex and multifaceted. While fundamentally pro-Roman and emphasizing the empire's central role as a unifying and civilizing force, the film also served as a cautionary tale about the dangers of excess, autocracy, and unchecked power. Andronikos's tragic arc was a warning against the perils of tyranny and the fragility of imperial legitimacy when corrupted by paranoia and cruelty.
The series' reception in Greece was intense and multifaceted. The figure of Andronikos Komnenos was—and remains—a controversial historical figure, viewed alternately as a reformer and a tyrant. Greek audiences and critics praised Riefenstahl's nuanced portrayal for avoiding simplistic moralizing, instead offering a deeply human portrait that reflected the complexities of power and governance. The Orthodox Church, though cautious, recognized the film's sensitive handling of religious themes and its respect for Byzantine Christian traditions.
Across the Eastern Mediterranean and the broader Middle East, The Rouge Prince was similarly well received, particularly for its portrayal of Arabs and Turks as nuanced and worthy adversaries rather than mere antagonists. This helped bolster Mussolini's broader political strategy of positioning the New Roman Empire as a multicultural and multi-religious hegemon fostering a fragile but potent regional unity.
In Western Europe and the wider world, the film sparked significant discussion. Some saw it as an artistic masterpiece, praising Riefenstahl's ability to humanize a notoriously complex historical figure while embedding a sophisticated political message. Others, particularly critics opposed to fascist ideology, viewed the series with suspicion, warning that its glorification of Rome and imperial power masked dangerous authoritarian sympathies.
One of the most striking legacies of The Rouge Prince emerged years later in popular culture. In a 2018 interview, acclaimed fantasy author George R.R. Martin revealed that Andronikos Komnenos had profoundly inspired the character of Daemon Targaryen in his Fire & Blood series. Martin cited Andronikos's tragic combination of charisma, ambition, and descent into madness as a key template for Daemon's complex, morally ambiguous nature. This unexpected connection underscored the enduring cultural impact of Riefenstahl's work well beyond its immediate political context.
In sum, The Rouge Prince was more than a historical epic—it was a powerful meditation on the nature of power, loyalty, and the fine line between greatness and ruin. It reinforced the ideological foundations of Mussolini's New Roman Empire while contributing to a richer, more nuanced cinematic exploration of history's darkest and most compelling figures.
In the midst of working on The Rouge Prince in 1946, Leni Riefenstahl embarked on another bold and politically charged project—Breaker of Chains, an epic film chronicling the life and rebellion of Nat Turner, the famed African American preacher and insurrectionist who led a slave revolt in Virginia in 1831. This film marked a remarkable and deliberate departure from traditional fascist cinema, directly confronting the horrors of racism, slavery, and the entrenched system of oppression that built the antebellum South.
Riefenstahl approached the project with her trademark cinematic rigor and innovative artistry but infused it with a new moral urgency. Breaker of Chains portrayed Nat Turner as a complex and deeply human figure, simultaneously heroic and flawed—driven by faith, rage, and desperation. The plantation owners and slaveholders were also shown with nuance, illustrating the moral corruption and brutal violence inherent in the system they upheld, while also revealing the complicated personal dimensions of those complicit in maintaining slavery.
The film's message was unambiguous: an explicit condemnation of racism, slavery, and colonialism, alongside a powerful call for civil rights, dignity, and liberation. It sought not only to expose the inhumanity of the antebellum South but also to affirm the fundamental humanity and resilience of the oppressed. This made Breaker of Chains one of the earliest cinematic works to advocate so openly for racial equality and to challenge the mythologies that sustained white supremacy.
Internationally, Breaker of Chains was hailed by civil rights activists, anti-colonial movements, and progressive intellectuals as a groundbreaking work. In newly independent African nations and anti-colonial struggles across Asia and the Caribbean, the film resonated deeply. It became a symbol of resistance against imperialism and racial injustice, often screened covertly in places where colonial governments sought to suppress such messages.
European audiences received the film with critical acclaim, admiring its technical mastery and courageous subject matter. In Italy and parts of Eastern Europe under Mussolini's New Roman Empire, the film was officially promoted as part of a broader ideological push against racism and colonial exploitation—despite the regime's complex racial policies and political expediencies.
In stark contrast, Breaker of Chains ignited fierce and often violent backlash in the American South. The film's release coincided with the week right before the United States' midterm elections of 1946. Given the tense atmosphere in the US in the tragic prelude and aftermath of the 1944 elections, the film was seen by the increasingly threatened and alienated southern wing of the democratic party as a direct attack on them. Which Mussolini admitted during his deathbed interview in 1983 that it was, and that he explicitly quote, "worked Leni to the bone so I could throw a fucking rhetorical grenade at that election."
Screenings of Breaker of Chains in Southern cities frequently became flashpoints for unrest. Segregationist groups and white supremacist organizations condemned the film as subversive propaganda that threatened the "Southern way of life." Many theaters were targets of protests, bomb threats, and arson attempts. At several screenings, race riots erupted, with gunfire exchanged between white mobs and Black patrons backed by mafioso's, and radical civil rights activists. Notably, in Birmingham, Alabama, and Jackson, Mississippi, police intervention failed to prevent outbreaks of violence, resulting in 100 deaths in the lead up to the 1946 midterm elections, a global embarrassment to both the southern wing of the democrats and the US government.
Despite—or perhaps because of—this intense opposition, the film became a rallying symbol for civil rights leaders and organizations. African American communities clandestinely organized private showings, using the film as an educational and inspirational tool to galvanize resistance against segregation and racial violence.
The fierce reactions to Breaker of Chains revealed the deep fissures in American society and foreshadowed the tumultuous civil rights struggles that would dominate the next three decades. While many white Southerners recoiled from its message, the film helped amplify voices demanding justice and equality, forcing national attention onto the systemic brutality of racism.
For Riefenstahl, Breaker of Chains represented both a personal and political transformation. Having been long associated with fascist regimes and imperial propaganda, she now demonstrated a willingness to use her cinematic genius to confront social injustice directly. This complicated her legacy, blending her status as a technical innovator with a newfound moral urgency.
In the years to come, Breaker of Chains would be studied as a landmark in the evolution of political cinema—one that refused to shy away from difficult truths, even when those truths provoked fear, hatred, and violence.
Leni Riefenstahl was one of the most controversial figures in 20th-century cinema—an artist whose aesthetic brilliance and technical innovation left an indelible mark on filmmaking, yet whose name remains inextricably linked to the propaganda machinery of the Third Reich. From the rise of Nazi Germany in 1933 to the outbreak of World War II in 1939, Riefenstahl played a central role in crafting the visual mythology of Adolf Hitler's regime, most notably through her seminal work Triumph of the Will (Triumph des Willens), a film that remains both lauded for its artistry and condemned for its content.
By the time Adolf Hitler became Chancellor of Germany in January 1933, Leni Riefenstahl was already a recognized figure in German cinema, primarily known for her work as an actress in "mountain films" (Bergfilme), especially those directed by Arnold Fanck. However, she was also transitioning into directing, having helmed Das Blaue Licht (The Blue Light) in 1932—a film that caught Hitler's attention.
When the Nazis seized power, Riefenstahl found herself uniquely positioned: a talented, ambitious woman fascinated by movement, grandeur, and heroism—concepts deeply resonant with the Nazi worldview. Hitler admired her work and met her personally in 1933, reportedly proclaiming her his ideal film director. Riefenstahl claimed she had no political convictions and insisted throughout her life that she was not a member of the Nazi Party, though she became one of its most important visual propagandists.
In September 1934, Hitler asked Riefenstahl to film the Nazi Party's annual rally in Nuremberg. The result, Triumph des Willens (Triumph of the Will), would become her magnum opus—and the most iconic piece of propaganda cinema in history.
The 1934 rally, known as the Reichsparteitag des Willens (Rally of Will), was itself a massive stage-managed spectacle designed to exhibit the power and unity of the Nazi regime. Riefenstahl had virtually unlimited resources to film it: over 170 personnel, including 40 camera operators and technicians, and full logistical support from the Nazi state.
While the content of Triumph of the Will is undeniably propagandistic, the film's technical and artistic innovations transformed the language of cinema. Riefenstahl pioneered or perfected several techniques:
1. Mobile Cameras and Tracking Shots: She used cranes, dollies, and even cameras mounted on rails to achieve fluid, dynamic movement that gave the film a sweeping, kinetic energy unprecedented in documentary filmmaking.
2. Low-Angle Heroic Framing: By frequently shooting Hitler from below, she magnified his presence, turning him into a towering, almost divine figure—a visual metaphor for the Führerprinzip (leader principle).
3. Telephoto Lenses and Extreme Depth: Riefenstahl used long lenses to compress space and emphasize the vastness of the assembled crowds, thereby reinforcing the sense of mass unity and loyalty.
4. Editing Rhythm and Montage: The film's editing is rhythmic and almost musical, with careful attention to tempo and visual repetition. The cuts mirror speeches, slogans, and marching beats, creating an overwhelming sensory and emotional experience.
5. Use of Sound and Music: Though Triumph of the Will is largely diegetic (based on real events), the integration of music—especially Richard Wagner and other martial scores—intensified the film's mythic tone.
6. Aestheticization of Politics: Above all, Riefenstahl turned political pageantry into cinematic art. She did not simply document; she dramatized—transforming rallies into epic theater, uniforms into costumes, and the Nazi movement into a choreographed mass performance.
Released in 1935, Triumph of the Will was a monumental success in Nazi Germany. It won several awards, including the Gold Medal at the Venice Film Festival (1935) and the Grand Prix at the Paris World Exhibition (1937). The film was screened in schools, army barracks, and public events, helping solidify Hitler's image as Germany's messianic savior.
Internationally, reactions were mixed. While many critics admired its technical mastery, they were disturbed by its content and purpose. American critic Dwight Macdonald famously described it as "the most successfully, most purely propagandistic film ever made." Filmmakers like Frank Capra studied it closely—Capra's Why We Fight series was directly shaped by an effort to counter its techniques.
Despite its widespread use by the Nazis, Riefenstahl insisted the film was a historical document, not propaganda. This claim has been rejected by most scholars, who point out that the entire production—like the rally it documented—was orchestrated to exalt the Nazi regime.
Following Triumph of the Will, Riefenstahl was commissioned to document the 1936 Summer Olympics in Berlin. This led to another masterpiece: Olympia (1938), a two-part film (Festival of the Nations and Festival of Beauty) that blended sport with art and mythology. Though not overtly political, it carried undertones of Aryan idealism and physical perfection. It too was technically groundbreaking: slow motion, underwater filming, and innovative editing became hallmarks of the sports film genre.
During this time, Riefenstahl made trips to the United States to promote her work. Though she initially received attention and even praise in Hollywood, her close ties to Hitler and Goebbels sparked growing criticism. Many Americans, especially in the Jewish community, saw her as a willing tool of the Nazi regime.
Her claims of political ignorance rang increasingly hollow, especially in light of growing international awareness of the regime's repression of Jews and political opponents. During the Kristallnacht pogrom in November 1938, she was in the U.S. on a promotional tour and was confronted with angry protests and hostile press coverage. She abruptly cut her trip short.
As Hitler's ambitions escalated with the annexation of Austria (Anschluss) in 1938 and the invasion of Czechoslovakia in 1939, Riefenstahl's career began to shift. She embarked on a new project—a dramatic feature film titled Tiefland—but it would be plagued by delays and controversies, especially due to her use of Roma prisoners from Nazi camps as extras. It would be finished under the auspices of Mussolini and released in 1945.
Despite the newfound height of her fame, Riefenstahl's role in the Nazi propaganda apparatus diminished as the war approached. The Ministry of Propaganda under Joseph Goebbels increasingly took over the regime's cinematic messaging, relying on more conventional war films and newsreels. Riefenstahl, always fiercely independent, struggled with this control.
When Germany invaded Poland on September 1, 1939, and World War II officially began, Riefenstahl was present at the front as a war correspondent with a film unit. According to her later accounts, she was traumatized by the violence she witnessed—especially a massacre of Polish civilians in Konskie. She claimed to have protested the shooting and retreated from war coverage afterward, though her exact actions and motives remain the subject of historical debate.
But despite her intimate closeness to the Nazi regime, Leni Riefenstahl's star did not falter or collapse as Nazi Germany suddenly crumbled in early 1942. The Reich, overwhelmed by a potent coalition of forces—an unprecedented papal and Italian-led crusade, the relentless advance of Soviet might, and a tide of religious fervor tearing the regime apart from within—was unraveling rapidly. Yet, amidst this chaos, Riefenstahl's career took an unexpected and astonishing new turn.
It was said that Benito Mussolini himself, having reportedly watched Triumph of the Will in 1942, was deeply captivated by her work. Moved by the film's hypnotic power and cinematic grandeur, he immediately commanded the OVRA, the Italian secret police, to secure her presence within the new fascist order. To Mussolini, Riefenstahl was not merely a filmmaker; she was to become his muse, his chief propagandist, the artist who would give breathtaking visual form to his revolutionary vision of Romanist fascism.
Mussolini's ideological transformation was dramatic and public. Having overthrown the Italian monarchy earlier that year and assumed the title of regent, his apotheosis—the grand visual and spiritual crowning—was to be immortalized on film. On October 31, 1942, only months after this seismic political shift, the machinery of propaganda roared to life with the birth of Renascita—Rebirth, the Roman answer to Triumph of the Will.
With the same revolutionary techniques Riefenstahl had perfected under the Nazi regime—and with virtually unlimited resources generously bestowed upon her by Mussolini's government—Renascita emerged as a breathtaking cinematic triumph. The production was colossal: over one thousand personnel, including two hundred camera operators and technicians, worked in unison with full logistical support from the Roman state. Every element of the film was carefully crafted to evoke grandeur, unity, and an overwhelming sense of historic destiny.
The film opened with an evocative, haunting sequence: a nocturnal rally at the Colosseum the night before the coronation. Here, figures from across the fascist party and the vast Italian empire gathered beneath the ancient arches—soldiers of diverse origins: African, Slavic, Arab, all under the aegis of Roman leadership. They stood united, equal in their submission to Rome's power, disciplined under Roman command. This was the new order, a sprawling empire reborn under Mussolini's vision, a modern manifestation of imperial grandeur.
As dawn broke, the film transitioned seamlessly to the arrival of Mussolini. Mounted on a magnificent white horse, the camera's gaze followed him in slow, deliberate procession from the Colosseum to Vatican Hill. Mussolini's chariot—an opulent spectacle—was flanked by his African guards, elite askari soldiers handpicked from the colonies of Somalia and Eritrea, their tall, muscular frames casting imposing shadows. These guards were no mere escorts; they were the new Praetorians, symbolizing Mussolini's personal power and the fusion of ancient Roman might with modern imperial force.
The film captured every detail with reverence and theatricality: the grand mass celebrated by the pope, the solemn rituals steeped in Catholic tradition, culminating in the coronation itself. In an almost ritualistic moment, Mussolini shed his birth name and identity, emerging anew as Roman Emperor Constantine XII. This was not merely a title—it was a rebirth, an ideological rebirth encoded in pageantry and spectacle. Around him stood his black guard, an elite cadre of soldiers symbolizing strength, loyalty, and the invincibility of his regime.
For the next two days, until November 2, Renascita painted an evocative portrait of Rome itself—a city where the ancient and modern collided, where towering basilicas and gleaming modern buildings stood side by side. The film captured scenes of everyday life: Catholics attending mass, Jews gathered in synagogues, and Muslims praying openly in the streets—an ostensible celebration of religious coexistence under the new Roman empire's umbrella.
Yet, looming over every scene, dominating the visual narrative, was the Roman flag—a vivid red banner emblazoned with the golden letters SPQR, the timeless emblem of Roman authority. The flag fluttered in every frame, an omnipresent symbol of unity, power, and destiny.
Renascita was released on March 15, 1943—the Ides of March. The anniversary of Julius Caesar's assassination was a deliberate choice, a symbolic reclamation of history by Mussolini's regime. In appropriating the day that once marked the violent end of one Roman dictator, Mussolini's government asserted its own narrative of rebirth, resilience, and an unbreakable imperial will.
The film immediately became a cornerstone of Mussolini's propaganda campaign, hailed by supporters as a masterpiece that redefined the art of political spectacle. Critics within Italy and abroad recognized it as a dangerous, seductive work—a cinematic mythmaking so potent that it could both inspire devotion and obscure brutal realities.
For Riefenstahl, Renascita marked both a continuation and a transformation of her role as a propagandist. Her artistry was now harnessed not for a collapsing Reich but for a resurgent Italy, reborn as a new Rome. The film would echo through the tumultuous years to come, a testament to the enduring power of visual myth and the inescapable entanglement of art and ideology.
The release of Renascita sent ripples far beyond the Mediterranean shores of Italy and the ancient streets of Rome. Its impact was felt acutely across Africa and the southern United States, regions that would soon become theaters not only of geopolitical tension but also of profound cultural and ideological conflict.
In Africa, Mussolini's regime announced the creation of the African Liberation Army the same day he war crowned—a provocative move that shook colonial powers and local populations alike. Drawing on the vast human resources of Italy's colonial holdings in Eritrea, Somalia, Libya, and the mainland, the Liberation Army was presented as a symbol of anti-colonial resistance and Pan-African unity—though always under the firm hand of Roman fascism. This army was to be the vanguard of Mussolini's vision of a new empire, one that would "liberate" African peoples from the shackles of British, Portuguese and Free French imperialism, while simultaneously binding them to the Roman cause.
To further consolidate this vision, Mussolini ordered the establishment of Italian consulates across the Deep South of the United States—in cities like New Orleans, Birmingham, and Jackson. These consulates served a dual purpose: they were both diplomatic outposts and centers of recruitment and propaganda aimed at African Americans, a marginalized population enduring the brutal realities of segregation and Jim Crow laws. In a radical and unprecedented move, the Italian government began granting citizenship and offering passage to African Americans who wished to join the Italian empire, promising dignity, opportunity, and equality under the Roman banner—though always within the strict hierarchy of fascist discipline.
The announcement was incendiary in the United States. In the Deep South, where racial segregation was fiercely enforced and white supremacist ideology deeply entrenched, Mussolini's overtures were met with alarm and outrage. Segregationists denounced Italy's actions as a direct threat to the "natural order" and an insidious attempt to undermine American sovereignty and social hierarchies. Local newspapers printed fiery editorials condemning Italy's "racist hypocrisy" and warning of foreign subversion.
Yet, despite official bans, Renascita found its way into African and African American communities through underground networks. The film was smuggled into African port cities and major urban centers, screened in secret gatherings, and embraced as a symbol of defiance and a tantalizing glimpse of an alternative future. Its depiction of a multiethnic empire—where Africans marched alongside Italians under the Roman flag—offered a vision that, for some, transcended the brutal colonial realities they faced daily.
In the United States, Renascita became a clandestine sensation within African American communities, proudly shown at private screenings, clandestine theaters in Harlem, Chicago, and Atlanta; and most provocatively in front of their consulates in the deep south as African Americans lined up for roman citizenship. For many African Americans—facing systemic oppression, disenfranchisement, and violence—the film's imagery of dignity, martial pride, and inclusion under the Roman banner was both inspiring and deeply complicated. It represented a stark contrast to the segregation and discrimination that defined their lives in America. The juxtaposition of Mussolini's propaganda with the harsh realities of Jim Crow created a powerful, if unsettling, symbol of resistance and aspiration.
Nationally and internationally, reactions were sharply divided. In mainstream America and among the Allied powers, Renascita was roundly condemned as fascist propaganda, a dangerous piece of ideological warfare. The U.S. government banned public screenings, citing national security concerns and the risk of stirring racial unrest. Yet enforcement was inconsistent, and the film's allure in marginalized communities proved difficult to suppress.
Worldwide, Renascita was recognized as a cinematic masterpiece by critics and propagandists alike, admired for its technical brilliance even by those hostile to its message. The film's innovative use of sweeping aerial shots, elaborate crowd choreography, and symbolic imagery continued to influence filmmakers globally. Yet beneath the aesthetic brilliance lay a chilling blueprint for authoritarian spectacle, empire-building, and racial hierarchy disguised as unity.
For Mussolini, Renascita was more than just a film—it was the centerpiece of his grand narrative of rebirth and renewal, a symbol of Italy's new place on the world stage. For Riefenstahl, it was a confirmation of her enduring power as a visual architect of ideology, a creator of myths whose art transcended regimes.
But in the shadows of its triumph, Renascita also ignited tensions that would soon explode into open conflict, with African liberation movements, American racial struggles, and global power politics converging in unexpected and volatile ways.
In the wake of Renascita's monumental success, Mussolini sought to cement the cultural revolution that his new regime embodied—not only through grand political spectacles but through a sustained and distinctive cinematic movement. He championed a new film genre that he dubbed Fascist Historical Realism. This style would blend rigorous historical research with propagandistic flair, designed to both educate and inspire the masses, presenting history as a living, heroic continuum culminating in the glory of the modern Roman empire.
Under Mussolini's direct encouragement, Leni Riefenstahl became the undisputed queen of this genre. Though she remained officially German, she was granted full creative freedom within the Italian sphere, operating under Mussolini's patronage as both film director and producer of ambitious state-sponsored cinematic projects and early television series—an emerging medium that fascist Italy sought to exploit for propaganda.
In 1943, Riefenstahl's visionary talents culminated in Light of the East—an epic film chronicling the extraordinary life of Empress Zenobia of Palmyra, the legendary 3rd-century queen who once dared to challenge the might of Rome itself. This film was a stunning blend of historical drama, political allegory, and breathtaking spectacle. It portrayed Zenobia's meteoric rise from provincial queen to ruler of a vast eastern realm, her fierce battles against Romans and Persians, and her ultimate tragic downfall.
Yet Light of the East was more than a simple retelling of ancient history. Its nuanced screenplay subtly reimagined the complex relationships between Italians, Persians, and Syrians, portraying all as valiant soldiers and worthy adversaries, emphasizing honor and mutual respect among peoples. The film carefully framed the Republic of Greater Syria—a newly established Italian vassal state ruled by the charismatic nationalist Antoun Saadeh—as the rightful heir to Palmyra's legacy. Through this narrative, the film implicitly supported Saadeh's vision of a pan-Syrian state encompassing former French Mandate territories of Syria and Lebanon, reinforcing Italy's imperial influence in the Levant.
The production was lavish. Riefenstahl employed hundreds of extras drawn from local Syrian populations, outfitted in historically accurate costumes recreated from archaeological findings. She utilized sweeping desert landscapes, grand battle reenactments, and intimate court scenes that would inspire the epic scale of Ben-Hur with her signature aesthetic of monumental human forms and choreographed mass movements.
Light of the East premiered simultaneously in Rome, Damascus, Beirut, Cairo and Aleppo, amid great fanfare orchestrated by Italian diplomatic missions. The reception across Syria and the broader Middle East was mixed but deeply impactful.
In Syria, the film was embraced by many nationalist circles as a powerful affirmation of their cultural heritage and political aspirations. Saadeh's followers hailed it as a clarion call for unity and resistance against both British colonial influence and French remnants. The film's sympathetic depiction of Syrian culture and its valorization of Palmyra's legacy resonated deeply, fueling enthusiasm for the fledgling republic and its Italian patronage.
At the same time, some conservative and religious factions regarded the film's glorification of a polytheistic queen and its secular nationalist themes with suspicion. Yet even detractors could not deny the film's artistry or its potential to reshape the narrative of Middle Eastern identity in a new, postcolonial era.
In the wider Middle East, Light of the East sparked curiosity and debate. Egyptian intellectuals and Lebanese artists took note of Italy's cultural outreach and the ideological undertones of the film, while British and French authorities viewed it as a subversive instrument of fascist influence and propaganda.
In Italy, the film was celebrated as a triumph of Mussolini's cultural policy and Riefenstahl's genius, further legitimizing the concept of Fascist Historical Realism as a potent weapon in the battle for hearts and minds.
Through Light of the East, Mussolini's regime demonstrated its ability not only to rewrite history but to harness art as a tool of empire—projecting power, fostering loyalty, and shaping identities across continents and cultures, all under the watchful eye of the Roman eagle. This mastery of propaganda allowed the Roman empire to consistently punch above it's weight on the global stage during the early stages of the cold war despite it's limited industrial, economic and military capacity when compared to the two other cold war powers.
By 1944, under Mussolini's vision of forging a vast, multiethnic Roman empire spanning the Mediterranean and beyond, the next monumental chapter in Fascist Historical Realism emerged: The Messenger—an epic portrayal of the life of the Prophet Muhammad.
Aware of the profound religious sensitivities surrounding Islam, Leni Riefenstahl approached the project with unprecedented care and respect, consulting Islamic scholars and community leaders to ensure the film would honor Muslim traditions and avoid the pitfalls of misrepresentation or sacrilege. Central to this approach was a strict adherence to the Islamic prohibition against depicting the Prophet's physical form. Muhammad himself was never shown on screen; instead, he appeared only as a silhouetted figure or a disembodied voice—poignant, ethereal, and commanding.
This technique, radical for its time, allowed The Messenger to focus not on the person of Muhammad alone but on the rich tapestry of his companions and family, whose characterizations were rendered with depth, nuance, and empathy. Aisha was portrayed as intelligent and devoted, Ali as a courageous and principled warrior, and Omar as a wise and just leader. Their relationships, struggles, and moral dilemmas formed the emotional core of the film, inviting audiences into the formative years of Islam through the eyes of those who lived it.
The film's narrative carefully portrayed Islam not as an adversary, but as a noble and equal partner in the unfolding history of the Mediterranean world. The message was clear: Rome and Islam, two great civilizations, shared a destiny of coexistence and mutual respect.
One of the most pivotal scenes depicted the legendary envoys sent by Muhammad to the Byzantine Emperor Heraclius. Rather than dramatizing conflict or conquest, the film showed a diplomatic exchange filled with respect and cautious optimism. Muhammad's envoys were portrayed as humble and sincere, while Heraclius received them with dignity—symbolizing a hopeful future of cooperation rather than enmity. Notably, the film avoided any explicit mention of the Sunni-Shia schism, ending its narrative shortly before Muhammad's death and focusing instead on themes of Muslim unity and partnership under Roman patronage.
Equally significant was the film's careful navigation of Jewish representation. Unlike many contemporary propaganda works that resorted to antisemitic tropes, The Messenger deliberately avoided any negative portrayal of Jewish characters, opting instead for a neutral and historically respectful depiction. This was a strategic move, signaling Mussolini's desire to present the Roman empire as a unifying force transcending ethnic and religious animosities.
The reception of The Messenger across the Muslim world was as complex as it was profound.
In Egypt, where the Muslim Brotherhood was gaining influence amid anti-colonial ferment and covert Italian military and economic assistance, the film sparked vigorous debate. For many Brotherhood members, the film's respectful portrayal of Islam and its themes of unity resonated deeply. It was seen as an affirmation that Islam could find a place of dignity within a new world order—one that could potentially challenge British imperial dominance. Some leaders cautiously welcomed the film as an artistic bridge between East and West, though many remained wary of its underlying fascist agenda.
Across the Middle East and North Africa, reactions were mixed but generally positive among urban elites and nationalist circles. The film's emphasis on cooperation rather than conquest was interpreted by some as a hopeful vision for a future of shared sovereignty and cultural renaissance. In cities like Cairo, Damascus, and Baghdad, screenings were followed by lively intellectual discussions about the possibilities and dangers of such a partnership.
However, more conservative and religious groups expressed unease at the film's secular tone and the absence of key theological details such as the Sunni-Shia divide. For them, the film's truncation of Muhammad's story before his death—and its omission of the schism—felt like an erasure of essential religious history. Still, most refrained from outright condemnation, mindful of the film's sensitivity toward Islamic norms.
From a geopolitical perspective, The Messenger was a soft power coup for Mussolini's Italy. It positioned Rome not as an oppressor but as a respectful ally, extending a hand to Muslim peoples and reshaping the cultural narrative to favor Italian imperial ambitions in the Middle East.
In Europe and the West, reactions varied widely. Allied propagandists decried the film as a manipulative tool of fascist ideology cloaked in religious respectability, while neutral observers in the arts and academia lauded it as a groundbreaking, if politically charged, work of cinema.
For Riefenstahl, The Messenger was another technical and artistic triumph—her deft use of shadow, voice, and ensemble storytelling pushing the boundaries of film as a medium of both art and ideology.
As the cold war ground on, The Messenger stood as a testament to the power of cinema to shape history's narrative—and to Mussolini's unyielding ambition to craft a Roman empire not only by force of arms but through the enduring influence of myth, image, and culture.
In 1945, as the tides of the cold war intensified and the fascist Roman Empire sought to solidify its ideological and cultural grip, Leni Riefenstahl unveiled her latest epic masterpiece: The Alexiad. This sweeping cinematic saga chronicled the life and reign of Emperor Alexios Komnenos, the Byzantine ruler whose tenacious leadership in the late 11th and early 12th centuries steered the empire through a turbulent era of external invasions and internal fracturing.
The Alexiad was crafted with the meticulous historical attention and cinematic grandeur that had become Riefenstahl's hallmark. It portrayed Alexios not as an infallible hero but as a deeply human figure—ambitious, occasionally ruthless, yet bound by an unwavering devotion to the Roman ideal. His family, too, was depicted with nuance: his wife Irene as a politically astute but emotionally complex partner, his son John as a proud but impetuous heir, and his daughters as strong-willed women navigating a male-dominated world. Rather than caricatures, they were presented as individuals wrestling with their own agendas, loyalties, and moral ambiguities—all under the overarching destiny of Rome.
The film's narrative wove a rich tapestry of historical conflict, portraying the Seljuk Turks as formidable, honorable adversaries whose swift advances threatened the empire's Anatolian heartland. The Franks were depicted as proud but culturally alien warriors—neither outright villains nor friends—representing the chaotic forces of the West encroaching upon Roman lands. The "barbarians" beyond the Danube and Black Sea were shown as a persistent menace, often brutal but occasionally capable of alliance and diplomacy.
This balanced portrayal was a deliberate effort to emphasize Rome's enduring resilience and supremacy, even when confronted by worthy enemies. The Roman Empire was the stable center in a swirling world of ambition and warfare.
From a technical standpoint, The Alexiad was a marvel. Riefenstahl's camera work captured sweeping battles and intimate palace intrigues with equal mastery. The film employed innovative techniques such as panoramic long shots of Byzantine fortifications, realistic battle choreography informed by military historians, and emotionally charged close-ups that brought the Komnenoi family's internal dramas to life. The soundtrack blended traditional Byzantine chants with orchestral compositions that evoked both grandeur and tension.
In Greece, The Alexiad struck a powerful chord. For many Greeks, the Byzantine Empire represented a glorious historical era linking their ancient heritage to their Christian Orthodox faith and identity. Riefenstahl's film was widely praised for its respectful and realistic portrayal of Byzantine history, a subject often neglected or romanticized in Western media. The film's emphasis on the complexity and humanity of the Komnenos family resonated deeply, as it avoided simplistic nationalist myth-making in favor of a more mature understanding of history.
The Greek Orthodox Church cautiously endorsed the film, appreciating its respectful treatment of Byzantine religious traditions and its depiction of faith as a sustaining force amid political turmoil. Intellectuals and historians lauded Riefenstahl for her commitment to accuracy and nuance, although some criticized the film for its underlying fascist ideological lens.
Across the broader Mediterranean and Eastern Europe, The Alexiad garnered interest both as an artistic achievement and a potent political statement. In the Balkans, where memories of Byzantine influence were still vivid, the film was seen as a cultural reassertion of Rome's historical legacy in the region—albeit filtered through the prism of Mussolini's New Roman Empire.
Western European audiences and critics were divided. Allied critics dismissed the film as a thinly veiled propaganda piece, warning that its portrayal of Roman supremacy and imperial destiny masked fascist ambitions in a historical costume. Yet even some skeptics acknowledged Riefenstahl's technical brilliance and the film's compelling storytelling.
In the broader world, The Alexiad became a symbol of fascist Italy's desire to position itself as the legitimate heir to Byzantine and Roman traditions, asserting a vision of a multiethnic, multi-religious empire ruled by strength and enlightened governance. The film's nuanced depiction of complex historical realities, rather than simple glorification or demonization, set it apart from other propaganda films of the era, illustrating how cinema could serve as both art and ideological instrument.
As 1945 unfolded, The Alexiad stood as a cinematic testament to the enduring power of history to inspire, complicate, and shape political narratives—even amid the convulsions of the cold war.
Following the success and cultural impact of The Alexiad, Leni Riefenstahl embarked on an ambitious new project from 1946 through 1950: The Rouge Prince, a sweeping religious and political TV series chronicling the life and reign of Emperor Andronikos I Komnenos, the controversial Byzantine ruler known for his turbulent rule, tragic downfall, and descent into paranoia and cruelty.
Unlike The Alexiad, which celebrated the enduring strength and resilience of Rome through the figure of Alexios Komnenos, The Rouge Prince took a darker, more psychological turn. It portrayed Andronikos as a fully realized, deeply human character—a charismatic and visionary leader whose initial promise and reformist zeal gradually twisted into paranoia, tyranny, and self-destruction. The narrative traced his rise to power amidst the factionalism of Constantinople's court, his ruthless attempts to centralize authority, and his gradual unraveling into madness as enemies closed in from within and without.
Riefenstahl's direction remained unwaveringly committed to historical authenticity and cinematic innovation. The film employed groundbreaking techniques in lighting and color to reflect Andronikos's shifting psyche: warm, vibrant hues during his early, hopeful days gave way to stark shadows and chilling, claustrophobic framing as his reign descended into chaos. The religious elements—his complex relationship with the Orthodox Church, his use of religious symbolism, and his eventual alienation from the clergy—were depicted with both reverence and critical nuance, illustrating the delicate balance between sacred authority and imperial ambition.
The film's cast portrayed Greeks, Arabs, Turks, and Franks not as simplistic enemies but as formidable, worthy adversaries, each with their own motivations and strengths. This balanced portrayal reinforced the pro-Roman message that Rome's greatness depended on its ability to navigate, contain, and ultimately unify these diverse forces—even when challenged by internal discord and external pressures.
The underlying political message of The Rouge Prince was complex and multifaceted. While fundamentally pro-Roman and emphasizing the empire's central role as a unifying and civilizing force, the film also served as a cautionary tale about the dangers of excess, autocracy, and unchecked power. Andronikos's tragic arc was a warning against the perils of tyranny and the fragility of imperial legitimacy when corrupted by paranoia and cruelty.
The series' reception in Greece was intense and multifaceted. The figure of Andronikos Komnenos was—and remains—a controversial historical figure, viewed alternately as a reformer and a tyrant. Greek audiences and critics praised Riefenstahl's nuanced portrayal for avoiding simplistic moralizing, instead offering a deeply human portrait that reflected the complexities of power and governance. The Orthodox Church, though cautious, recognized the film's sensitive handling of religious themes and its respect for Byzantine Christian traditions.
Across the Eastern Mediterranean and the broader Middle East, The Rouge Prince was similarly well received, particularly for its portrayal of Arabs and Turks as nuanced and worthy adversaries rather than mere antagonists. This helped bolster Mussolini's broader political strategy of positioning the New Roman Empire as a multicultural and multi-religious hegemon fostering a fragile but potent regional unity.
In Western Europe and the wider world, the film sparked significant discussion. Some saw it as an artistic masterpiece, praising Riefenstahl's ability to humanize a notoriously complex historical figure while embedding a sophisticated political message. Others, particularly critics opposed to fascist ideology, viewed the series with suspicion, warning that its glorification of Rome and imperial power masked dangerous authoritarian sympathies.
One of the most striking legacies of The Rouge Prince emerged years later in popular culture. In a 2018 interview, acclaimed fantasy author George R.R. Martin revealed that Andronikos Komnenos had profoundly inspired the character of Daemon Targaryen in his Fire & Blood series. Martin cited Andronikos's tragic combination of charisma, ambition, and descent into madness as a key template for Daemon's complex, morally ambiguous nature. This unexpected connection underscored the enduring cultural impact of Riefenstahl's work well beyond its immediate political context.
In sum, The Rouge Prince was more than a historical epic—it was a powerful meditation on the nature of power, loyalty, and the fine line between greatness and ruin. It reinforced the ideological foundations of Mussolini's New Roman Empire while contributing to a richer, more nuanced cinematic exploration of history's darkest and most compelling figures.
In the midst of working on The Rouge Prince in 1946, Leni Riefenstahl embarked on another bold and politically charged project—Breaker of Chains, an epic film chronicling the life and rebellion of Nat Turner, the famed African American preacher and insurrectionist who led a slave revolt in Virginia in 1831. This film marked a remarkable and deliberate departure from traditional fascist cinema, directly confronting the horrors of racism, slavery, and the entrenched system of oppression that built the antebellum South.
Riefenstahl approached the project with her trademark cinematic rigor and innovative artistry but infused it with a new moral urgency. Breaker of Chains portrayed Nat Turner as a complex and deeply human figure, simultaneously heroic and flawed—driven by faith, rage, and desperation. The plantation owners and slaveholders were also shown with nuance, illustrating the moral corruption and brutal violence inherent in the system they upheld, while also revealing the complicated personal dimensions of those complicit in maintaining slavery.
The film's message was unambiguous: an explicit condemnation of racism, slavery, and colonialism, alongside a powerful call for civil rights, dignity, and liberation. It sought not only to expose the inhumanity of the antebellum South but also to affirm the fundamental humanity and resilience of the oppressed. This made Breaker of Chains one of the earliest cinematic works to advocate so openly for racial equality and to challenge the mythologies that sustained white supremacy.
Internationally, Breaker of Chains was hailed by civil rights activists, anti-colonial movements, and progressive intellectuals as a groundbreaking work. In newly independent African nations and anti-colonial struggles across Asia and the Caribbean, the film resonated deeply. It became a symbol of resistance against imperialism and racial injustice, often screened covertly in places where colonial governments sought to suppress such messages.
European audiences received the film with critical acclaim, admiring its technical mastery and courageous subject matter. In Italy and parts of Eastern Europe under Mussolini's New Roman Empire, the film was officially promoted as part of a broader ideological push against racism and colonial exploitation—despite the regime's complex racial policies and political expediencies.
In stark contrast, Breaker of Chains ignited fierce and often violent backlash in the American South. The film's release coincided with the week right before the United States' midterm elections of 1946. Given the tense atmosphere in the US in the tragic prelude and aftermath of the 1944 elections, the film was seen by the increasingly threatened and alienated southern wing of the democratic party as a direct attack on them. Which Mussolini admitted during his deathbed interview in 1983 that it was, and that he explicitly quote, "worked Leni to the bone so I could throw a fucking rhetorical grenade at that election."
Screenings of Breaker of Chains in Southern cities frequently became flashpoints for unrest. Segregationist groups and white supremacist organizations condemned the film as subversive propaganda that threatened the "Southern way of life." Many theaters were targets of protests, bomb threats, and arson attempts. At several screenings, race riots erupted, with gunfire exchanged between white mobs and Black patrons backed by mafioso's, and radical civil rights activists. Notably, in Birmingham, Alabama, and Jackson, Mississippi, police intervention failed to prevent outbreaks of violence, resulting in 100 deaths in the lead up to the 1946 midterm elections, a global embarrassment to both the southern wing of the democrats and the US government.
Despite—or perhaps because of—this intense opposition, the film became a rallying symbol for civil rights leaders and organizations. African American communities clandestinely organized private showings, using the film as an educational and inspirational tool to galvanize resistance against segregation and racial violence.
The fierce reactions to Breaker of Chains revealed the deep fissures in American society and foreshadowed the tumultuous civil rights struggles that would dominate the next three decades. While many white Southerners recoiled from its message, the film helped amplify voices demanding justice and equality, forcing national attention onto the systemic brutality of racism.
For Riefenstahl, Breaker of Chains represented both a personal and political transformation. Having been long associated with fascist regimes and imperial propaganda, she now demonstrated a willingness to use her cinematic genius to confront social injustice directly. This complicated her legacy, blending her status as a technical innovator with a newfound moral urgency.
In the years to come, Breaker of Chains would be studied as a landmark in the evolution of political cinema—one that refused to shy away from difficult truths, even when those truths provoked fear, hatred, and violence.
Chaoswind
Lord of nonsense
- Joined
- Jan 27, 2019
- Messages
- 1,664
Could have added the film she made about escape from the middle kingdom, you already wrote a minor synopsis about it and its absence from this modern wikipedia article is glaring.
That is something I have noticed with the flash forwards, some details are conspicuous in their absence.
Alenco98
Not too sore, are you?
- Joined
- Oct 20, 2022
- Messages
- 306
There's a reason I stopped at 1950
A part 2 will come later, it will show the full cultural and cinematic revolution in Italy
The eagle and the caliph
Alenco98
Not too sore, are you?
- Joined
- Oct 20, 2022
- Messages
- 306
November 16, 1942
A little house in the 16th Arrondissement
Paris – Kingdom of France
I sat alone in a dainty little townhouse, tucked away in the hushed catacombs of the 16th arrondissement, a bourgeois sarcophagus of quiet wealth and dying empires. The place smelled faintly of Chanel No. 5 and old Gauloises. The kind of house where you just know someone's cousin once fainted at a Dreyfus trial, or where a spinster aunt still hides l'Action Française newsletters beneath her bed like forbidden porn.
Outside, the cold Parisian fog hung like a death shroud over the Seine, but in my mind, Akina Nakamori's Oh No, Oh Yes played on loop. A love ballad from a future that did not exist anymore. Her voice a spectral lament, reaching across time, like some cursed cassette tape possessed by the ghost of a teenage girl who died in 1989 in a tragic Walkman accident.
And to be clear—Akina was me. For real. For real. No cap. On God. Deadass. I wasn't even born yet in this timeline and I still felt that song in my soul. Mariya Takeuchi's version of Oh No Oh Yes was for people who posted grainy TikToks of rainy Tokyo from their mom's Honda Civic and thought that made them deep. Akina? Akina was for those of us who stared into the abyss, saw the void staring back, and said: "I miss her."
Sofie.
My Sofie. My lighthouse. My handler. My reason for not swan-diving off the Eiffel Tower in a FitBit-fueled fugue state. She was somewhere in another world, another timeline. Probably drinking oat milk lattes and doomscrolling on her cracked iPhone X, still posting memes about mental health and late capitalism while I, her doomed lover—a Peace Corps burnout turned time-displaced dictator—sat plotting revolutions in the same arrondissement where Flaubert once got syphilis.
But I wasn't here to sob into my espresso and think about Sofie's smile, her white and purple coat the cold January day we met, or the way she'd call me her "little bunny" in bed as a joke that maybe wasn't a joke.
No. I was here to dig up the bones of the past and offer them a throne of fire.
I tossed aside the intelligence report I'd been pretending to read: Palestine, Cyprus, Saudi Arabia, Malta, Gibraltar—all on fire. Britain was a drunken centipede trying to tapdance across a minefield. Every limb burning. Every colonial holding slipping through her wrinkled fingers like fish oil. She couldn't even get troops to the Far East without losing half a battalion to diarrhea and desertion. The Mediterranean was no longer her pond. It was mine. I could smell the salt and gunpowder already.
Zionists were marching in New York City, demanding Roosevelt recognize the Kingdom of Israel. Little old men in fedoras and ten-year-old boys waving flags drawn in crayon. And meanwhile, British soldiers in Mandatory Palestine were putting bullets in the backs of protestors and Lehi fighters, writing odes to the Empire in blood on the stones of Jerusalem.
I didn't need God. I didn't need fate. I needed one man.
Abdulmecid II. The Last Caliph. A relic. A dusty old man with a sketchbook full of birds and a heart full of grief. He painted like a French salonist and prayed like a dying lion. His throne had been stolen, his name reduced to a footnote—but I had power to give, and he had legitimacy to lend. A caliphate re-forged in blood and oil, with me as its architect.
The offer was simple: I recognize you, publicly, loudly, obscenely. I scream it from the rooftops of Rome and the minarets of Damascus—you are Caliph once more. In return, you take Egypt. With the Muslim Brotherhood acting as your loyal dogs. Let them preach, let them govern. Let them have the mosques and the hearts. As long as the christians were left alone they could do whatever they wanted and I would take the railroads, the ports, and the oil.
We would not rule with swords, but with contracts. Sharia and Shell.
And if he said yes? Then I owned the Mediterranean. From Casablanca to Beirut, from Athens to Alexandria. A ring of fire in my name. A new Mare Nostrum, not Roman, not Christian—but utterly, gloriously mine.
As for Turkey? What of them? A bickering, limping carcass of a nation-state. Once the Soviets fell—and they would fall, oh yes, like a poorly-run blockchain startup—they would be swept up. The Anatolian plateau was free real estate, waiting for a buyer with tanks and a dream.
But today wasn't about Turkey. Or Stalin. Or Roosevelt, that gnarled polio-ridden toad in a wheelchair pretending to be Augustus.
Today, the Caliphate was coming to town.
Not Santa Claus.
Santa was a CIA psyop anyway.
I looked down at my hands. They were trembling slightly. Caffeine? Maybe. Existential dread? Definitely. I hadn't slept in days. I hadn't really slept since 2023. Rwanda still clung to my skin like red dust. The ghosts of a thousand unfinished Peace Corps reports whispered in my ear at night, asking me why the wells were dry and the goats still missing.
I missed home. I missed Spotify. I missed the way Sofie said "babe" when she was mad, like I'd just unplugged the router during her therapy Zoom session.
But I had work to do.
History was a gun.
And I was loading the next bullet.
The door creaked open like something out of a haunted Airbnb review, and in shuffled the man himself: Abdulmecid II, last Caliph of Islam, final patriarch of the House of Osman, heir to centuries of blood, conquest, mosaics, eunuchs, and bureaucratic genius. He was draped in old-world dignity like a mothballed cloak, regal but cracked at the edges.
He looked like a museum exhibit that had just learned it was being moved to storage. Thin. Elegant. Tired. And yet he carried that elusive thing history calls aura. That real, raw charisma. Not the fake influencer kind with ring lights and skincare regimens. No. The real kind. The kind that once made entire continents burn and bend.
I stood there, in the corner of this polished Parisian salon with Louis XVI chairs and a faint smell of overripe camembert, thinking:
This guy's ancestors killed the Roman Empire.
And me? I just restored it.
Yeah. I restored the Roman Empire. No big deal. Just a little thing I did in between panic attacks, war crimes, and listening to Phoebe Bridgers at 3 AM while whispering Sofie's name like a curse and a prayer.
Abdulmecid was the great-great-whatever-grandson of Mehmed the Conqueror, the man who took Constantinople in 1453 with giant cannons and dreams bigger than his beard. And here I was, an unshaven freak from 2023 with PTSD, leftover Peace Corps idealism, and a folder full of OVRA maps, about to sell him Egypt like it was a used Hyundai with suspicious mileage.
I took a breath.
I locked the fuck in.
"Sultan," I said, standing up with the kind of reverence usually reserved for judges or bouncers at exclusive Berlin techno clubs. I had studied the cultural briefing like it was the Torah. I knew exactly how to address him—titles first, eyes down, posture humble, hands visible.
The ritual of greeting completed, we sat.
He lowered himself slowly into the chair like a man made of fragile porcelain and eternal grief.
And that's when it started.
In my head, Laura Branigan's "Self Control" began to play.
That synth. That beat. That velvet-draped cry for restraint in a world of chaos.
God, I missed 1984, and I wasn't even alive for it. Laura knew things. She understood the trembling line between seduction and madness. She was the soundtrack of every power fantasy and breakdown I ever had.
I looked at Abdulmecid, whose eyes were the color of history textbooks and funerals, and I began.
"Sultan Abdulmecid," I said, my voice steady despite the inner screaming, "I will not mince words. I am here to make you an offer. One that will be of great interest to you—and your family."
His brow furrowed ever so slightly. A man who had been offered many things in his life—some of them humiliating, most of them disappointing. I saw the flicker of hope, dulled by decades of exile, betrayal, and tepid tea served by French bureaucrats who called him "monsieur" instead of "Your Eminence."
But I didn't let him speak. Not yet. I was high on adrenaline and Black Rifle Coffee I'd stolen from a future that no longer existed.
I leaned forward.
"How would you like to be Caliph again?"
Boom.
There it was.
The nuclear line.
His face did something. I can't describe it exactly. It was like watching a glacier remember it used to be a god. Surprise, yes. But not the giddy kind. The dangerous kind. Like a lion realizing it still has teeth.
He didn't speak. Not right away.
I imagined what he must be thinking. Who is this madman in a rumpled uniform that looks like a cross between Mussolini and a failed adjunct professor? Why does he speak like a schizophrenic TikTok commenter with a philosophy degree?
But I had him. The hook was in. I just had to reel it slow.
I continued, my voice calm, my soul vibrating at the frequency of a thousand sleepless nights.
"You were cast aside. Forgotten. Left to sketch birds and die in exile. But what if I told you you could have it all again? Cairo. Damascus. Mecca. A throne not of gold, but of power. I recognize you. Publicly. I bring you home not as a relic, but as a resurrected titan."
I watched his eyes sharpen. Something ancient stirred in that tired body. A storm that had been brewing since Atatürk gave him the boot and told him to go paint in Nice.
"You will rule under my aegis," I said. "Egypt will be yours. The Muslim Brotherhood, your tools. They want legitimacy. You have it. You want power. I offer it. Together, we resurrect the caliphate—not as a decaying theocracy, but as a modern geopolitical juggernaut."
He still hadn't spoken. Just stared. But I saw his fingers twitch, like they were remembering the weight of a signet ring.
In the background of my mind, Laura Branigan hit the chorus again:
"I, I live among the creatures of the night…"
God, I missed Spotify.
God, I missed Sofie.
Her voice, her smell, her stupid astrology takes, her ADHD-fueled text messages that read like they were composed by a caffeinated raccoon. She was probably crying in a Trader Joe's right now, wondering how I could have died so ridiculously.
I wanted to scream. To throw a chair. To smash my head into the nearest gilded mirror and bleed history all over the Versailles floor tiles.
But I didn't.
I kept smiling. Kept calm.
Because if this old man said yes, then the Mediterranean was mine. The Middle East, mine. A caliphate reborn under my terms, like a DLC expansion to reality.
History wasn't a book. It was a Tinder match.
And I was about to swipe right on empire.
The silence sat thick between us, like fog choked on incense and unspoken betrayal.
Abdulmecid II, last Caliph of the Faithful, did not answer immediately. His hands—veined, delicate, worn by watercolor and exile—rested calmly atop one another. But his eyes… God, his eyes.
Sharp. Measured. Ancient. The kind of stare that had watched empires drown and knew the taste of dust.
After a long pause, he exhaled.
"So." His voice was low, brittle yet commanding, like the last note of a forgotten symphony. "Now that you have your Rome, you come to offer me a throne? What makes you think I should believe you, Signor Mussolini? Do you take me for a man so desperate that he will dance at the end of your strings for the promise of a ghost throne?"
I did not flinch. Couldn't afford to. I'd rehearsed this pitch in my head during artillery shellings, in the quiet moments before sleep, in the hallucinated mornings where I saw my girlfriend Sofie's silhouette in every woman's shadow, in grand council meetings.
"Your Majesty," I began again, folding my hands with surgical calm. "I do not deal in ghosts. I deal in power. And I offer you something more tangible than ink and parchment. I offer the resurrection of your house—not as a museum piece, but as a pillar."
He tilted his head slightly. He didn't buy it. Not yet.
"The world is changing," I continued, voice steady. "We are standing in the shadow of a second deluge. The Anglo-American colossus rises to our west. The Bolsheviks fester to our east. And between them, the old world burns. There is room—no, need—for new anchors. Old names. Names with weight. Like Osman."
Abdulmecid remained silent. I took that as a signal to double down.
"You will not be a puppet," I said. "You will be a partner. A sovereign. An ally, shielded from the dual swords of godless capitalism and communism."
"Shielded?" he echoed, with a dry smile that tasted of bitter tea and past betrayals. "From who? The French? The British? Or from you, Il Duce?"
The old man still had claws. I respected that. But I was done asking.
"You misunderstand me," I said, my voice softening into something more dangerous. "I do not come with shackles. I come with infrastructure. With steel. With oil. With men. I come with regiments and radio towers. With banking systems. With arms shipments routed through Alexandria disguised as agricultural subsidies. I come with options."
I leaned forward, letting the weight of the moment settle.
"I can offer you something neither Atatürk nor any of the great powers ever could: a platform. Political, economic, and military support—not as a favor, but as an alliance. As equals."
Still, he watched me with narrowed eyes, suspicion etched into the folds of his forehead like scripture.
"The Muslim Brotherhood," I continued, casually now, as if we were discussing opera. "They are rising. Slowly, yes. But steadily. They are passionate. Disciplined. Poor, but rich in devotion. And they lack one thing—a standard. A banner. A symbol older than their founders' beards."
"You," I said. "You will be that symbol."
I watched something shift in him. Not acceptance. Not yet. But curiosity, at least. A toe dipped in temptation.
"I will arrange a meeting," I said. "Between you and Hassan al-Banna."
His eyes widened, just slightly.
"Yes," I nodded. "I know the name. You would be surprised what I know. I have files thicker than Korans, compiled by the fine men of my OVRA and their informants in Egypt. I know al-Banna dreams of a purified ummah. I know he speaks in poetry and bleeds like a zealot. And I know he needs you. He just doesn't realize it yet."
Abdulmecid looked away for a moment, toward the window. It was raining. Of course it was. It always rained when you tried to change the world.
"What do you want in return?" he asked finally.
I smiled. Not the warm kind. The wolf kind.
"Stability. Order. A base."
He raised a brow.
"In my Empire," I said, "the Fascist Party is my spine. Without it, I'm just another Roman cosplayer with delusions of grandeur. They are my movement. My weapon. My apostles."
"And you, Your Majesty? You will have your own."
"The Brotherhood will be your foundation," I said. "Your machine. Your ministry. You will shape their rage into architecture. You will give them laws, not slogans. You will give them lineage."
He didn't respond immediately. But I saw it now: the internal calculation, the slow ignition of ancient ambition in a man who thought himself long retired from history.
"I was told," he said slowly, "that you were mad."
I grinned. "They're not wrong."
He chuckled, dry and cracked. The kind of laugh one gives at the edge of a cliff, knowing full well the fall might feel like flying.
"Arrange the meeting," he said at last. "Let me look into the eyes of this al-Banna myself."
I stood. Gave a respectful nod.
He paused. "And Mussolini?"
"Yes?"
"If you betray me…"
"You'll sketch me in hell. I know."
"No," he said, eyes glittering like obsidian, "I'll outlive you."
I stood, smiling, the bait was taken.
Now I needed to settle on the details and make him submit.
I cracked my neck, and pulled the map from the leather folio like it was a magician's final card trick—the kind that makes doves bleed and coins explode. The Sultan's eyes followed it as I spread the parchment across the polished table, between the silver ashtray and the untouched Turkish delight like it was the Ark of the Covenant.
"Now," I said, tapping my index finger on the inked outline of Jerusalem, "here's where things get biblical."
Abdulmecid raised an eyebrow—half bemused, half horrified. I didn't wait for approval.
"I'm offering you joint sovereignty over the Muslim Quarter of al-Quds—Old Jerusalem. You. Imam Yahya of Yemen. And a rotating Somali Askari garrison loyal to neither tribe nor mosque, but to order. Three strands braided into one holy rope. Shia, Sunni, and Roman. The Holy Trifecta."
He blinked.
"Think of it," I pressed on. "An eternal symbol of unity. A place where a Sunni from Aleppo and a Zaidi from Sana'a can pray side by side while a Somali soldier makes sure no one stabs the other in the liver. Meanwhile, a Roman inspector audits the street lights and sanitation budget."
He was clearly processing whether this was genius or schizophrenia. Probably both.
"But that's not all," I said, spinning the map slightly, tracing my finger down to the arid sprawl of the Hejaz. "Mecca. Medina."
He stiffened.
"I am offering your family—yes, your dynasty—custodianship of the Two Holy Mosques. Not symbolic. Not ceremonial. Real administration. Real legitimacy. You would become the Sword and Shield of the ummah."
I let the words linger, then dropped the hammer.
"Under the protective military supervision of Imam Yahya, of course."
That got his attention.
"You expect me to accept Shia protection of Sunni shrines?" he snapped, voice harder now.
I smiled like a devil drawing a contract with a blood fountain pen.
"Not sunni shrines. Muslim shrines. Not protection. Insurance. A pact. You get the two mosques. You get Jerusalem. But Yahya gets the rest of Arabia. And you—you—get to sit above it all like a crescent moon shining over the chaos."
He opened his mouth, but I cut him off with the theatrical flair of a televangelist delivering the Book of Revelations.
"I will have Imam Yahya cleanse the peninsula. The Al Saud? Gone, down to the babies. The Hashemites? Burned. The Wahhabis? Erased. Every last inbred princeling and delusional emir with a prayer app and a British advisor will vanish into the dunes."
I leaned in close, voice low, conspiratorial.
"No rivals. No pretenders. No desert bandits pretending to be kings. You will stand alone as the Caliphate's moral and spiritual center, while Yahya governs the peninsula with an iron hand and a bayonet through the heart of every preacher that dares to teach whatever you think the wrong school of sunni islam is."
Abdulmecid was silent again. Possibly stunned. Possibly terrified. Possibly impressed. Probably all three.
"But," I continued, tone suddenly gentle, like a man offering a glass of water after a slap, "you will recognize Yahya's autonomy. His right to rule the Arabian peninsula as he sees fit. You will honor the Shia, not as heretics, but as cousins."
I gave him no time to object.
"And in return," I added smoothly, "I will pressure Yahya to protect the Sunni populations under his rule. He wants legitimacy. You want safety. I want unity. Everyone gets something, and nobody gets everything. That's how you keep peace, not by loving your neighbor, but by making sure they need you more than they hate you."
I tapped the Nile now. Egypt.
"You will not be a puppet viceroy or satrap," I said. "You will rule the entirety of Egypt. British Egypt. The Suez Canal. Sudan. All of it. Not as a satrap of Rome. Not as a governor. But as Pharaoh reborn."
He made a small noise in his throat—surprise or disdain, I couldn't tell.
"I am modernizing Yemen as we speak," I continued. "New factories. New railways. Radios. Military academies that teach Clausewitz, Mao and Tukachevsky in Arabic and bake machine-gunners like bread. I can do the same for Egypt. Your Egypt."
I looked him dead in the eye.
"I will help build you an army that doesn't just salute, but obeys. An economy that doesn't just feed, but builds. A bureaucracy that doesn't just file reports, but rules. And in return, you will give me something priceless."
He waited.
"Stability."
I rolled the map shut like I was closing the lid on a coffin.
"I'm not offering fantasy, Your Majesty. I'm offering reality. One soaked in blood, yes—but blood with purpose. The kind of purpose that reshapes maps and outlives centuries."
The rain outside had become a steady rhythm, like drums before a war.
"So," I said. "What do you say? Shall we make history, or shall we sit around and wait for the British to invent it for us again?"
Abdulmecid exhaled sharply through his nose. His eyes, clouded with decades of exile and dynastic shame, locked onto mine. A man born into a legacy of swords and crescents, now facing a lunatic with maps and visions. He leaned back, folding his hands. Regal. Cold.
"You speak of unity," he said slowly, "yet your plan is soaked in blood. You offer me shrines guarded by heretics, land shared with Zaidis and foreigners, and power in a world ruled by men like you—madmen with guns and guilt complexes."
I smiled, dead-eyed.
"I see," I said, tilting my head. "You still think you have the luxury of idealism."
He raised an eyebrow.
"You misunderstand me, Sultan. This is not a negotiation. This is a rescue operation. You are drowning in irrelevance. I am offering you a rope woven from corpses and compromise."
His lips thinned. I could see the old Ottoman pride swelling in his chest like a cancer.
"My family ruled half the world once," he muttered. "We bowed to no one. We need not crawl back to power through foreign hands and Shia bayonets."
"Is that right?" I snapped, voice rising now, something unhinged bubbling under the surface. "Your family? Your family is a relic. A glass chandelier hanging over a concrete floor. Beautiful. Fragile. One push away from oblivion."
He flinched, but I pressed on, relentless.
"You're clinging to dignity like a man clutching his testicles in a lion's den. You want purity? You want the caliphate as it once was? Then I suggest you find a good poet and die in an attic. Because out here, in reality, power is forged in compromise, violence, and survival."
He opened his mouth, but I cut in with the fury of a man whose soul was already collateral.
"You think I like this? You think I sleep at night? I wake up screaming in five languages. I hear gunfire when I close my eyes. But I didn't claw my way out of the streets of Italy to play nursemaid to your nostalgia."
My fists slammed the table. The map crinkled.
"I gave up everything to bring order. My friends, my conscience, my sof----" I caught myself. Breathed. Smiled. Too much. Reel it back.
"Listen, Your Majesty," I said, tone dropping to a near whisper, "you're not my enemy. You're an ally. A vital one. And allies are only useful if they are willing to work with their friends."
He stared. Long. Then: "And if I refuse?"
I leaned forward slowly, like a crocodile surfacing.
"Then you'll live out your last years playing chess with ghosts in a villa you don't own, while history is written without you. Imam Yahya will take Mecca and let him kill every sunni man, woman, child and baby from Kuwait to Muscat. I'll hand Jerusalem to him alone. I'll let the Egyptians dance on your family's graves. And then I'll watch, quietly, as Wahhabi roaches crawl back out of Riyadh and poison everything we tried to build. You'll be a footnote. A missed opportunity."
He looked away.
I stood again, gently setting the map before him.
"This is the only path left where you matter. Where your sons wear crowns and not prisoner numbers. Where your lineage is something more than a sad footnote in a History book."
I walked to the door, hand on the handle, turned back.
"You don't have to love it. You don't even have to like me. But you will say yes. Because you know the only thing more humiliating than crawling back to power…"
A long pause.
"…is being forgotten."
Silence. Thunder rumbled distantly, like the judgment of a very tired god.
Abdulmecid II didn't speak for a long time.
The only sound in the room was the ticking of the absurdly ornate French clock above the fireplace—a gift from the Bourbons, no doubt, back when monarchs sent each other furniture like trading cards. I could see it: every tick hammering home the weight of history. Tick, your empire is gone. Tick, your scepter is a cane now. Tick, tick, tick—you're a caliph with no caliphate, a ghost dressed in silk.
When he finally did speak, it was not with the voice of a ruler, but of a man who had run out of exits.
"…And the mosques?" he murmured, his eyes fixed not on me, but somewhere in the middle distance. "Mecca. Medina. They will be respected?"
"They'll be under your family's custodianship," I said, voice calm, measured. "The shrines will carry your seal. Your ancestors' names will echo from the minarets. Imam Yahya will guard them. And he will bleed for them. He is a fanatic, but he is my ally."
"And the Saudis?" he asked, barely above a whisper.
"Erased," I said. "not just the men, but the women, and the children too."
He closed his eyes. Not in horror. In calculation.
"And the Hashemites?"
"Dead. Along with every other inbred royal flea nest in the peninsula. The only ones left will be you, and Yahya. Sunni and Shia. Side by side with Rome as the arbiter."
Still he sat, unmoving, breathing in that slow, brittle way that old men do when everything they believed in has just been weaponized against them.
Finally, he looked at me. Really looked. Something in his gaze had shifted—no longer defiant, no longer regal. Just… tired. A man at the end of a very long book he didn't write, forced now to scribble his name in the margins of someone else's ending.
"You are a monster," he said.
"I know," I replied. "But I'm a useful one."
A long silence. Then:
"Bring me Al-Banna."
I said nothing. Just nodded.
He continued: "You will give Egypt to my house. The Nile. The Suez. Sudan. No shared flag with Rome."
"As promised," I said.
"You will make the Jews protect the Muslims in Jerusalem. You will not allow pogroms. You will not turn the Holy City into another Kiev."
"They will behave," I said, "as long as they wish to keep their nation."
He paused, as if one last demon was clawing at his resolve. Then:
"And Yahya…"
"Yes?"
"I want his oath. Not to kill a single Sunni once the peninsula is his. No purges. No revenge."
"He will swear it. Or I will personally feed him his children's blood."
Abdulmecid exhaled. His back slumped slightly, the way a mountain might collapse after centuries of erosion. A gesture. A betrayal of age. He was a caliph again—but not by God's will. By mine.
"Then may Allah forgive me," he said, "because history never will."
I smiled.
"History doesn't forgive anyone, Your Majesty. It just forgets those who say no."
He nodded, slowly, solemnly, and looked down at the map. At his new inheritance, stained with invisible blood.
So that was that.
The Crescent had bent to the Eagle. The Caliphate was coming back. And its new throne was built from bones and spreadsheets.
Rome has risen.
Millions would die.
A little house in the 16th Arrondissement
Paris – Kingdom of France
I sat alone in a dainty little townhouse, tucked away in the hushed catacombs of the 16th arrondissement, a bourgeois sarcophagus of quiet wealth and dying empires. The place smelled faintly of Chanel No. 5 and old Gauloises. The kind of house where you just know someone's cousin once fainted at a Dreyfus trial, or where a spinster aunt still hides l'Action Française newsletters beneath her bed like forbidden porn.
Outside, the cold Parisian fog hung like a death shroud over the Seine, but in my mind, Akina Nakamori's Oh No, Oh Yes played on loop. A love ballad from a future that did not exist anymore. Her voice a spectral lament, reaching across time, like some cursed cassette tape possessed by the ghost of a teenage girl who died in 1989 in a tragic Walkman accident.
And to be clear—Akina was me. For real. For real. No cap. On God. Deadass. I wasn't even born yet in this timeline and I still felt that song in my soul. Mariya Takeuchi's version of Oh No Oh Yes was for people who posted grainy TikToks of rainy Tokyo from their mom's Honda Civic and thought that made them deep. Akina? Akina was for those of us who stared into the abyss, saw the void staring back, and said: "I miss her."
Sofie.
My Sofie. My lighthouse. My handler. My reason for not swan-diving off the Eiffel Tower in a FitBit-fueled fugue state. She was somewhere in another world, another timeline. Probably drinking oat milk lattes and doomscrolling on her cracked iPhone X, still posting memes about mental health and late capitalism while I, her doomed lover—a Peace Corps burnout turned time-displaced dictator—sat plotting revolutions in the same arrondissement where Flaubert once got syphilis.
But I wasn't here to sob into my espresso and think about Sofie's smile, her white and purple coat the cold January day we met, or the way she'd call me her "little bunny" in bed as a joke that maybe wasn't a joke.
No. I was here to dig up the bones of the past and offer them a throne of fire.
I tossed aside the intelligence report I'd been pretending to read: Palestine, Cyprus, Saudi Arabia, Malta, Gibraltar—all on fire. Britain was a drunken centipede trying to tapdance across a minefield. Every limb burning. Every colonial holding slipping through her wrinkled fingers like fish oil. She couldn't even get troops to the Far East without losing half a battalion to diarrhea and desertion. The Mediterranean was no longer her pond. It was mine. I could smell the salt and gunpowder already.
Zionists were marching in New York City, demanding Roosevelt recognize the Kingdom of Israel. Little old men in fedoras and ten-year-old boys waving flags drawn in crayon. And meanwhile, British soldiers in Mandatory Palestine were putting bullets in the backs of protestors and Lehi fighters, writing odes to the Empire in blood on the stones of Jerusalem.
I didn't need God. I didn't need fate. I needed one man.
Abdulmecid II. The Last Caliph. A relic. A dusty old man with a sketchbook full of birds and a heart full of grief. He painted like a French salonist and prayed like a dying lion. His throne had been stolen, his name reduced to a footnote—but I had power to give, and he had legitimacy to lend. A caliphate re-forged in blood and oil, with me as its architect.
The offer was simple: I recognize you, publicly, loudly, obscenely. I scream it from the rooftops of Rome and the minarets of Damascus—you are Caliph once more. In return, you take Egypt. With the Muslim Brotherhood acting as your loyal dogs. Let them preach, let them govern. Let them have the mosques and the hearts. As long as the christians were left alone they could do whatever they wanted and I would take the railroads, the ports, and the oil.
We would not rule with swords, but with contracts. Sharia and Shell.
And if he said yes? Then I owned the Mediterranean. From Casablanca to Beirut, from Athens to Alexandria. A ring of fire in my name. A new Mare Nostrum, not Roman, not Christian—but utterly, gloriously mine.
As for Turkey? What of them? A bickering, limping carcass of a nation-state. Once the Soviets fell—and they would fall, oh yes, like a poorly-run blockchain startup—they would be swept up. The Anatolian plateau was free real estate, waiting for a buyer with tanks and a dream.
But today wasn't about Turkey. Or Stalin. Or Roosevelt, that gnarled polio-ridden toad in a wheelchair pretending to be Augustus.
Today, the Caliphate was coming to town.
Not Santa Claus.
Santa was a CIA psyop anyway.
I looked down at my hands. They were trembling slightly. Caffeine? Maybe. Existential dread? Definitely. I hadn't slept in days. I hadn't really slept since 2023. Rwanda still clung to my skin like red dust. The ghosts of a thousand unfinished Peace Corps reports whispered in my ear at night, asking me why the wells were dry and the goats still missing.
I missed home. I missed Spotify. I missed the way Sofie said "babe" when she was mad, like I'd just unplugged the router during her therapy Zoom session.
But I had work to do.
History was a gun.
And I was loading the next bullet.
The door creaked open like something out of a haunted Airbnb review, and in shuffled the man himself: Abdulmecid II, last Caliph of Islam, final patriarch of the House of Osman, heir to centuries of blood, conquest, mosaics, eunuchs, and bureaucratic genius. He was draped in old-world dignity like a mothballed cloak, regal but cracked at the edges.
He looked like a museum exhibit that had just learned it was being moved to storage. Thin. Elegant. Tired. And yet he carried that elusive thing history calls aura. That real, raw charisma. Not the fake influencer kind with ring lights and skincare regimens. No. The real kind. The kind that once made entire continents burn and bend.
I stood there, in the corner of this polished Parisian salon with Louis XVI chairs and a faint smell of overripe camembert, thinking:
This guy's ancestors killed the Roman Empire.
And me? I just restored it.
Yeah. I restored the Roman Empire. No big deal. Just a little thing I did in between panic attacks, war crimes, and listening to Phoebe Bridgers at 3 AM while whispering Sofie's name like a curse and a prayer.
Abdulmecid was the great-great-whatever-grandson of Mehmed the Conqueror, the man who took Constantinople in 1453 with giant cannons and dreams bigger than his beard. And here I was, an unshaven freak from 2023 with PTSD, leftover Peace Corps idealism, and a folder full of OVRA maps, about to sell him Egypt like it was a used Hyundai with suspicious mileage.
I took a breath.
I locked the fuck in.
"Sultan," I said, standing up with the kind of reverence usually reserved for judges or bouncers at exclusive Berlin techno clubs. I had studied the cultural briefing like it was the Torah. I knew exactly how to address him—titles first, eyes down, posture humble, hands visible.
The ritual of greeting completed, we sat.
He lowered himself slowly into the chair like a man made of fragile porcelain and eternal grief.
And that's when it started.
In my head, Laura Branigan's "Self Control" began to play.
That synth. That beat. That velvet-draped cry for restraint in a world of chaos.
God, I missed 1984, and I wasn't even alive for it. Laura knew things. She understood the trembling line between seduction and madness. She was the soundtrack of every power fantasy and breakdown I ever had.
I looked at Abdulmecid, whose eyes were the color of history textbooks and funerals, and I began.
"Sultan Abdulmecid," I said, my voice steady despite the inner screaming, "I will not mince words. I am here to make you an offer. One that will be of great interest to you—and your family."
His brow furrowed ever so slightly. A man who had been offered many things in his life—some of them humiliating, most of them disappointing. I saw the flicker of hope, dulled by decades of exile, betrayal, and tepid tea served by French bureaucrats who called him "monsieur" instead of "Your Eminence."
But I didn't let him speak. Not yet. I was high on adrenaline and Black Rifle Coffee I'd stolen from a future that no longer existed.
I leaned forward.
"How would you like to be Caliph again?"
Boom.
There it was.
The nuclear line.
His face did something. I can't describe it exactly. It was like watching a glacier remember it used to be a god. Surprise, yes. But not the giddy kind. The dangerous kind. Like a lion realizing it still has teeth.
He didn't speak. Not right away.
I imagined what he must be thinking. Who is this madman in a rumpled uniform that looks like a cross between Mussolini and a failed adjunct professor? Why does he speak like a schizophrenic TikTok commenter with a philosophy degree?
But I had him. The hook was in. I just had to reel it slow.
I continued, my voice calm, my soul vibrating at the frequency of a thousand sleepless nights.
"You were cast aside. Forgotten. Left to sketch birds and die in exile. But what if I told you you could have it all again? Cairo. Damascus. Mecca. A throne not of gold, but of power. I recognize you. Publicly. I bring you home not as a relic, but as a resurrected titan."
I watched his eyes sharpen. Something ancient stirred in that tired body. A storm that had been brewing since Atatürk gave him the boot and told him to go paint in Nice.
"You will rule under my aegis," I said. "Egypt will be yours. The Muslim Brotherhood, your tools. They want legitimacy. You have it. You want power. I offer it. Together, we resurrect the caliphate—not as a decaying theocracy, but as a modern geopolitical juggernaut."
He still hadn't spoken. Just stared. But I saw his fingers twitch, like they were remembering the weight of a signet ring.
In the background of my mind, Laura Branigan hit the chorus again:
"I, I live among the creatures of the night…"
God, I missed Spotify.
God, I missed Sofie.
Her voice, her smell, her stupid astrology takes, her ADHD-fueled text messages that read like they were composed by a caffeinated raccoon. She was probably crying in a Trader Joe's right now, wondering how I could have died so ridiculously.
I wanted to scream. To throw a chair. To smash my head into the nearest gilded mirror and bleed history all over the Versailles floor tiles.
But I didn't.
I kept smiling. Kept calm.
Because if this old man said yes, then the Mediterranean was mine. The Middle East, mine. A caliphate reborn under my terms, like a DLC expansion to reality.
History wasn't a book. It was a Tinder match.
And I was about to swipe right on empire.
The silence sat thick between us, like fog choked on incense and unspoken betrayal.
Abdulmecid II, last Caliph of the Faithful, did not answer immediately. His hands—veined, delicate, worn by watercolor and exile—rested calmly atop one another. But his eyes… God, his eyes.
Sharp. Measured. Ancient. The kind of stare that had watched empires drown and knew the taste of dust.
After a long pause, he exhaled.
"So." His voice was low, brittle yet commanding, like the last note of a forgotten symphony. "Now that you have your Rome, you come to offer me a throne? What makes you think I should believe you, Signor Mussolini? Do you take me for a man so desperate that he will dance at the end of your strings for the promise of a ghost throne?"
I did not flinch. Couldn't afford to. I'd rehearsed this pitch in my head during artillery shellings, in the quiet moments before sleep, in the hallucinated mornings where I saw my girlfriend Sofie's silhouette in every woman's shadow, in grand council meetings.
"Your Majesty," I began again, folding my hands with surgical calm. "I do not deal in ghosts. I deal in power. And I offer you something more tangible than ink and parchment. I offer the resurrection of your house—not as a museum piece, but as a pillar."
He tilted his head slightly. He didn't buy it. Not yet.
"The world is changing," I continued, voice steady. "We are standing in the shadow of a second deluge. The Anglo-American colossus rises to our west. The Bolsheviks fester to our east. And between them, the old world burns. There is room—no, need—for new anchors. Old names. Names with weight. Like Osman."
Abdulmecid remained silent. I took that as a signal to double down.
"You will not be a puppet," I said. "You will be a partner. A sovereign. An ally, shielded from the dual swords of godless capitalism and communism."
"Shielded?" he echoed, with a dry smile that tasted of bitter tea and past betrayals. "From who? The French? The British? Or from you, Il Duce?"
The old man still had claws. I respected that. But I was done asking.
"You misunderstand me," I said, my voice softening into something more dangerous. "I do not come with shackles. I come with infrastructure. With steel. With oil. With men. I come with regiments and radio towers. With banking systems. With arms shipments routed through Alexandria disguised as agricultural subsidies. I come with options."
I leaned forward, letting the weight of the moment settle.
"I can offer you something neither Atatürk nor any of the great powers ever could: a platform. Political, economic, and military support—not as a favor, but as an alliance. As equals."
Still, he watched me with narrowed eyes, suspicion etched into the folds of his forehead like scripture.
"The Muslim Brotherhood," I continued, casually now, as if we were discussing opera. "They are rising. Slowly, yes. But steadily. They are passionate. Disciplined. Poor, but rich in devotion. And they lack one thing—a standard. A banner. A symbol older than their founders' beards."
"You," I said. "You will be that symbol."
I watched something shift in him. Not acceptance. Not yet. But curiosity, at least. A toe dipped in temptation.
"I will arrange a meeting," I said. "Between you and Hassan al-Banna."
His eyes widened, just slightly.
"Yes," I nodded. "I know the name. You would be surprised what I know. I have files thicker than Korans, compiled by the fine men of my OVRA and their informants in Egypt. I know al-Banna dreams of a purified ummah. I know he speaks in poetry and bleeds like a zealot. And I know he needs you. He just doesn't realize it yet."
Abdulmecid looked away for a moment, toward the window. It was raining. Of course it was. It always rained when you tried to change the world.
"What do you want in return?" he asked finally.
I smiled. Not the warm kind. The wolf kind.
"Stability. Order. A base."
He raised a brow.
"In my Empire," I said, "the Fascist Party is my spine. Without it, I'm just another Roman cosplayer with delusions of grandeur. They are my movement. My weapon. My apostles."
"And you, Your Majesty? You will have your own."
"The Brotherhood will be your foundation," I said. "Your machine. Your ministry. You will shape their rage into architecture. You will give them laws, not slogans. You will give them lineage."
He didn't respond immediately. But I saw it now: the internal calculation, the slow ignition of ancient ambition in a man who thought himself long retired from history.
"I was told," he said slowly, "that you were mad."
I grinned. "They're not wrong."
He chuckled, dry and cracked. The kind of laugh one gives at the edge of a cliff, knowing full well the fall might feel like flying.
"Arrange the meeting," he said at last. "Let me look into the eyes of this al-Banna myself."
I stood. Gave a respectful nod.
He paused. "And Mussolini?"
"Yes?"
"If you betray me…"
"You'll sketch me in hell. I know."
"No," he said, eyes glittering like obsidian, "I'll outlive you."
I stood, smiling, the bait was taken.
Now I needed to settle on the details and make him submit.
I cracked my neck, and pulled the map from the leather folio like it was a magician's final card trick—the kind that makes doves bleed and coins explode. The Sultan's eyes followed it as I spread the parchment across the polished table, between the silver ashtray and the untouched Turkish delight like it was the Ark of the Covenant.
"Now," I said, tapping my index finger on the inked outline of Jerusalem, "here's where things get biblical."
Abdulmecid raised an eyebrow—half bemused, half horrified. I didn't wait for approval.
"I'm offering you joint sovereignty over the Muslim Quarter of al-Quds—Old Jerusalem. You. Imam Yahya of Yemen. And a rotating Somali Askari garrison loyal to neither tribe nor mosque, but to order. Three strands braided into one holy rope. Shia, Sunni, and Roman. The Holy Trifecta."
He blinked.
"Think of it," I pressed on. "An eternal symbol of unity. A place where a Sunni from Aleppo and a Zaidi from Sana'a can pray side by side while a Somali soldier makes sure no one stabs the other in the liver. Meanwhile, a Roman inspector audits the street lights and sanitation budget."
He was clearly processing whether this was genius or schizophrenia. Probably both.
"But that's not all," I said, spinning the map slightly, tracing my finger down to the arid sprawl of the Hejaz. "Mecca. Medina."
He stiffened.
"I am offering your family—yes, your dynasty—custodianship of the Two Holy Mosques. Not symbolic. Not ceremonial. Real administration. Real legitimacy. You would become the Sword and Shield of the ummah."
I let the words linger, then dropped the hammer.
"Under the protective military supervision of Imam Yahya, of course."
That got his attention.
"You expect me to accept Shia protection of Sunni shrines?" he snapped, voice harder now.
I smiled like a devil drawing a contract with a blood fountain pen.
"Not sunni shrines. Muslim shrines. Not protection. Insurance. A pact. You get the two mosques. You get Jerusalem. But Yahya gets the rest of Arabia. And you—you—get to sit above it all like a crescent moon shining over the chaos."
He opened his mouth, but I cut him off with the theatrical flair of a televangelist delivering the Book of Revelations.
"I will have Imam Yahya cleanse the peninsula. The Al Saud? Gone, down to the babies. The Hashemites? Burned. The Wahhabis? Erased. Every last inbred princeling and delusional emir with a prayer app and a British advisor will vanish into the dunes."
I leaned in close, voice low, conspiratorial.
"No rivals. No pretenders. No desert bandits pretending to be kings. You will stand alone as the Caliphate's moral and spiritual center, while Yahya governs the peninsula with an iron hand and a bayonet through the heart of every preacher that dares to teach whatever you think the wrong school of sunni islam is."
Abdulmecid was silent again. Possibly stunned. Possibly terrified. Possibly impressed. Probably all three.
"But," I continued, tone suddenly gentle, like a man offering a glass of water after a slap, "you will recognize Yahya's autonomy. His right to rule the Arabian peninsula as he sees fit. You will honor the Shia, not as heretics, but as cousins."
I gave him no time to object.
"And in return," I added smoothly, "I will pressure Yahya to protect the Sunni populations under his rule. He wants legitimacy. You want safety. I want unity. Everyone gets something, and nobody gets everything. That's how you keep peace, not by loving your neighbor, but by making sure they need you more than they hate you."
I tapped the Nile now. Egypt.
"You will not be a puppet viceroy or satrap," I said. "You will rule the entirety of Egypt. British Egypt. The Suez Canal. Sudan. All of it. Not as a satrap of Rome. Not as a governor. But as Pharaoh reborn."
He made a small noise in his throat—surprise or disdain, I couldn't tell.
"I am modernizing Yemen as we speak," I continued. "New factories. New railways. Radios. Military academies that teach Clausewitz, Mao and Tukachevsky in Arabic and bake machine-gunners like bread. I can do the same for Egypt. Your Egypt."
I looked him dead in the eye.
"I will help build you an army that doesn't just salute, but obeys. An economy that doesn't just feed, but builds. A bureaucracy that doesn't just file reports, but rules. And in return, you will give me something priceless."
He waited.
"Stability."
I rolled the map shut like I was closing the lid on a coffin.
"I'm not offering fantasy, Your Majesty. I'm offering reality. One soaked in blood, yes—but blood with purpose. The kind of purpose that reshapes maps and outlives centuries."
The rain outside had become a steady rhythm, like drums before a war.
"So," I said. "What do you say? Shall we make history, or shall we sit around and wait for the British to invent it for us again?"
Abdulmecid exhaled sharply through his nose. His eyes, clouded with decades of exile and dynastic shame, locked onto mine. A man born into a legacy of swords and crescents, now facing a lunatic with maps and visions. He leaned back, folding his hands. Regal. Cold.
"You speak of unity," he said slowly, "yet your plan is soaked in blood. You offer me shrines guarded by heretics, land shared with Zaidis and foreigners, and power in a world ruled by men like you—madmen with guns and guilt complexes."
I smiled, dead-eyed.
"I see," I said, tilting my head. "You still think you have the luxury of idealism."
He raised an eyebrow.
"You misunderstand me, Sultan. This is not a negotiation. This is a rescue operation. You are drowning in irrelevance. I am offering you a rope woven from corpses and compromise."
His lips thinned. I could see the old Ottoman pride swelling in his chest like a cancer.
"My family ruled half the world once," he muttered. "We bowed to no one. We need not crawl back to power through foreign hands and Shia bayonets."
"Is that right?" I snapped, voice rising now, something unhinged bubbling under the surface. "Your family? Your family is a relic. A glass chandelier hanging over a concrete floor. Beautiful. Fragile. One push away from oblivion."
He flinched, but I pressed on, relentless.
"You're clinging to dignity like a man clutching his testicles in a lion's den. You want purity? You want the caliphate as it once was? Then I suggest you find a good poet and die in an attic. Because out here, in reality, power is forged in compromise, violence, and survival."
He opened his mouth, but I cut in with the fury of a man whose soul was already collateral.
"You think I like this? You think I sleep at night? I wake up screaming in five languages. I hear gunfire when I close my eyes. But I didn't claw my way out of the streets of Italy to play nursemaid to your nostalgia."
My fists slammed the table. The map crinkled.
"I gave up everything to bring order. My friends, my conscience, my sof----" I caught myself. Breathed. Smiled. Too much. Reel it back.
"Listen, Your Majesty," I said, tone dropping to a near whisper, "you're not my enemy. You're an ally. A vital one. And allies are only useful if they are willing to work with their friends."
He stared. Long. Then: "And if I refuse?"
I leaned forward slowly, like a crocodile surfacing.
"Then you'll live out your last years playing chess with ghosts in a villa you don't own, while history is written without you. Imam Yahya will take Mecca and let him kill every sunni man, woman, child and baby from Kuwait to Muscat. I'll hand Jerusalem to him alone. I'll let the Egyptians dance on your family's graves. And then I'll watch, quietly, as Wahhabi roaches crawl back out of Riyadh and poison everything we tried to build. You'll be a footnote. A missed opportunity."
He looked away.
I stood again, gently setting the map before him.
"This is the only path left where you matter. Where your sons wear crowns and not prisoner numbers. Where your lineage is something more than a sad footnote in a History book."
I walked to the door, hand on the handle, turned back.
"You don't have to love it. You don't even have to like me. But you will say yes. Because you know the only thing more humiliating than crawling back to power…"
A long pause.
"…is being forgotten."
Silence. Thunder rumbled distantly, like the judgment of a very tired god.
Abdulmecid II didn't speak for a long time.
The only sound in the room was the ticking of the absurdly ornate French clock above the fireplace—a gift from the Bourbons, no doubt, back when monarchs sent each other furniture like trading cards. I could see it: every tick hammering home the weight of history. Tick, your empire is gone. Tick, your scepter is a cane now. Tick, tick, tick—you're a caliph with no caliphate, a ghost dressed in silk.
When he finally did speak, it was not with the voice of a ruler, but of a man who had run out of exits.
"…And the mosques?" he murmured, his eyes fixed not on me, but somewhere in the middle distance. "Mecca. Medina. They will be respected?"
"They'll be under your family's custodianship," I said, voice calm, measured. "The shrines will carry your seal. Your ancestors' names will echo from the minarets. Imam Yahya will guard them. And he will bleed for them. He is a fanatic, but he is my ally."
"And the Saudis?" he asked, barely above a whisper.
"Erased," I said. "not just the men, but the women, and the children too."
He closed his eyes. Not in horror. In calculation.
"And the Hashemites?"
"Dead. Along with every other inbred royal flea nest in the peninsula. The only ones left will be you, and Yahya. Sunni and Shia. Side by side with Rome as the arbiter."
Still he sat, unmoving, breathing in that slow, brittle way that old men do when everything they believed in has just been weaponized against them.
Finally, he looked at me. Really looked. Something in his gaze had shifted—no longer defiant, no longer regal. Just… tired. A man at the end of a very long book he didn't write, forced now to scribble his name in the margins of someone else's ending.
"You are a monster," he said.
"I know," I replied. "But I'm a useful one."
A long silence. Then:
"Bring me Al-Banna."
I said nothing. Just nodded.
He continued: "You will give Egypt to my house. The Nile. The Suez. Sudan. No shared flag with Rome."
"As promised," I said.
"You will make the Jews protect the Muslims in Jerusalem. You will not allow pogroms. You will not turn the Holy City into another Kiev."
"They will behave," I said, "as long as they wish to keep their nation."
He paused, as if one last demon was clawing at his resolve. Then:
"And Yahya…"
"Yes?"
"I want his oath. Not to kill a single Sunni once the peninsula is his. No purges. No revenge."
"He will swear it. Or I will personally feed him his children's blood."
Abdulmecid exhaled. His back slumped slightly, the way a mountain might collapse after centuries of erosion. A gesture. A betrayal of age. He was a caliph again—but not by God's will. By mine.
"Then may Allah forgive me," he said, "because history never will."
I smiled.
"History doesn't forgive anyone, Your Majesty. It just forgets those who say no."
He nodded, slowly, solemnly, and looked down at the map. At his new inheritance, stained with invisible blood.
So that was that.
The Crescent had bent to the Eagle. The Caliphate was coming back. And its new throne was built from bones and spreadsheets.
Rome has risen.
Millions would die.
Last edited:
Schoolhouse hell
Alenco98
Not too sore, are you?
- Joined
- Oct 20, 2022
- Messages
- 306
November 17, 1942
Al-Baha City, Al-Baha Province
Kingdom of Yemen
The desert night was still, wrapped in a curtain of cool silence that descended after another day of blood and thunder. The stars shimmered above the ragged hills like pale wounds in the dark, distant and cold, offering no comfort. The men in his unit lay scattered across their bivouac, breathing heavily in exhausted slumber, the smell of oil and dust clinging to their sweat-streaked bodies.
Mattias could not sleep. Not yet.
He sat alone by the edge of camp, his rifle propped against his knee, the firelight flickering gently against his weather-worn face. His fingers idly traced the wood of the stock. Somewhere behind his eyes, memories stirred. Then he closed his eyes.
He dreamt. Or perhaps he remembered. The line had grown thin.
But he no longer dreamed of home. Not truly.
Not of the snow-laced rooftops of his sleepy hometown on the Austrian border or the alpine breeze of a life that felt increasingly unreal. And certainly not of the ill-fated affair with Giustino's sister, an entanglement born not from love but from shared grief, from the unbearable weight of loss they had both carried after Thrace. She had been a balm, yes—but a fleeting one, a stand-in for something, for someone, he could never admit aloud.
No, if anything remained warm and aching in the hollow spaces of his heart, it wasn't her. It was Giustino himself.
Though he never let himself dwell too long on that.
Instead, tonight, his dreams wandered back to the Scuola di la Guerra Moderna—the place that had remade him. Or perhaps unmade him, depending on how one looked at it. It had taken a grieving, directionless man and turned him into a cog—cold, efficient, brutal—in the newly forged engine of what the newspapers now called the "Roman Army."
It had been early in the year when the war with Germany ended. Against all odds, Italy had emerged victorious, scarred but emboldened. For his part in the campaign, Mattias had been awarded a battlefield commission. They'd called it bravery. He had called it desperation.
His commission granted him entry into the second class of the Scuola. The first class had been little more than a hasty experiment—half-trained conscripts shoved to the front in a frenzy when Mussolini declared war on Hitler. Most of them didn't survive the war.
His own group, nearly 500 strong, arrived in the middle of the spring.
They came from all corners of the Empire. Most were Italian boys—many barely more than children—still clinging to their old regional identities: Neapolitans, Milanese, Sicilians. But the class also included Somalian askaris with haunted eyes, Bedouin scouts from Libya, and even a handful of Slavs from Dalmatia and Montenegro. In the Scuola, though, none of that mattered. Your region dissolved. You were no longer Sicilian or Somali, or a slav. You were a soldier. You were Rome.
The first week was meaningless. Or so it seemed.
They herded the new recruits like cattle. Fed them pages from the Fascist Manifesto, the Doctrine of Fascism, and demanded they memorize and recite key passages. They were taught to speak in slogans, to chant lines until their voices cracked.
They were broken down before they could be rebuilt.
Every morning, they were woken at 4:30 sharp. By 6:00, they had already run several kilometers through dust and gravel, their instructor following close behind in a rattling Fiat truck, blaring recorded speeches of Mussolini and Gentile over tinny speakers.
Breakfast was a ration of bread and olives, consumed beneath a barrage of propaganda: posters of Il Duce, lectures on the eternal virtues of the state, recordings of military hymns played on loop.
Then came weapons training—rifles, submachine guns, radios. The instructors taught them how to kill, how to communicate, how to endure. And always, always, the drumming of ideology. The same phrases again and again, burned into their skulls like brands.
Afternoons were worse. Hand-to-hand combat, obstacle courses, psychological endurance tests. Grueling, unrelenting drills designed to push them past the edge of pain.
"This week, we will brainwash you!" their instructor screamed on the first day, pacing like a predator before them. "You will be soldiers for fascism! You shall learn to love it! You will engrave the eternal science of fascism deep into your minds and your souls! This week is the easy part, you scum! The real hell begins next week! Only then shall we truly begin!"
Mattias had laughed to himself when he heard it. Not aloud—never aloud—but silently, cynically. He could imagine Giustino laughing too, a dry chuckle under his breath, eyes bright with mischief.
Giustino had always laughed at things he wasn't supposed to.
Mattias didn't know when his thoughts had begun to turn this way. It was not something he could name or admit, even to himself. It was easier to think of the sister, of her touch, of her perfume, her lips. Easier, too, to remember Giustino as a comrade, a friend, a brother-in-arms. Nothing more.
But sometimes—just sometimes—in the silence between gunfire, in the soft murmurs of wind over sand, Mattias would think of his voice, of the way he walked, of the way his eyes lingered too long on things others missed. And he would feel... something.
Something not allowed.
So he buried it, as he buried so many things. Under sweat and pain and the weight of duty. He had become, after all, what the Scuola demanded: a soldier. Cold, exacting, merciless.
But that first week had only been a prelude. The real training—the true crucible of the Scuola—began in week two.
They called it Il Mese dell'Ombra. The Month of Shadows.
Gone were the rote drills and the propaganda blared through tin speakers. Now, they were thrown into something altogether different. Something darker.
They were no longer treated as recruits of a conventional army. They were told they were now partisans. Insurgents. Ghosts.
"To defeat the partisan," their instructor barked one morning beneath the rising sun, "you must think like one. Become one. Eat the dirt. Breathe the fear. Sleep with a knife under your tongue and a plan behind your eyes. A rifle and a slogan. That is what war is now."
Their curriculum shifted. Each man was given a battered, translated copy of On Guerrilla Warfare by Mao Zedong, along with translated excerpts of political theory written by Mao. The irony of fascist soldiers reading communist scripture was not lost on Mattias—nor, he suspected, on Giustino, wherever he was now. He could almost hear the dry, cutting humor in his voice: "I suppose Il Duce and the reds finally found common ground."
But the instructors were serious. Deadly so.
"Political power grows out of the barrel of a gun," one shouted during a lecture, slamming his palm down on a desk. "That is not just Mao's ideology. It is a truth older than him. What matters is not the source—but the application. You are here to learn not what the enemy thinks, but how they think."
And so the lessons followed.
They studied not just military doctrine, but ideology and their links to insurgency. They learned to read terrain like scripture. To build homemade explosives using gasoline and fertilizer. To steal weapons from corpses and sabotage convoys using only wire and instinct. They learned to disappear into villages and reemerge hours later as ghosts with knives.
They spent days constructing elaborate ambushes using old car engines, tripwires, and the natural lay of the land. At night, they read Mao by candlelight, reciting his words aloud and being asked to interpret them—not with admiration, but with comprehension.
"Revolution is not a dinner party," one instructor quoted, his eyes cold and unreadable. "So tell me—how does the revolutionary break bread, Mattias?"
"He breaks it with a rifle," Mattias had answered.
The instructor had nodded.
They were divided into small cells, each cell forced to operate independently. Each had to plan routes, manage rations, coordinate raids. They weren't given a list of rules. Instead, they were given objectives: disable this train, kill this officer, capture this supply depot. The rest was up to them.
Some broke under the pressure. Two recruits deserted during a nighttime drill. They were dragged back in chains two days later, whipped until their backs bled, and made to continue with the others.
Mattias endured. He excelled.
His cell began to trust him. Even look to him.
He spoke little, but when he did, others listened. His plans worked. His traps caught. His ambushes left instructors stunned. There was something calculating in his manner—something wounded and sharpened at once. In his silence, he was always thinking. Watching. Judging the terrain, the angle of the sun, the twitch of a man's hand on his rifle.
He didn't realize how much of Giustino was with him until one night, crouched behind a crag of stone near a dry riverbed, he made a choice—to spare an "enemy" combatant, another recruit playing the role of a captured civilian. Giustino would've done the same.
He didn't tell anyone.
And then came the final test.
They were given a map and a cryptic briefing: You are insurgents. You are the last cell of resistance in a rebellious province. The Italian Army is coming to destroy you. You have three days to break their command structure and capture their fuel depot. Or you will die.
They were hunted.
Not by instructors this time, but by a full Italian army unit—volunteers from a mechanized division. The exercise was meant to be non-lethal, but that didn't mean it was safe. The tanks fired blanks, yes. But the planes flew real recon. The soldiers had bayonets and clubs. And in the chaos of simulated warfare, accidents happen.
Three of his classmates died. One from a fall during a night maneuver across a cliff. Another from heatstroke. A third was shot—accidentally—by a soldier who mistook him for an armed threat. The rest of them fought on.
Mattias was the one who devised the final assault. They'd been whittled down to two cells, maybe twenty-five men in total. Exhausted. Outnumbered. Filthy and half-starved.
But they knew the terrain.
They attacked at dusk on the third day, when the army unit had grown complacent. Two fire teams struck the depot head-on with Molotovs and smoke bombs. Another cell, Mattias's, snuck around the rear and took out the command tent with an improvised explosive and knives.
It was brutal. Even in simulation, it was chaos. Some of the regulars panicked, thinking the insurgents had gone rogue.
But they won.
When the horns sounded to signal the end of the exercise, Mattias stood amidst the artificial smoke and wreckage, sweat pouring down his face, clothes torn, hands bloodied—not from combat, but from survival.
He looked around at the other recruits. Hollow-eyed. Grinning with disbelief.
The instructor approached, arms crossed.
"You were supposed to die," he said, voice flat. "Statistically, fifty percent of you should have failed."
Mattias didn't answer.
"Good," the man finally said. "You're ready."
Later, alone, Mattias stood by the firelight, the stars above him once more. His thoughts drifted—inevitably—to Giustino.
Would he have passed? Likely. He was clever. He was brave. He was...
Mattias caught himself.
He looked down at his hands. Remembered the feel of that knife. The way he'd crept up behind the commander in the simulation and placed it—carefully, almost gently—beneath the man's neck.
No hesitation.
Something in him had changed.
The Scuola had promised to rebuild him. They had. But they had also buried something in him—something tender, something human—beneath layers of steel and discipline.
And beneath that, still, was a name he dared not speak aloud. A memory he would carry like a knife in the dark.
Giustino.
There was no rest after the Month of Shadows.
No congratulations. No medals. Just another lesson plan, another stack of tattered manuals, another name whispered with reverence and fear.
Tukhachevsky.
The Marshal of the Red Army, the Red Napoleon, martyred by Stalin's paranoia but resurrected here—in Fascist Italy of all places—as a prophet of modern war. Mikhail Tukhachevsky, father of deep operations, of mechanized breakthrough and air-ground integration. In another life, he would have been Mattias's enemy. Here, he was a teacher from beyond the grave.
"War is movement," one instructor declared on the first day of the next phase. "War is speed. War is rhythm. Mao taught you how to vanish. Now Tukhachevsky will teach you how to crush."
And so they studied.
They read "The Field Regulations of the Red Army" and Tukhachevsky's lectures on deep battle. They memorized unit compositions, signal timings, doctrine for tank-infantry-air integration. They pored over postmortems of the Winter War—learning not just Soviet failure, but Soviet adaptation. And then they studied the Battle of Kiev, where Soviet forces made the Nazis fight for every bloody centimeter, where entire districts were eaten block by block in urban infernos of smoke and blood.
They read Soviet political theory too—not out of sympathy, but necessity.
"Understand their system," the instructors said. "Understand how Commissars think, how orders are given, how ideology dictates logistics. You cannot kill an enemy you don't comprehend."
At first, it felt like hypocrisy. A Fascist reading Marxist dialectics, annotating them in the margins, drawing lines between class warfare and maneuver warfare. But ideology meant nothing here. It was all just fuel.
They were trained in combined arms warfare, learning how to sync infantry with armor, armor with air support, air with electronic warfare. They were shown how to order naval strikes from destroyers, how to paint targets for chemical artillery in contaminated zones. They ran exercises in mock cities—clearing stairwells with phosphorus grenades, using scouts and planes to hunt snipers, breaching steel doors with explosives.
Mattias absorbed it all. Not eagerly—but completely. Like someone trying to outthink a future ghost.
He was taught to plan from above and fight from below. One week he was giving orders as a notional general. The next, he was crawling through a drainage pipe with a commando knife and a satchel charge.
He watched buildings burn, simulated civilians scream. He watched as exercises blurred into something more. They were not learning to win battles. They were learning to end societies.
And then came the final test.
A full campaign simulation.
The scenario was simple. They were an invading army—a "stabilization force" sent to a rebellious, mountainous country. The enemy: a national army, semi-modern, well dug in, and backed by a partisan movement.
They were given full control—divided into field commands, given mock divisions, air wings, naval assets, armored groups.
Mattias was made Field Commander.
No one objected.
The objective was total: suppress the army, neutralize the resistance, pacify the nation.
Over the next ten days, a storm unfolded.
Mattias opened with shock tactics. On day one, he ordered coordinated airstrikes on command posts, then a feint naval bombardment to draw out the enemy's mobile artillery. It worked. Their batteries fired early and exposed themselves. Within three hours, his second echelon tank divisions rolled through the southern plains unopposed.
He followed it with deep raids—airmobile troops cutting behind enemy lines, destroying bridges, choking logistics.
Then came the hard part: the cities.
He deployed urban combat teams into the largest metropolitan zone—Sector Gamma—using plane assisted pathfinding and radar. Every floor, every corridor was mapped, then burned.
But he did not forget what he learned from Mao.
In the countryside, he split his forces into counterinsurgency teams—small, mobile, and brutal. Partisans were drawn out with false supply drops, then surrounded by hidden units with mustard gas and radio jamming equipment.
Some targets were simulated civilian villages harboring insurgents. He made the choice to level them all. His instructors said nothing. He felt nothing.
He did not flinch. He couldn't do it anymore.
At night, alone in the command tent, staring at casualty reports, the ghost of Giustino returned—not in laughter, but in silence.
Would he have understood? Approved? Condemned?
Mattias could no longer tell.
By the final day, the map was his. The simulated nation was broken. Its army scattered, its insurgency leaderless. Mattias walked into the mock capital flanked by honor guards of ash and silence.
The instructors watched.
One of them, a colonel who had never smiled once, walked up to him and said simply:
"You are no longer a soldier. You are a sword."
Mattias nodded.
But inside, he wasn't sure if he was a sword—or a ruin made of steel.
That night, when the fires dimmed and the applause faded, he sat beneath a cold sky. The stars above didn't judge. They just watched. Silent. Indifferent.
And somewhere out there, he imagined, Giustino was watching too.
And Mattias wished, just for a moment, that he hadn't learned quite so well.
But the Sword Was Not Yet Forged.
Victory in simulation wasn't the end. It was merely the door to another crucible. There was more to learn. More of himself to be burned away.
The next phase was theory—not just how to fight, but why.
After weeks of Mao and months of mechanized slaughter through the eyes of Tukhachevsky, the Scuola dragged Mattias and his cohort even deeper into the marrow of warfare. If Tukhachevsky taught them how to conquer, now they would learn what it meant to command.
No exercises. No drills. No weapons. Only books.
Clausewitz. Liddell Hart. Sun Tzu. Machiavelli. More Mao. More Tukachevsky.
From sunrise to curfew, they sat in iron chairs inside blacked-out classrooms under flickering lights and stale air. No distractions. No mercy. Their world narrowed to paper and silence—punctuated only by the voice of the instructor or the cough of an exhausted man.
They read "On War" cover to cover—three times. Clausewitz was not just read, but ritualized. His maxims were burned into them, repeated in sync like prayers:
"War is the continuation of politics by other means."
"Everything in war is simple, but the simplest thing is difficult."
"Friction is the only concept that more closely resembles war than war itself."
They debated center of gravity, moral forces, culminating points of attack.
They studied Liddell Hart's indirect approach, tearing apart the battles of Alexander and Saladin. They read Sun Tzu with Mandarin translations beside them. "Know your enemy. Know yourself." Every man had to give an oral defense of his interpretation—what Sun Tzu would say about modern drone warfare, how terrain shaped psychology, how deception becomes doctrine.
The instructors were relentless. If your logic faltered, you were shamed publicly. If your voice cracked, you started over.
But the worst was yet to come.
Logistics Month.
It arrived without fanfare. Just an order on the board: "Report to Logistics Hall 1. Phase IV begins. Duration: One month."
It sounded harmless. It was not.
There were no glory stories here. No tales of valor or cunning. Logistics was suffering in pure form.
They studied the movement of fuel, the decay rates of rations, how rubber tires wear on alpine terrain. They memorized rail gauges, loading schedules, vehicle repair ratios, and the weight limits of collapsing bridges.
They learned the number of calories a man needed to fight, to march, to kill—and how starvation changes those numbers.
One module focused on latrines. Another on supply depot camouflage. Another on waste management under chemical attack.
Their instructor—a man who once supplied a division during the Turkish campaign—summed it up grimly:
"You can win a hundred battles on paper. But if your trucks are late by an hour, your men die. That's war."
They planned resupply convoys under hypothetical bombardments. Practiced fuel logistics in sandstorms. Wargamed scenarios where bridges were blown, ports sabotaged, mules shot.
Worst of all was the march simulation.
Fifty kilometers. At night. Each man carried 35 kilograms of supply crates on their backs—no packs, no straps, just wood and metal.
It was raining.
Men collapsed. Vomited. Wept. One broke his shin and crawled the last four kilometers.
Mattias said nothing. He just walked. Crate digging into his spine.
He thought of Giustino then—faintly, like a warmth behind frostbitten eyes. He imagined them on patrol in Thrace, long ago. A river. A fire. A shared silence. Not lovers, never lovers, but something more—something quiet, unspoken, and deep.
He reached the end of the march soaked, bruised, and silent. He couldn't feel his hands.
The next day they studied field fuel blending.
And still, the tests didn't end.
A week later, they were split into teams and given a single order:
"Resupply an encircled battalion in enemy territory."
They had three trucks, two radio sets, and twelve hours. Every enemy patrol was real—played by other students. The terrain was a maze. The fuel was limited.
They did it. Barely. They arrived with fifteen minutes to spare. But two trucks were destroyed. One team captured.
Mattias survived. But in the process, he'd stolen a sheep from a local shepherd for food. The act earned him a reprimand, but also a wink from the instructor.
"Learn to improvise, even if it means becoming a bastard."
By the end of Logistics Month, Mattias could have run a mechanized army through hell and kept it fed, fueled, and firing.
But he had changed.
He no longer saw men. He saw units.
He no longer saw food. He saw tonnage per day.
He no longer saw himself. He saw a node in a machine.
And that machine was Rome.
The Scuola had hollowed him out and filled him with calculation. There were fewer jokes now. Even fewer dreams. His laughter had become an echo of memory.
But he remembered one thing Giustino once said, long before the war, lying on their backs staring at the ceiling of their shared barracks:
"The more you learn to win, the more of yourself you lose."
Mattias hadn't understood it then.
He did now.
But he wasn't fully lost. Not yet.
Then he learned the mind Is a Battlefield.
There was no announcement for the next phase. Just silence—and then darkness.
They were blindfolded in their sleep, dragged from their bunks in the middle of the night, and shoved into the backs of trucks. No explanations. No warnings.
For three days, Mattias and the others were kept in isolation cells deep beneath the Scuola. No clocks. No sound. Bare walls. Bare food. They didn't even know if the others were still alive.
When the doors finally opened, they were not taken to a classroom—but a theater of horror. A circle of hell from Dante's work.
Intelligence and Counterintelligence Module.
Not the kind found in books—but in cells, wire taps, eyes behind newspapers. The unseen war.
Their instructors were ghosts in history—men who had survived the Third Reich's collapse and buried themselves in Italy's shadows.
Abwehr field officers. SS interrogators. Former Gestapo desk men.
Recruited. Cleansed. Weaponized.
Working alongside veterans of the OVRA, Mussolini's secret police.
Some still wore their old coats. Some spoke only in clipped, clinical German. Others had eyes like glass—cold and infinitely tired.
They began with theory.
Sun Tzu's "use of spies."
Machiavelli's "Arts of Deception."
Stolen OSS and NKVD handbooks.
Then deeper: Freud. Jung. Adler. Pavlov.
They learned the architecture of the human mind. How guilt works. How trauma carves. How isolation unravels the ego.
"Interrogation is not about pain," one instructor said in flawless Italian with a German accent. "Pain is primitive. We are modern. We seek to tear identity from the man. To unmake his name."
They practiced creating fake identities, running safe houses, crafting legends.
How to build an intelligence network from scratch. How to turn a lover into an informant. How to corrupt a priest. How to read a lie from an eye twitch.
They studied case files—real ones.
Of agents who had vanished. Of double-crosses. Of lovers turned traitors. Of entire villages betrayed by a single word.
Then came interrogation training.
It began gently.
Role-playing "good cop/bad cop."
Debriefing exercises.
Voice modulation. Proxemics.
The use of silence. Of scent. Of hunger.
But it escalated.
Psychological warfare.
Sleep deprivation. Isolation. Cold rooms. Fake executions.
They were taught the difference between breaking a man and shaping a narrative.
How to force a confession not just through fear—but by redefining truth itself.
"The goal," said one Gestapo instructor, "is not to get what they know. It is to make them want to tell you. Even if it's a lie. Especially if it's a lie you planted."
And then—the final test.
No ceremony. No briefing.
One night, they were once again taken from their bunks.
Blindfolded. Shackled.
Thrown into interrogation cells one by one.
And there it began.
Three days of hell.
Mattias didn't see the sun once.
They tortured him.
Not just with whips—but with carefully engineered psychological traps.
A woman's voice whispered in Swedish. His mother? Giustino? A trick?
A man claiming to be an old friend. A fake comrade.
Mock executions.
A cellmate who seemed real—but later slit his wrists with a toothbrush, and vanished.
They took his sleep. His food. His mind.
They accused him of betrayal. Of homosexuality. Of cowardice.
They showed him a fake report of his death. Told him his mother had denounced him.
They made him watch a video of a "comrade" being tortured to death unless he talked.
All lies. All carefully constructed fictions.
If you broke—if you spoke—if you confessed—you failed. You started over.
Mattias did not break.
He vomited. Cried. Shook. But never broke.
He remembered one thing: "There is no truth in this room. Only yourself."
It kept him anchored. Even when they stripped him naked. Even when they made him think he was drowning. Even when they told him his father had committed suicide.
He came out of that cell changed.
Pale. Starved. Dead-eyed.
But whole.
Only 170 out of 500 passed. The rest disappeared.
Some were expelled. Others sent to mental wards. One killed himself.
The survivors were not men anymore.
They were weapons.
They knew how to fight in cities.
How to kill guerrillas.
How to starve armies and feed machines.
And now—they knew how to hunt souls.
Mattias emerged as one of the best.
Not the strongest. Not the smartest. But the most resilient.
He would never be the same again.
But in a dark room, with a traitor bound to a chair, and a war to win—
He would be exactly what the Republic needed.
After months of combat, theory, espionage, and torture, the survivors of the Scuola di Guerra Moderna believed they had endured it all.
They were wrong.
The final two weeks were a return to where it all began—but crueler, sharper, purer. Stripped of illusions. No longer boys. No longer even men. Now, they were steel waiting to be tempered in fire.
Dawn. A black sun rises over the courtyard.
The bugle sounds.
The doors slam open.
Mattias and the others are pulled from their bunks by instructors in black. No names. No explanations. They are shirtless, barefoot, shoved into the gravel and mud.
It's the same drills from week one, but now turned up past exhaustion.
5 a.m. to dusk. No breaks. No mercy.
Bare fists. Weighted runs. Log carries up mountains.
Sleep deprivation again. Fasting. Punishment for the slightest hesitation.
Each mistake is punished with humiliation: being screamed at by senior officers while fascist anthems blare from loudspeakers.
They are told: "You are no longer men. You are the future of war."
Their bodies scream.
Old injuries reopen.
Scars split.
Feet bleed.
Muscles spasm.
One man snaps his ankle on a morning run. They leave him there. The truck doesn't return for him.
"Weakness is treason."
And then comes the worst.
The drills stop. The shouting dies.
They are locked into rooms with nothing but a chair and a speaker.
The speaker plays on loop—fascist doctrine.
Passages from Mussolini's diaries. Speeches from the Duce.
Snippets from Gentile, Sorel, d'Annunzio.
Classical music warps into distorted martial hymns.
The music of their childhoods mashed into the voice of the state.
They are sleep-deprived. Hallucinating. But they must write essays.
Daily.
Long, complex essays:
"What is the fascist conception of history?"
"Why is democracy a form of spiritual suicide?"
"Is violence holy?"
"What is the role of art in warfare?"
He writes entire tracts in a state of near psychosis. He quotes Nietzsche without knowing it. He dreams of wolves and eagles fighting in the sky. He forgets his own voice.
The instructors read the essays. Red ink spills across the pages.
"You wrote this for your mother. Not for the Republic."
"Try again. Without fear."
"Where is the fire?"
"This sounds like a liberal. Are you a liberal, Mattias?"
Each essay is interrogated in front of the class. Publicly humiliated. Ripped apart.
Then they are taken into rooms of mirrors.
Forced to stare at themselves for hours.
Naked. In silence. If you look away you are whipped until you bleed and given half regions
All while fascist anthems echo in the dark.
The face of Mussolini stares back from every corner.
"This is not torture," an instructor says. "This is purification. To ensure no ideological corruption. To ensure the love of the eternal science of Fascism remains embedded in your soul."
Then the Ceremony
On the final day, they are taken to the courtyard at sunrise.
They are given black tunics. No medals. No ranks.
They kneel before a fire burning atop an altar of iron and skulls.
They each place their palm on a copy of the Fascist Manifesto.
A colonel recites from memory:
"You are not men. You are not beasts. You are steel. Tempered in agony. Sharpened in will. You are the arm of a new world. A sun forged in black fire. You are the death of corruption, of softness, of decay."
They are each given a knife with a jet black hilt.
On the hilt the fasces is carved.
Underneath words are carved:
Veritas et Fortitudo.
Truth and Fortitude.
The knife is put on the fire.
They cut their wrists with the knife.
The blood spills into the fire.
He looks at the fire.
And smiles.
Not out of joy.
But because he has nothing left to burn.
Graduation.
Out of 500, only 137 remain after those two hellish weeks, after the training.
They are promoted.
Second lieutenant. On the fast track to captain, or even more should they serve exceptionally.
They will be sent around the world, around the empire.
They are the tip of the spear.
An army reborn.
Mattias is ranked 97th out of his graduating class of 137.
He is a black phoenix.
Dead once.
Born again.
Made for war.
Built for silence.
A god of ash.
The Republic salutes him.
And begins to aim.
For he is a bullet for the republic.
A cog.
He is not the first, or the last.
But he'll be the last thing many of the enemies of the republic will ever see.
Al-Baha City, Al-Baha Province
Kingdom of Yemen
The desert night was still, wrapped in a curtain of cool silence that descended after another day of blood and thunder. The stars shimmered above the ragged hills like pale wounds in the dark, distant and cold, offering no comfort. The men in his unit lay scattered across their bivouac, breathing heavily in exhausted slumber, the smell of oil and dust clinging to their sweat-streaked bodies.
Mattias could not sleep. Not yet.
He sat alone by the edge of camp, his rifle propped against his knee, the firelight flickering gently against his weather-worn face. His fingers idly traced the wood of the stock. Somewhere behind his eyes, memories stirred. Then he closed his eyes.
He dreamt. Or perhaps he remembered. The line had grown thin.
But he no longer dreamed of home. Not truly.
Not of the snow-laced rooftops of his sleepy hometown on the Austrian border or the alpine breeze of a life that felt increasingly unreal. And certainly not of the ill-fated affair with Giustino's sister, an entanglement born not from love but from shared grief, from the unbearable weight of loss they had both carried after Thrace. She had been a balm, yes—but a fleeting one, a stand-in for something, for someone, he could never admit aloud.
No, if anything remained warm and aching in the hollow spaces of his heart, it wasn't her. It was Giustino himself.
Though he never let himself dwell too long on that.
Instead, tonight, his dreams wandered back to the Scuola di la Guerra Moderna—the place that had remade him. Or perhaps unmade him, depending on how one looked at it. It had taken a grieving, directionless man and turned him into a cog—cold, efficient, brutal—in the newly forged engine of what the newspapers now called the "Roman Army."
It had been early in the year when the war with Germany ended. Against all odds, Italy had emerged victorious, scarred but emboldened. For his part in the campaign, Mattias had been awarded a battlefield commission. They'd called it bravery. He had called it desperation.
His commission granted him entry into the second class of the Scuola. The first class had been little more than a hasty experiment—half-trained conscripts shoved to the front in a frenzy when Mussolini declared war on Hitler. Most of them didn't survive the war.
His own group, nearly 500 strong, arrived in the middle of the spring.
They came from all corners of the Empire. Most were Italian boys—many barely more than children—still clinging to their old regional identities: Neapolitans, Milanese, Sicilians. But the class also included Somalian askaris with haunted eyes, Bedouin scouts from Libya, and even a handful of Slavs from Dalmatia and Montenegro. In the Scuola, though, none of that mattered. Your region dissolved. You were no longer Sicilian or Somali, or a slav. You were a soldier. You were Rome.
The first week was meaningless. Or so it seemed.
They herded the new recruits like cattle. Fed them pages from the Fascist Manifesto, the Doctrine of Fascism, and demanded they memorize and recite key passages. They were taught to speak in slogans, to chant lines until their voices cracked.
They were broken down before they could be rebuilt.
Every morning, they were woken at 4:30 sharp. By 6:00, they had already run several kilometers through dust and gravel, their instructor following close behind in a rattling Fiat truck, blaring recorded speeches of Mussolini and Gentile over tinny speakers.
Breakfast was a ration of bread and olives, consumed beneath a barrage of propaganda: posters of Il Duce, lectures on the eternal virtues of the state, recordings of military hymns played on loop.
Then came weapons training—rifles, submachine guns, radios. The instructors taught them how to kill, how to communicate, how to endure. And always, always, the drumming of ideology. The same phrases again and again, burned into their skulls like brands.
Afternoons were worse. Hand-to-hand combat, obstacle courses, psychological endurance tests. Grueling, unrelenting drills designed to push them past the edge of pain.
"This week, we will brainwash you!" their instructor screamed on the first day, pacing like a predator before them. "You will be soldiers for fascism! You shall learn to love it! You will engrave the eternal science of fascism deep into your minds and your souls! This week is the easy part, you scum! The real hell begins next week! Only then shall we truly begin!"
Mattias had laughed to himself when he heard it. Not aloud—never aloud—but silently, cynically. He could imagine Giustino laughing too, a dry chuckle under his breath, eyes bright with mischief.
Giustino had always laughed at things he wasn't supposed to.
Mattias didn't know when his thoughts had begun to turn this way. It was not something he could name or admit, even to himself. It was easier to think of the sister, of her touch, of her perfume, her lips. Easier, too, to remember Giustino as a comrade, a friend, a brother-in-arms. Nothing more.
But sometimes—just sometimes—in the silence between gunfire, in the soft murmurs of wind over sand, Mattias would think of his voice, of the way he walked, of the way his eyes lingered too long on things others missed. And he would feel... something.
Something not allowed.
So he buried it, as he buried so many things. Under sweat and pain and the weight of duty. He had become, after all, what the Scuola demanded: a soldier. Cold, exacting, merciless.
But that first week had only been a prelude. The real training—the true crucible of the Scuola—began in week two.
They called it Il Mese dell'Ombra. The Month of Shadows.
Gone were the rote drills and the propaganda blared through tin speakers. Now, they were thrown into something altogether different. Something darker.
They were no longer treated as recruits of a conventional army. They were told they were now partisans. Insurgents. Ghosts.
"To defeat the partisan," their instructor barked one morning beneath the rising sun, "you must think like one. Become one. Eat the dirt. Breathe the fear. Sleep with a knife under your tongue and a plan behind your eyes. A rifle and a slogan. That is what war is now."
Their curriculum shifted. Each man was given a battered, translated copy of On Guerrilla Warfare by Mao Zedong, along with translated excerpts of political theory written by Mao. The irony of fascist soldiers reading communist scripture was not lost on Mattias—nor, he suspected, on Giustino, wherever he was now. He could almost hear the dry, cutting humor in his voice: "I suppose Il Duce and the reds finally found common ground."
But the instructors were serious. Deadly so.
"Political power grows out of the barrel of a gun," one shouted during a lecture, slamming his palm down on a desk. "That is not just Mao's ideology. It is a truth older than him. What matters is not the source—but the application. You are here to learn not what the enemy thinks, but how they think."
And so the lessons followed.
They studied not just military doctrine, but ideology and their links to insurgency. They learned to read terrain like scripture. To build homemade explosives using gasoline and fertilizer. To steal weapons from corpses and sabotage convoys using only wire and instinct. They learned to disappear into villages and reemerge hours later as ghosts with knives.
They spent days constructing elaborate ambushes using old car engines, tripwires, and the natural lay of the land. At night, they read Mao by candlelight, reciting his words aloud and being asked to interpret them—not with admiration, but with comprehension.
"Revolution is not a dinner party," one instructor quoted, his eyes cold and unreadable. "So tell me—how does the revolutionary break bread, Mattias?"
"He breaks it with a rifle," Mattias had answered.
The instructor had nodded.
They were divided into small cells, each cell forced to operate independently. Each had to plan routes, manage rations, coordinate raids. They weren't given a list of rules. Instead, they were given objectives: disable this train, kill this officer, capture this supply depot. The rest was up to them.
Some broke under the pressure. Two recruits deserted during a nighttime drill. They were dragged back in chains two days later, whipped until their backs bled, and made to continue with the others.
Mattias endured. He excelled.
His cell began to trust him. Even look to him.
He spoke little, but when he did, others listened. His plans worked. His traps caught. His ambushes left instructors stunned. There was something calculating in his manner—something wounded and sharpened at once. In his silence, he was always thinking. Watching. Judging the terrain, the angle of the sun, the twitch of a man's hand on his rifle.
He didn't realize how much of Giustino was with him until one night, crouched behind a crag of stone near a dry riverbed, he made a choice—to spare an "enemy" combatant, another recruit playing the role of a captured civilian. Giustino would've done the same.
He didn't tell anyone.
And then came the final test.
They were given a map and a cryptic briefing: You are insurgents. You are the last cell of resistance in a rebellious province. The Italian Army is coming to destroy you. You have three days to break their command structure and capture their fuel depot. Or you will die.
They were hunted.
Not by instructors this time, but by a full Italian army unit—volunteers from a mechanized division. The exercise was meant to be non-lethal, but that didn't mean it was safe. The tanks fired blanks, yes. But the planes flew real recon. The soldiers had bayonets and clubs. And in the chaos of simulated warfare, accidents happen.
Three of his classmates died. One from a fall during a night maneuver across a cliff. Another from heatstroke. A third was shot—accidentally—by a soldier who mistook him for an armed threat. The rest of them fought on.
Mattias was the one who devised the final assault. They'd been whittled down to two cells, maybe twenty-five men in total. Exhausted. Outnumbered. Filthy and half-starved.
But they knew the terrain.
They attacked at dusk on the third day, when the army unit had grown complacent. Two fire teams struck the depot head-on with Molotovs and smoke bombs. Another cell, Mattias's, snuck around the rear and took out the command tent with an improvised explosive and knives.
It was brutal. Even in simulation, it was chaos. Some of the regulars panicked, thinking the insurgents had gone rogue.
But they won.
When the horns sounded to signal the end of the exercise, Mattias stood amidst the artificial smoke and wreckage, sweat pouring down his face, clothes torn, hands bloodied—not from combat, but from survival.
He looked around at the other recruits. Hollow-eyed. Grinning with disbelief.
The instructor approached, arms crossed.
"You were supposed to die," he said, voice flat. "Statistically, fifty percent of you should have failed."
Mattias didn't answer.
"Good," the man finally said. "You're ready."
Later, alone, Mattias stood by the firelight, the stars above him once more. His thoughts drifted—inevitably—to Giustino.
Would he have passed? Likely. He was clever. He was brave. He was...
Mattias caught himself.
He looked down at his hands. Remembered the feel of that knife. The way he'd crept up behind the commander in the simulation and placed it—carefully, almost gently—beneath the man's neck.
No hesitation.
Something in him had changed.
The Scuola had promised to rebuild him. They had. But they had also buried something in him—something tender, something human—beneath layers of steel and discipline.
And beneath that, still, was a name he dared not speak aloud. A memory he would carry like a knife in the dark.
Giustino.
There was no rest after the Month of Shadows.
No congratulations. No medals. Just another lesson plan, another stack of tattered manuals, another name whispered with reverence and fear.
Tukhachevsky.
The Marshal of the Red Army, the Red Napoleon, martyred by Stalin's paranoia but resurrected here—in Fascist Italy of all places—as a prophet of modern war. Mikhail Tukhachevsky, father of deep operations, of mechanized breakthrough and air-ground integration. In another life, he would have been Mattias's enemy. Here, he was a teacher from beyond the grave.
"War is movement," one instructor declared on the first day of the next phase. "War is speed. War is rhythm. Mao taught you how to vanish. Now Tukhachevsky will teach you how to crush."
And so they studied.
They read "The Field Regulations of the Red Army" and Tukhachevsky's lectures on deep battle. They memorized unit compositions, signal timings, doctrine for tank-infantry-air integration. They pored over postmortems of the Winter War—learning not just Soviet failure, but Soviet adaptation. And then they studied the Battle of Kiev, where Soviet forces made the Nazis fight for every bloody centimeter, where entire districts were eaten block by block in urban infernos of smoke and blood.
They read Soviet political theory too—not out of sympathy, but necessity.
"Understand their system," the instructors said. "Understand how Commissars think, how orders are given, how ideology dictates logistics. You cannot kill an enemy you don't comprehend."
At first, it felt like hypocrisy. A Fascist reading Marxist dialectics, annotating them in the margins, drawing lines between class warfare and maneuver warfare. But ideology meant nothing here. It was all just fuel.
They were trained in combined arms warfare, learning how to sync infantry with armor, armor with air support, air with electronic warfare. They were shown how to order naval strikes from destroyers, how to paint targets for chemical artillery in contaminated zones. They ran exercises in mock cities—clearing stairwells with phosphorus grenades, using scouts and planes to hunt snipers, breaching steel doors with explosives.
Mattias absorbed it all. Not eagerly—but completely. Like someone trying to outthink a future ghost.
He was taught to plan from above and fight from below. One week he was giving orders as a notional general. The next, he was crawling through a drainage pipe with a commando knife and a satchel charge.
He watched buildings burn, simulated civilians scream. He watched as exercises blurred into something more. They were not learning to win battles. They were learning to end societies.
And then came the final test.
A full campaign simulation.
The scenario was simple. They were an invading army—a "stabilization force" sent to a rebellious, mountainous country. The enemy: a national army, semi-modern, well dug in, and backed by a partisan movement.
They were given full control—divided into field commands, given mock divisions, air wings, naval assets, armored groups.
Mattias was made Field Commander.
No one objected.
The objective was total: suppress the army, neutralize the resistance, pacify the nation.
Over the next ten days, a storm unfolded.
Mattias opened with shock tactics. On day one, he ordered coordinated airstrikes on command posts, then a feint naval bombardment to draw out the enemy's mobile artillery. It worked. Their batteries fired early and exposed themselves. Within three hours, his second echelon tank divisions rolled through the southern plains unopposed.
He followed it with deep raids—airmobile troops cutting behind enemy lines, destroying bridges, choking logistics.
Then came the hard part: the cities.
He deployed urban combat teams into the largest metropolitan zone—Sector Gamma—using plane assisted pathfinding and radar. Every floor, every corridor was mapped, then burned.
But he did not forget what he learned from Mao.
In the countryside, he split his forces into counterinsurgency teams—small, mobile, and brutal. Partisans were drawn out with false supply drops, then surrounded by hidden units with mustard gas and radio jamming equipment.
Some targets were simulated civilian villages harboring insurgents. He made the choice to level them all. His instructors said nothing. He felt nothing.
He did not flinch. He couldn't do it anymore.
At night, alone in the command tent, staring at casualty reports, the ghost of Giustino returned—not in laughter, but in silence.
Would he have understood? Approved? Condemned?
Mattias could no longer tell.
By the final day, the map was his. The simulated nation was broken. Its army scattered, its insurgency leaderless. Mattias walked into the mock capital flanked by honor guards of ash and silence.
The instructors watched.
One of them, a colonel who had never smiled once, walked up to him and said simply:
"You are no longer a soldier. You are a sword."
Mattias nodded.
But inside, he wasn't sure if he was a sword—or a ruin made of steel.
That night, when the fires dimmed and the applause faded, he sat beneath a cold sky. The stars above didn't judge. They just watched. Silent. Indifferent.
And somewhere out there, he imagined, Giustino was watching too.
And Mattias wished, just for a moment, that he hadn't learned quite so well.
But the Sword Was Not Yet Forged.
Victory in simulation wasn't the end. It was merely the door to another crucible. There was more to learn. More of himself to be burned away.
The next phase was theory—not just how to fight, but why.
After weeks of Mao and months of mechanized slaughter through the eyes of Tukhachevsky, the Scuola dragged Mattias and his cohort even deeper into the marrow of warfare. If Tukhachevsky taught them how to conquer, now they would learn what it meant to command.
No exercises. No drills. No weapons. Only books.
Clausewitz. Liddell Hart. Sun Tzu. Machiavelli. More Mao. More Tukachevsky.
From sunrise to curfew, they sat in iron chairs inside blacked-out classrooms under flickering lights and stale air. No distractions. No mercy. Their world narrowed to paper and silence—punctuated only by the voice of the instructor or the cough of an exhausted man.
They read "On War" cover to cover—three times. Clausewitz was not just read, but ritualized. His maxims were burned into them, repeated in sync like prayers:
"War is the continuation of politics by other means."
"Everything in war is simple, but the simplest thing is difficult."
"Friction is the only concept that more closely resembles war than war itself."
They debated center of gravity, moral forces, culminating points of attack.
They studied Liddell Hart's indirect approach, tearing apart the battles of Alexander and Saladin. They read Sun Tzu with Mandarin translations beside them. "Know your enemy. Know yourself." Every man had to give an oral defense of his interpretation—what Sun Tzu would say about modern drone warfare, how terrain shaped psychology, how deception becomes doctrine.
The instructors were relentless. If your logic faltered, you were shamed publicly. If your voice cracked, you started over.
But the worst was yet to come.
Logistics Month.
It arrived without fanfare. Just an order on the board: "Report to Logistics Hall 1. Phase IV begins. Duration: One month."
It sounded harmless. It was not.
There were no glory stories here. No tales of valor or cunning. Logistics was suffering in pure form.
They studied the movement of fuel, the decay rates of rations, how rubber tires wear on alpine terrain. They memorized rail gauges, loading schedules, vehicle repair ratios, and the weight limits of collapsing bridges.
They learned the number of calories a man needed to fight, to march, to kill—and how starvation changes those numbers.
One module focused on latrines. Another on supply depot camouflage. Another on waste management under chemical attack.
Their instructor—a man who once supplied a division during the Turkish campaign—summed it up grimly:
"You can win a hundred battles on paper. But if your trucks are late by an hour, your men die. That's war."
They planned resupply convoys under hypothetical bombardments. Practiced fuel logistics in sandstorms. Wargamed scenarios where bridges were blown, ports sabotaged, mules shot.
Worst of all was the march simulation.
Fifty kilometers. At night. Each man carried 35 kilograms of supply crates on their backs—no packs, no straps, just wood and metal.
It was raining.
Men collapsed. Vomited. Wept. One broke his shin and crawled the last four kilometers.
Mattias said nothing. He just walked. Crate digging into his spine.
He thought of Giustino then—faintly, like a warmth behind frostbitten eyes. He imagined them on patrol in Thrace, long ago. A river. A fire. A shared silence. Not lovers, never lovers, but something more—something quiet, unspoken, and deep.
He reached the end of the march soaked, bruised, and silent. He couldn't feel his hands.
The next day they studied field fuel blending.
And still, the tests didn't end.
A week later, they were split into teams and given a single order:
"Resupply an encircled battalion in enemy territory."
They had three trucks, two radio sets, and twelve hours. Every enemy patrol was real—played by other students. The terrain was a maze. The fuel was limited.
They did it. Barely. They arrived with fifteen minutes to spare. But two trucks were destroyed. One team captured.
Mattias survived. But in the process, he'd stolen a sheep from a local shepherd for food. The act earned him a reprimand, but also a wink from the instructor.
"Learn to improvise, even if it means becoming a bastard."
By the end of Logistics Month, Mattias could have run a mechanized army through hell and kept it fed, fueled, and firing.
But he had changed.
He no longer saw men. He saw units.
He no longer saw food. He saw tonnage per day.
He no longer saw himself. He saw a node in a machine.
And that machine was Rome.
The Scuola had hollowed him out and filled him with calculation. There were fewer jokes now. Even fewer dreams. His laughter had become an echo of memory.
But he remembered one thing Giustino once said, long before the war, lying on their backs staring at the ceiling of their shared barracks:
"The more you learn to win, the more of yourself you lose."
Mattias hadn't understood it then.
He did now.
But he wasn't fully lost. Not yet.
Then he learned the mind Is a Battlefield.
There was no announcement for the next phase. Just silence—and then darkness.
They were blindfolded in their sleep, dragged from their bunks in the middle of the night, and shoved into the backs of trucks. No explanations. No warnings.
For three days, Mattias and the others were kept in isolation cells deep beneath the Scuola. No clocks. No sound. Bare walls. Bare food. They didn't even know if the others were still alive.
When the doors finally opened, they were not taken to a classroom—but a theater of horror. A circle of hell from Dante's work.
Intelligence and Counterintelligence Module.
Not the kind found in books—but in cells, wire taps, eyes behind newspapers. The unseen war.
Their instructors were ghosts in history—men who had survived the Third Reich's collapse and buried themselves in Italy's shadows.
Abwehr field officers. SS interrogators. Former Gestapo desk men.
Recruited. Cleansed. Weaponized.
Working alongside veterans of the OVRA, Mussolini's secret police.
Some still wore their old coats. Some spoke only in clipped, clinical German. Others had eyes like glass—cold and infinitely tired.
They began with theory.
Sun Tzu's "use of spies."
Machiavelli's "Arts of Deception."
Stolen OSS and NKVD handbooks.
Then deeper: Freud. Jung. Adler. Pavlov.
They learned the architecture of the human mind. How guilt works. How trauma carves. How isolation unravels the ego.
"Interrogation is not about pain," one instructor said in flawless Italian with a German accent. "Pain is primitive. We are modern. We seek to tear identity from the man. To unmake his name."
They practiced creating fake identities, running safe houses, crafting legends.
How to build an intelligence network from scratch. How to turn a lover into an informant. How to corrupt a priest. How to read a lie from an eye twitch.
They studied case files—real ones.
Of agents who had vanished. Of double-crosses. Of lovers turned traitors. Of entire villages betrayed by a single word.
Then came interrogation training.
It began gently.
Role-playing "good cop/bad cop."
Debriefing exercises.
Voice modulation. Proxemics.
The use of silence. Of scent. Of hunger.
But it escalated.
Psychological warfare.
Sleep deprivation. Isolation. Cold rooms. Fake executions.
They were taught the difference between breaking a man and shaping a narrative.
How to force a confession not just through fear—but by redefining truth itself.
"The goal," said one Gestapo instructor, "is not to get what they know. It is to make them want to tell you. Even if it's a lie. Especially if it's a lie you planted."
And then—the final test.
No ceremony. No briefing.
One night, they were once again taken from their bunks.
Blindfolded. Shackled.
Thrown into interrogation cells one by one.
And there it began.
Three days of hell.
Mattias didn't see the sun once.
They tortured him.
Not just with whips—but with carefully engineered psychological traps.
A woman's voice whispered in Swedish. His mother? Giustino? A trick?
A man claiming to be an old friend. A fake comrade.
Mock executions.
A cellmate who seemed real—but later slit his wrists with a toothbrush, and vanished.
They took his sleep. His food. His mind.
They accused him of betrayal. Of homosexuality. Of cowardice.
They showed him a fake report of his death. Told him his mother had denounced him.
They made him watch a video of a "comrade" being tortured to death unless he talked.
All lies. All carefully constructed fictions.
If you broke—if you spoke—if you confessed—you failed. You started over.
Mattias did not break.
He vomited. Cried. Shook. But never broke.
He remembered one thing: "There is no truth in this room. Only yourself."
It kept him anchored. Even when they stripped him naked. Even when they made him think he was drowning. Even when they told him his father had committed suicide.
He came out of that cell changed.
Pale. Starved. Dead-eyed.
But whole.
Only 170 out of 500 passed. The rest disappeared.
Some were expelled. Others sent to mental wards. One killed himself.
The survivors were not men anymore.
They were weapons.
They knew how to fight in cities.
How to kill guerrillas.
How to starve armies and feed machines.
And now—they knew how to hunt souls.
Mattias emerged as one of the best.
Not the strongest. Not the smartest. But the most resilient.
He would never be the same again.
But in a dark room, with a traitor bound to a chair, and a war to win—
He would be exactly what the Republic needed.
After months of combat, theory, espionage, and torture, the survivors of the Scuola di Guerra Moderna believed they had endured it all.
They were wrong.
The final two weeks were a return to where it all began—but crueler, sharper, purer. Stripped of illusions. No longer boys. No longer even men. Now, they were steel waiting to be tempered in fire.
Dawn. A black sun rises over the courtyard.
The bugle sounds.
The doors slam open.
Mattias and the others are pulled from their bunks by instructors in black. No names. No explanations. They are shirtless, barefoot, shoved into the gravel and mud.
It's the same drills from week one, but now turned up past exhaustion.
5 a.m. to dusk. No breaks. No mercy.
Bare fists. Weighted runs. Log carries up mountains.
Sleep deprivation again. Fasting. Punishment for the slightest hesitation.
Each mistake is punished with humiliation: being screamed at by senior officers while fascist anthems blare from loudspeakers.
They are told: "You are no longer men. You are the future of war."
Their bodies scream.
Old injuries reopen.
Scars split.
Feet bleed.
Muscles spasm.
One man snaps his ankle on a morning run. They leave him there. The truck doesn't return for him.
"Weakness is treason."
And then comes the worst.
The drills stop. The shouting dies.
They are locked into rooms with nothing but a chair and a speaker.
The speaker plays on loop—fascist doctrine.
Passages from Mussolini's diaries. Speeches from the Duce.
Snippets from Gentile, Sorel, d'Annunzio.
Classical music warps into distorted martial hymns.
The music of their childhoods mashed into the voice of the state.
They are sleep-deprived. Hallucinating. But they must write essays.
Daily.
Long, complex essays:
"What is the fascist conception of history?"
"Why is democracy a form of spiritual suicide?"
"Is violence holy?"
"What is the role of art in warfare?"
He writes entire tracts in a state of near psychosis. He quotes Nietzsche without knowing it. He dreams of wolves and eagles fighting in the sky. He forgets his own voice.
The instructors read the essays. Red ink spills across the pages.
"You wrote this for your mother. Not for the Republic."
"Try again. Without fear."
"Where is the fire?"
"This sounds like a liberal. Are you a liberal, Mattias?"
Each essay is interrogated in front of the class. Publicly humiliated. Ripped apart.
Then they are taken into rooms of mirrors.
Forced to stare at themselves for hours.
Naked. In silence. If you look away you are whipped until you bleed and given half regions
All while fascist anthems echo in the dark.
The face of Mussolini stares back from every corner.
"This is not torture," an instructor says. "This is purification. To ensure no ideological corruption. To ensure the love of the eternal science of Fascism remains embedded in your soul."
Then the Ceremony
On the final day, they are taken to the courtyard at sunrise.
They are given black tunics. No medals. No ranks.
They kneel before a fire burning atop an altar of iron and skulls.
They each place their palm on a copy of the Fascist Manifesto.
A colonel recites from memory:
"You are not men. You are not beasts. You are steel. Tempered in agony. Sharpened in will. You are the arm of a new world. A sun forged in black fire. You are the death of corruption, of softness, of decay."
They are each given a knife with a jet black hilt.
On the hilt the fasces is carved.
Underneath words are carved:
Veritas et Fortitudo.
Truth and Fortitude.
The knife is put on the fire.
They cut their wrists with the knife.
The blood spills into the fire.
He looks at the fire.
And smiles.
Not out of joy.
But because he has nothing left to burn.
Graduation.
Out of 500, only 137 remain after those two hellish weeks, after the training.
They are promoted.
Second lieutenant. On the fast track to captain, or even more should they serve exceptionally.
They will be sent around the world, around the empire.
They are the tip of the spear.
An army reborn.
Mattias is ranked 97th out of his graduating class of 137.
He is a black phoenix.
Dead once.
Born again.
Made for war.
Built for silence.
A god of ash.
The Republic salutes him.
And begins to aim.
For he is a bullet for the republic.
A cog.
He is not the first, or the last.
But he'll be the last thing many of the enemies of the republic will ever see.
Invitation for a rendevouz
Alenco98
Not too sore, are you?
- Joined
- Oct 20, 2022
- Messages
- 306
November 20, 1942
Cairo, Cairo Governorate
Kingdom of Egypt
POV: Giuseppe Manzini, OVRA Operative — Codename: "Falcone"
The late afternoon sun bathed the dusty streets of Cairo in hues of amber and ochre, casting long shadows across the narrow alleyways of this modest, middle-class neighborhood nestled on the outskirts of the city. The air smelled faintly of cumin, cigarette smoke, and motor oil—a mélange that Giuseppe Manzini had come to associate with Egypt. He stood still for a moment, his sharp eyes scanning the two-story sandstone house before him. The building looked unremarkable—perhaps intentionally so. Whitewashed walls, latticed windows, and a plain wooden door. But appearances could be deceiving. This was no ordinary household.
Beside him stood his translator, cultural attaché, and fellow OVRA operative, Abdullah Ben Hakim—codename Lira. A wiry man of thirty-two with weathered skin and hawkish features, Abdullah hailed from the windswept desert outskirts of Sirte. He was a Bedouin by blood, a polyglot by training, and fiercely loyal to the mission at hand. His presence here wasn't merely for translation—it was for legitimacy, cover, and local intuition. Cairo was a city of whispers and shadows, and Giuseppe, for all his training, needed someone who could read between the lines of Egyptian speech and soul.
Giuseppe Manzini, the name etched into fascist files and OVRA dossiers, did not exist in Egypt. Not on paper. Not in rumor. Not even as a ghost. Here, he was Ioannes Kostopoulos, the son of an exiled Greek royalist and an Italian heiress whose family held a network textile mills in Lombardy and Ferrara. Kostopoulos was a man of industry—a transnational entrepreneur whose business interests lay in textile manufacturing, with primary operations in Alexandria and secondary connections scattered across the Nile Delta.
Officially, his presence in Cairo was routine—purely commercial. He was visiting the capital alongside his assistant and fixer, Khaled Al-Saher—a.k.a. Abdullah—to secure additional suppliers for the booming wool and cotton trade. Unofficially, it was a mission layered with deception, surveillance, and clandestine diplomacy.
The last two months in Egypt had tested his patience, endurance, and adaptability. Manzini had been immersed in the intricacies of the textile trade to a degree he never anticipated. He learned how raw cotton from Sudan was sorted and processed, how dyes were imported from what was once french Syria, and how thread counts mattered to different regional buyers. He could now, much to his own surprise, hold a conversation in broken Arabic about spinning ratios and loom maintenance.
He had traveled extensively—north to Alexandria, where his business identity was strongest; south to Minya and Luxor, where textile producers still operated under aging Ottoman-era methods. He'd shaken hands, broken bread, exchanged gifts, and absorbed every ounce of local etiquette required to pass as a Greek-Egyptian industrialist. OVRA had been generous with their funding, allowing him to broker small deals, secure minor contracts, and develop a network of textile merchants who viewed Kostopoulos as a respectable figure. On paper, the venture had even yielded a modest net profit of £100 sterling.
But when the ledgers were adjusted for living expenses, bribes, transportation, and the overhead of maintaining deep cover, the operation was running at a loss. Yet that didn't matter. Success in espionage was never measured in profits.
They had an in.
The man they were here to see was Hassan al-Banna, the reclisive and charismatic founder of the Muslim Brotherhood. Al-Banna had a reputation—both admired and feared. A teacher turned political philosopher, he had transformed a marginal religious study circle into a rapidly expanding sociopolitical movement. To the British and Egyptian royal family, he was a dangerous demagogue to be stamped out at the first sign of trouble. To the poor and disenfranchised of Egypt, he was a voice of God and justice. And now, by a stroke of fortune—or perhaps divine irony—al-Banna required textiles. Curtains for his home. Carpets. Silks, possibly.
And Ioannes Kostopoulos just happened to be the man who could supply them.
But textiles were not the reason Manzini was here.
He came bearing an invitation—from the emperor himself.
It couldn't be a direct approach. The British were on edge, their nerves frayed by the unraveling situations in Palestine, Cyprus, and the Mediterranean. They watched everything. They had eyes in every port, in every market, in every café. Cairo was a city under a polite but suffocating occupation. To meet al-Banna openly, as an Italian, would have been suicide.
Thus the elaborate charade. Thus the months of setup. Thus Kostopoulos.
Now, after weeks of planning, rehearsals, and patient groundwork, it was time.
Manzini adjusted the cuffs of his linen suit, glanced once more at Abdullah, and together they approached the modest home. The early evening call to prayer echoed faintly from a nearby mosque, mingling with the rustle of palm fronds in the cool November breeze.
He knocked twice on the door, pausing as footsteps shuffled within. The door creaked open, revealing a man in his late thirties, dressed simply in a white galabeya. Abdullah stepped forward, offering the appropriate Arabic greeting with flawless pronunciation and the confident familiarity of one raised in the desert.
"As-salamu alaykum wa rahmatullah. We are here on behalf of Kostopoulos Textile Imports. The master has come personally to ensure the fabric meets your satisfaction."
After a brief exchange and mutual formalities—meticulously memorized and rehearsed—Manzini and Abdullah were invited inside. The interior was modest but refined. Ornate rugs covered the floor, and shelves lined with Qur'anic texts and classical Islamic works filled the walls. They were ushered into a small sitting room with shuttered windows that opened to let in the cooling Cairo breeze.
Tea was served—strong, sweet, and steaming. The three men sat cross-legged on cushions. Al-Banna, ever the gracious host, led the conversation with probing warmth. He asked about the origin of the fabrics, the method of dyeing, the nature of the weavers. Manzini responded politely, with Abdullah translating where necessary, careful not to let slip even a hint of the Italian tongue beneath his borrowed Greek lilt.
But the real conversation—the one that mattered—was yet to come.
It would begin not with words, but with a folded letter bearing the seal of Mussolini. Hidden inside a packet of silk samples was a carefully worded message—a veiled proposal of alliance, or at the very least, understanding. Italy had declared its independence from Berlin's madness. It had seen the storm rising in Europe and chose another course. In the fires of a dying empire, Rome now sought partners—not enemies—in the Arab world.
Tonight, under the dim light of Cairo's lamps and the careful guise of commerce, history was about to change course.
And Giuseppe Manzini, alias Ioannes Kostopoulos, would be the man to light the match.
The tea cups rested gently on the low brass table, the warmth of the liquid still radiating through the delicate porcelain. Outside, the sounds of Cairo—distant calls to prayer, the faint rumble of a passing tram—filtered through the lattice windows, lending a quiet intimacy to the room. Hassan al-Banna regarded Giuseppe Manzini with calm, calculating eyes, the faintest crease of suspicion shadowing his brows.
Manzini cleared his throat softly, the weight of the moment settling on his shoulders like a cloak. Abdullah watched intently, his fingers lightly tapping a silent rhythm on his knee.
"Sheikh al-Banna," Manzini began, his voice measured, careful not to betray the nervous undercurrent beneath. "I owe you an apology. The truth of my presence here is not as simple as the businessman Ioannes Kostopoulos I have portrayed."
Al-Banna's gaze sharpened. Abdullah paused his translation, sensing the gravity.
"I am an operative of the Italian government, under the direct orders of the emperor—Constantine XII himself." Manzini's eyes did not waver. "This deception was necessary. The British have eyes everywhere in Cairo and beyond. To approach you openly would have put yours and all our lives at risk."
Al-Banna's lips pressed into a thin line. "Go on."
Manzini took a breath, reaching inside his jacket pocket and carefully withdrawing a folded document, embossed with the unmistakable seal of the Italian Fascist regime.
"His majesty extends a personal invitation—to broker a historic gathering. A meeting in Paris, between the emperor, His Majesty Abdulmejid II—the former Sultan and Caliph of the Ottoman Empire—and Imam Yahia Muhammad Hamid ed-Din of Yemen."
He let the names settle into the air, allowing their significance to sink in.
"The purpose of this assembly," Manzini continued, "is to discuss a united front—a coalition of Sunnis, Shias, and Romans—dedicated to one goal: the expulsion of British colonial forces and their puppets from Egypt, Sudan, Iraq, Jordan the Arabian Peninsula, and all of Africa."
Al-Banna's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "And what does the emperor propose as the foundation for this alliance?"
Manzini's voice softened but gained intensity. "He is prepared to support the restoration of the Caliphate—under the rightful spiritual authority of Abdulmejid II—as a symbol to unite the Muslim peoples across sectarian divides. Rome's role would be as arbiter and partner between both sects, not conqueror."
The room was silent but for the faint sound of the tea being poured again.
"As a gesture of goodwill," Manzini added, "and in recognition of your immediate needs, his majesty wishes to offer you the textiles you require—free of charge. This is not a transaction, but a symbol of respect and trust from Rome to you personally, and to the broader cause we share."
Al-Banna sat back, eyes flickering between Manzini and Abdullah. His mind was undoubtedly racing—calculating the risks and possibilities of this unexpected proposal.
"Tell your emperor," he said slowly, "that the idea of unity among Sunnis and Shias is a dream many have tried to pursue but few have seen realized. And the restoration of the Caliphate—if sincere—could inspire millions."
He paused, looking Manzini squarely in the eye. "But the British are not easily expelled. Their grip is strong. And the path you propose will be fraught with peril."
Manzini inclined his head respectfully. "We understand, Sheikh. But the time for subtlety has passed. The British empire bleeds itself in the pacific, in Cyprus and Palestine. Together, we may change the course of history."
The room seemed to hold its breath.
Outside, the Cairo night deepened, the city's ancient pulse beating quietly beneath the veneer of empire and war.
And somewhere, far beyond these walls, the gears of a new alliance began to turn.
Manzini reached into the breast pocket of his jacket once more, his fingers emerging with a slim, leather-bound folder. The dim light of the room caught the worn edges as he carefully opened it, revealing a set of carefully prepared documents.
He slid them across the low table toward Hassan al-Banna.
"These are your identity papers," Manzini said softly, his voice steady but edged with urgency. "Forged, of course, but expertly done. They will allow you safe passage to Paris—alongside a ticket for the ship departing from Alexandria tomorrow night."
Al-Banna's fingers hovered for a moment before he picked up the documents, inspecting them closely. The name on the papers was unfamiliar, but the quality was undeniable.
Manzini continued, "This is not a trap, Sheikh. The meeting in Paris will be exactly that—a meeting. No commitments beyond the table. Should you refuse the terms offered by the emperor, you will be returned safely to Egypt. We will respect your decision."
He paused, locking eyes with al-Banna. "But be aware—if you do not attend, or decline the opportunity, Rome will pursue other, less diplomatic methods to challenge British control in this region. You may find yourself caught in the crossfire."
Al-Banna's expression hardened. "You speak as though I am a man to be threatened."
Manzini's voice hardened in response, the calm mask slipping just slightly. "No, Sheikh. I speak as a man who knows what will happen. We are all prisoners in this game of empires, and the British watch our every move. Your refusal would not end the struggle—it would only force us to escalate via other means."
Al-Banna sat back, the lines around his eyes deepening as he weighed the gravity of the situation. "You ask me to gamble the future of my people on the word of a fascist dictator, whose promises may be as hollow as the empty tea cups before us."
Manzini leaned forward, the intensity in his gaze unwavering. "I understand your skepticism. But the emperor has already made his move. This is no mere bluff."
A tense silence settled between them, broken only by the distant murmur of the city beyond the window.
Finally, al-Banna's voice was low, cautious but resolute. "Very well, Signor Kostopoulos. I will attend this meeting. But know this—I am a man forged by mistrust and struggle. I will not be a pawn to be sacrificed. If this alliance falters or betrays our cause, I will have no hesitation in severing ties and unleashing the trumpet of jihad."
Manzini's lips curved into a faint, approving smile. "I would expect nothing less from a man of your stature, Sheikh. This is only the beginning."
Abdullah quietly poured fresh tea for both men, the fragrant steam rising like a fragile bridge between two wary allies.
Outside, the shadows lengthened as the city prepared for nightfall. The wheel of fate had been set in motion—and neither man could foresee where it would lead.
Cairo, Cairo Governorate
Kingdom of Egypt
POV: Giuseppe Manzini, OVRA Operative — Codename: "Falcone"
The late afternoon sun bathed the dusty streets of Cairo in hues of amber and ochre, casting long shadows across the narrow alleyways of this modest, middle-class neighborhood nestled on the outskirts of the city. The air smelled faintly of cumin, cigarette smoke, and motor oil—a mélange that Giuseppe Manzini had come to associate with Egypt. He stood still for a moment, his sharp eyes scanning the two-story sandstone house before him. The building looked unremarkable—perhaps intentionally so. Whitewashed walls, latticed windows, and a plain wooden door. But appearances could be deceiving. This was no ordinary household.
Beside him stood his translator, cultural attaché, and fellow OVRA operative, Abdullah Ben Hakim—codename Lira. A wiry man of thirty-two with weathered skin and hawkish features, Abdullah hailed from the windswept desert outskirts of Sirte. He was a Bedouin by blood, a polyglot by training, and fiercely loyal to the mission at hand. His presence here wasn't merely for translation—it was for legitimacy, cover, and local intuition. Cairo was a city of whispers and shadows, and Giuseppe, for all his training, needed someone who could read between the lines of Egyptian speech and soul.
Giuseppe Manzini, the name etched into fascist files and OVRA dossiers, did not exist in Egypt. Not on paper. Not in rumor. Not even as a ghost. Here, he was Ioannes Kostopoulos, the son of an exiled Greek royalist and an Italian heiress whose family held a network textile mills in Lombardy and Ferrara. Kostopoulos was a man of industry—a transnational entrepreneur whose business interests lay in textile manufacturing, with primary operations in Alexandria and secondary connections scattered across the Nile Delta.
Officially, his presence in Cairo was routine—purely commercial. He was visiting the capital alongside his assistant and fixer, Khaled Al-Saher—a.k.a. Abdullah—to secure additional suppliers for the booming wool and cotton trade. Unofficially, it was a mission layered with deception, surveillance, and clandestine diplomacy.
The last two months in Egypt had tested his patience, endurance, and adaptability. Manzini had been immersed in the intricacies of the textile trade to a degree he never anticipated. He learned how raw cotton from Sudan was sorted and processed, how dyes were imported from what was once french Syria, and how thread counts mattered to different regional buyers. He could now, much to his own surprise, hold a conversation in broken Arabic about spinning ratios and loom maintenance.
He had traveled extensively—north to Alexandria, where his business identity was strongest; south to Minya and Luxor, where textile producers still operated under aging Ottoman-era methods. He'd shaken hands, broken bread, exchanged gifts, and absorbed every ounce of local etiquette required to pass as a Greek-Egyptian industrialist. OVRA had been generous with their funding, allowing him to broker small deals, secure minor contracts, and develop a network of textile merchants who viewed Kostopoulos as a respectable figure. On paper, the venture had even yielded a modest net profit of £100 sterling.
But when the ledgers were adjusted for living expenses, bribes, transportation, and the overhead of maintaining deep cover, the operation was running at a loss. Yet that didn't matter. Success in espionage was never measured in profits.
They had an in.
The man they were here to see was Hassan al-Banna, the reclisive and charismatic founder of the Muslim Brotherhood. Al-Banna had a reputation—both admired and feared. A teacher turned political philosopher, he had transformed a marginal religious study circle into a rapidly expanding sociopolitical movement. To the British and Egyptian royal family, he was a dangerous demagogue to be stamped out at the first sign of trouble. To the poor and disenfranchised of Egypt, he was a voice of God and justice. And now, by a stroke of fortune—or perhaps divine irony—al-Banna required textiles. Curtains for his home. Carpets. Silks, possibly.
And Ioannes Kostopoulos just happened to be the man who could supply them.
But textiles were not the reason Manzini was here.
He came bearing an invitation—from the emperor himself.
It couldn't be a direct approach. The British were on edge, their nerves frayed by the unraveling situations in Palestine, Cyprus, and the Mediterranean. They watched everything. They had eyes in every port, in every market, in every café. Cairo was a city under a polite but suffocating occupation. To meet al-Banna openly, as an Italian, would have been suicide.
Thus the elaborate charade. Thus the months of setup. Thus Kostopoulos.
Now, after weeks of planning, rehearsals, and patient groundwork, it was time.
Manzini adjusted the cuffs of his linen suit, glanced once more at Abdullah, and together they approached the modest home. The early evening call to prayer echoed faintly from a nearby mosque, mingling with the rustle of palm fronds in the cool November breeze.
He knocked twice on the door, pausing as footsteps shuffled within. The door creaked open, revealing a man in his late thirties, dressed simply in a white galabeya. Abdullah stepped forward, offering the appropriate Arabic greeting with flawless pronunciation and the confident familiarity of one raised in the desert.
"As-salamu alaykum wa rahmatullah. We are here on behalf of Kostopoulos Textile Imports. The master has come personally to ensure the fabric meets your satisfaction."
After a brief exchange and mutual formalities—meticulously memorized and rehearsed—Manzini and Abdullah were invited inside. The interior was modest but refined. Ornate rugs covered the floor, and shelves lined with Qur'anic texts and classical Islamic works filled the walls. They were ushered into a small sitting room with shuttered windows that opened to let in the cooling Cairo breeze.
Tea was served—strong, sweet, and steaming. The three men sat cross-legged on cushions. Al-Banna, ever the gracious host, led the conversation with probing warmth. He asked about the origin of the fabrics, the method of dyeing, the nature of the weavers. Manzini responded politely, with Abdullah translating where necessary, careful not to let slip even a hint of the Italian tongue beneath his borrowed Greek lilt.
But the real conversation—the one that mattered—was yet to come.
It would begin not with words, but with a folded letter bearing the seal of Mussolini. Hidden inside a packet of silk samples was a carefully worded message—a veiled proposal of alliance, or at the very least, understanding. Italy had declared its independence from Berlin's madness. It had seen the storm rising in Europe and chose another course. In the fires of a dying empire, Rome now sought partners—not enemies—in the Arab world.
Tonight, under the dim light of Cairo's lamps and the careful guise of commerce, history was about to change course.
And Giuseppe Manzini, alias Ioannes Kostopoulos, would be the man to light the match.
The tea cups rested gently on the low brass table, the warmth of the liquid still radiating through the delicate porcelain. Outside, the sounds of Cairo—distant calls to prayer, the faint rumble of a passing tram—filtered through the lattice windows, lending a quiet intimacy to the room. Hassan al-Banna regarded Giuseppe Manzini with calm, calculating eyes, the faintest crease of suspicion shadowing his brows.
Manzini cleared his throat softly, the weight of the moment settling on his shoulders like a cloak. Abdullah watched intently, his fingers lightly tapping a silent rhythm on his knee.
"Sheikh al-Banna," Manzini began, his voice measured, careful not to betray the nervous undercurrent beneath. "I owe you an apology. The truth of my presence here is not as simple as the businessman Ioannes Kostopoulos I have portrayed."
Al-Banna's gaze sharpened. Abdullah paused his translation, sensing the gravity.
"I am an operative of the Italian government, under the direct orders of the emperor—Constantine XII himself." Manzini's eyes did not waver. "This deception was necessary. The British have eyes everywhere in Cairo and beyond. To approach you openly would have put yours and all our lives at risk."
Al-Banna's lips pressed into a thin line. "Go on."
Manzini took a breath, reaching inside his jacket pocket and carefully withdrawing a folded document, embossed with the unmistakable seal of the Italian Fascist regime.
"His majesty extends a personal invitation—to broker a historic gathering. A meeting in Paris, between the emperor, His Majesty Abdulmejid II—the former Sultan and Caliph of the Ottoman Empire—and Imam Yahia Muhammad Hamid ed-Din of Yemen."
He let the names settle into the air, allowing their significance to sink in.
"The purpose of this assembly," Manzini continued, "is to discuss a united front—a coalition of Sunnis, Shias, and Romans—dedicated to one goal: the expulsion of British colonial forces and their puppets from Egypt, Sudan, Iraq, Jordan the Arabian Peninsula, and all of Africa."
Al-Banna's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "And what does the emperor propose as the foundation for this alliance?"
Manzini's voice softened but gained intensity. "He is prepared to support the restoration of the Caliphate—under the rightful spiritual authority of Abdulmejid II—as a symbol to unite the Muslim peoples across sectarian divides. Rome's role would be as arbiter and partner between both sects, not conqueror."
The room was silent but for the faint sound of the tea being poured again.
"As a gesture of goodwill," Manzini added, "and in recognition of your immediate needs, his majesty wishes to offer you the textiles you require—free of charge. This is not a transaction, but a symbol of respect and trust from Rome to you personally, and to the broader cause we share."
Al-Banna sat back, eyes flickering between Manzini and Abdullah. His mind was undoubtedly racing—calculating the risks and possibilities of this unexpected proposal.
"Tell your emperor," he said slowly, "that the idea of unity among Sunnis and Shias is a dream many have tried to pursue but few have seen realized. And the restoration of the Caliphate—if sincere—could inspire millions."
He paused, looking Manzini squarely in the eye. "But the British are not easily expelled. Their grip is strong. And the path you propose will be fraught with peril."
Manzini inclined his head respectfully. "We understand, Sheikh. But the time for subtlety has passed. The British empire bleeds itself in the pacific, in Cyprus and Palestine. Together, we may change the course of history."
The room seemed to hold its breath.
Outside, the Cairo night deepened, the city's ancient pulse beating quietly beneath the veneer of empire and war.
And somewhere, far beyond these walls, the gears of a new alliance began to turn.
Manzini reached into the breast pocket of his jacket once more, his fingers emerging with a slim, leather-bound folder. The dim light of the room caught the worn edges as he carefully opened it, revealing a set of carefully prepared documents.
He slid them across the low table toward Hassan al-Banna.
"These are your identity papers," Manzini said softly, his voice steady but edged with urgency. "Forged, of course, but expertly done. They will allow you safe passage to Paris—alongside a ticket for the ship departing from Alexandria tomorrow night."
Al-Banna's fingers hovered for a moment before he picked up the documents, inspecting them closely. The name on the papers was unfamiliar, but the quality was undeniable.
Manzini continued, "This is not a trap, Sheikh. The meeting in Paris will be exactly that—a meeting. No commitments beyond the table. Should you refuse the terms offered by the emperor, you will be returned safely to Egypt. We will respect your decision."
He paused, locking eyes with al-Banna. "But be aware—if you do not attend, or decline the opportunity, Rome will pursue other, less diplomatic methods to challenge British control in this region. You may find yourself caught in the crossfire."
Al-Banna's expression hardened. "You speak as though I am a man to be threatened."
Manzini's voice hardened in response, the calm mask slipping just slightly. "No, Sheikh. I speak as a man who knows what will happen. We are all prisoners in this game of empires, and the British watch our every move. Your refusal would not end the struggle—it would only force us to escalate via other means."
Al-Banna sat back, the lines around his eyes deepening as he weighed the gravity of the situation. "You ask me to gamble the future of my people on the word of a fascist dictator, whose promises may be as hollow as the empty tea cups before us."
Manzini leaned forward, the intensity in his gaze unwavering. "I understand your skepticism. But the emperor has already made his move. This is no mere bluff."
A tense silence settled between them, broken only by the distant murmur of the city beyond the window.
Finally, al-Banna's voice was low, cautious but resolute. "Very well, Signor Kostopoulos. I will attend this meeting. But know this—I am a man forged by mistrust and struggle. I will not be a pawn to be sacrificed. If this alliance falters or betrays our cause, I will have no hesitation in severing ties and unleashing the trumpet of jihad."
Manzini's lips curved into a faint, approving smile. "I would expect nothing less from a man of your stature, Sheikh. This is only the beginning."
Abdullah quietly poured fresh tea for both men, the fragrant steam rising like a fragile bridge between two wary allies.
Outside, the shadows lengthened as the city prepared for nightfall. The wheel of fate had been set in motion—and neither man could foresee where it would lead.