Chapter 1: Stocktaking
Warning: Contains anti-Polish, anti-Russian, anti-immigrant sentiments, to be resolved over the course of the story.
Gilbert lay in the grass by the Havel River in New Garden Park, Potsdam. The late August sun shone through the leaves of the tall willow tree above him, letting small flecks of sunlight play on his face as the branches danced in the wind.
Ludwig and Feli had gone on a guided tour at the nearby Cecilienhof palace. They had wanted him to come along, but he had refused. The prominent five-pointed Soviet star in the palace's main courtyard had freaked him out.
He had told Feli and Ludwig that he would never fall so low as to enter a building that so clearly bore the marks of the Soviet victors.
But the main reason he didn't want to enter the palace was that it was the site of his utter defeat. The Potsdam Conference had taken place there in 1945. The Allies had conferred about what to do with him, with his land and his people. His rival and arch enemy, Feliks, had won a victory here by his cunning; he had tricked the Allies by claiming false facts and had succeeded in gaining Prussian territories up to as far west as the River Oder. Ivan, on the other hand had annexed Königsberg.
Thinking of his losses brought back memories, memories of 9 million of his people losing their homes, and forced westward.
His thoughts went back to the present. He had sensed that Ludwig and Feli were not exactly unhappy about spending some time on their own without him as a chaperone, but, to his own surprise, it didn't bother him. He didn't know why, but he was quite satisfied to be alone for some time.
His mind was full of the last days' impressions. Pictures of all the sights and people he'd seen during the past days of his trip to Berlin and Potsdam were swirling through his head. He half-closed his eyes as his thoughts went wandering, letting the events of the day pass before his mind.
The visit to Sanssouci. He hadn't been there in a long time, and how small the building had seemed compared to Versailles or Schönbrunn! The building and the park were well-maintained – thanks to the oh so generous donations by tourists and well-meaning citizens, he added sarcastically. People dressed in historical Prussian uniforms had been standing at the entrance gate to Sanssouci, quietly holding out their information signs and collection boxes, humbly asking passers-by for a donation. He scoffed at the thought of the Prussian Cultural Heritage Foundation having to beg for donations. It was humiliating. It hurt his pride. Old Man Fritz would turn in his grave if he could see how low Prussia had fallen.
Despite the contributions, time had taken its toll on the buildings. It had been sad to see the former glory crumbling. The lavish Rokoko style furnishings of the rooms seemed long outdated and like a relict of ancient times. He knew that their maintenance devoured millions of Euros every year, money that Ludwig was unwilling to pay.
He wondered if he had become a burden, a ghost that haunted his and his brother's people. When he looked around, there wasn't much left that could really be considered Prussian. The people considered themselves Germans, and a lot of them didn't even know what Prussia was. "Prussia? What's that?" they would ask.
What about the Prussian virtues he had held up? They had blamed them for the rise of Nazism, and now they were forgotten. Discipline, punctuality and bravery sounded hopelessly old-fashioned after 1968. They had mocked them, but he knew better. Hard work, discipline and perseverance would always win over laziness. Incorruptibility was a gift he had given his little brother, but Ludwig couldn't even guess how precious it was.
Cornflowers, Prussia's national flower, had become a thing of the past. You didn't see them in the fields any more. They were all weeded out. Only a few people still grew them in their gardens.
They even had abolished the military service he had been so proud of. Once called "the school of the nation," the military had combined education and physical training for men, and it had made his country strong and feared by its neighbors.
What struck him most was that his people had changed.
When he had walked through the streets of Berlin, he had once again been amazed at the large number of immigrants. Turkish women in headscarves pushing their prams and calling after their small children, unemployed Russians and Poles getting drunk together on vodka in front of a war memorial. Vodka, he suspected, they bought with social welfare money.
Ludwig had been very generous to immigrants. He, himself, hadn't been so unselective about who entered his country. The French Huguenots his king had invited to his country had been of a higher social class. They had been educated and had risen up to hold positions of responsibility in their various professions.
He opened his eyes and watched the diverse people around him. Were they the new Prussians?
Was there anything Prussian anymore?
A/N:
I feel bad for presenting Poles and Russians in such a bad light, and I apologize if I offended anyone. I'm going to show in later chapters that the majority of them are not like that at all.
Thanks for reading! I'd love to hear what you think, so please leave a review!
