Great Germany Ⅰ Shadows of Transition

　　In the early hours of March 9, 1960, Vienna, Austria, lay shrouded in an eerie silence. The once vibrant streets of Reichsgau Wien were now patrolled by armed guards, their presence casting a tense atmosphere. Windows remained shut, doors barred, and the populace huddled indoors, their voices hushed.

　　Baldur Benedikt von Schirach, the Governor of the Grand Venn region, sat on the edge of his bed in the opulent Hofburg Palace. Clad in black silk pajamas and slippers, he contemplated the weight of the moment. The room was bathed in subdued light, the ceiling fixture unlit, while wall sconces illuminated the space.

　　Baldur, a 53-year-old native of Austria, possessed a pallid complexion and a gaunt face. His voice, though gentle, betrayed the gravity of his thoughts. "The old man is ailing."

　　His wife, Henriette, 47 years old and wrapped in a white silk nightgown, listened intently. "Who?" she whispered, her expression etched with concern.

　　Baldur gestured toward the portrait hanging on the wall-the likeness of Adolf Hitler, the current Führer. Henriette's eyes followed his gaze. "No," she murmured, "he can't."

　　"But he can," Baldur replied. "I fear he will soon make the final decision." He rose from the bed, selecting a suit from the closet. "I must go to Linzer Schloss immediately."

　　"Why such an early departure? The dawn has yet to break," Henriette protested, pulling the blanket closer. "I'm cold."

　　Baldur opened the window, surveying the quiet street below. The dim glow of streetlights revealed no signs of life. Two parked cars stood sentinel across the way. He turned back to his wife. "Rest. As for me…" His voice trailed off. "I have matters to attend to."

　　And so, in the predawn stillness, Baldur Benedikt von Schirach stepped into the uncertain future, leaving behind a city on the brink of change.

　　Henriette watched her husband, Baldur, dress and exit the room. Her heart ached. Baldur, once the president of the Hitler Youth and the founder of the Hitlerjugend, had also served as the Gauleiter of Vienna. However, their relationship had soured since June 1943, when they attempted to persuade Hitler to halt the atrocities against Jews and Eastern Europeans. Since then, Baldur had fallen out of favor with the Führer.

　　Now a mere shadow of his former self, Baldur lacked the confidence and courage he once possessed. The weight of his responsibilities pressed down on him, and Henriette feared that he might meet the same fate as Ernst Kaltenbrunner.

　　As the cold wind seeped through the open window, Henriette closed her eyes, pulling the blanket tightly around her. She drifted into sleep, only to be awakened by the ringing landline phone on the bedside table. Her tired voice quivered as she answered. "Baldur?" she ventured.

　　Albert Speer's voice crackled on the other end. "Henriette?"

　　She corrected him, "It's Henriette."

　　"Oh, my apologies," Albert said. "Is Baldur there?"

　　"No," Henriette replied, her voice still trembling. "He left for Linz."

　　"Why Linz?"

　　"To attend a meeting."

　　Albert sighed deeply. "Tell him the old man is gone."

　　Henriette gasped. "What do you mean? The Führer... is he dead?"

　　Albert's tone remained emotionless. "Yes. He passed away in his office, sitting in his chair. No one noticed until recently. I received the news; it seems he died late last night."

　　"Are you certain?"

　　"His secretary discovered him."

　　Henriette hesitated. "What happens next?"

　　"The old man will be cremated, and a grand public memorial service will be held. Many will attend. When Baldur returns, we'll proceed with our original plan."

　　Silent, Henriette listened as Speer hung up the phone, leaving her alone with the weight of history and uncertainty. The world had changed, and she wondered what lay ahead. The past was gone, and the future awaited-a future without the Führer. The grandiose memorial would mark the end of an era, and Baldur's path remained uncertain.

　　March 9, 1960, Linz

　　The moon hung low in the sky, casting elongated shadows across the cobblestone streets of Linz. At precisely 12:45 AM, the imposing figure of Heinrich Himmler materialized-a man whose very name resonated with authority. His titles were a litany of power: Reichsführer of the SS, Reich Interior Minister, Reich Commissar for the Consolidation of German Nationhood, Commander of the Reserve Army, Deputy Supreme Commander of the Army, Head of the Replacement Army, and State Secretary of the Ministry of the Interior. Each role carried its weight, a testament to the intricate web of influence spun by the Third Reich.

　　The streets, once silent, now bore witness to a convergence-an intersection of destinies. Himmler's footsteps echoed as he traversed the path toward the heart of the city. His presence was both feared and revered, a paradoxical blend of menace and purpose. The Reich Security Service building loomed ahead, its austere façade concealing secrets that would shape the course of history.

　　Within those walls, Baldur-leader of the Grand Venn region-awaited. His nerves danced like marionettes, pulled by invisible strings. The surveillance photograph, stark black and white, lay on the desk before him. It captured a moment frozen in time: Baldur and his wife, Henriette, engaged in conversation with Albert Speer, Heinrich Himmler, and other enigmatic figures. Their words, their alliances-etched into the frame-held the promise of revelation and peril.

　　As the door closed behind Himmler, the room seemed to exhale. Baldur's gaze met the stern countenance of SS-Sturmbannführer Otto Horn, who had orchestrated this clandestine meeting. Otto's voice was devoid of sentiment as he delivered the news: "The Führer has passed away. His body awaits cremation."

　　Baldur's throat tightened. The Führer-the axis around which their world had spun-now extinguished. The weight of responsibility settled upon him. Otto continued, his words measured: "The Führer's will remains elusive. Power struggles loom. We've imposed martial law in Vienna and Linz. Your cooperation is paramount."

　　Baldur nodded, his resolve crystallizing. "I must speak with Albert Speer," he declared. The fate of National Socialism hung in the balance, and Baldur would navigate treacherous waters to safeguard its legacy.

　　And so, in the dimly lit room, history unfurled its wings. The clock ticked, echoing the heartbeat of a nation in transition. Baldur's path was set-a tightrope between loyalty and survival, honor and intrigue. As dawn approached, the shadows deepened, and the chessboard of power shifted. The Reich Security Service held its secrets, and Baldur-caught in its web-prepared to play his move.

　　Baldur, dressed in the uniform of the Waffen-SS, surveyed the street below. His gaze swept the landscape, searching for any signs of change. The city remained cloaked in silence, its occupants unaware of the power struggle unfolding. He was at this point facing Himmler with SS-Sturmbannführer Otto Horn, Otto Horn, a man promoted by Martin Bowman just after the war, was initially responsible for overseeing Aktion T4 operations and the disposal of bodies from concentration camps. Remarkably, he neither mistreated nor executed any Jews, and his demeanor was so negative that he had no SS associates. It's almost as if there were another version of himself, mused Baldur.

　　Baldur spoke, his voice betraying his tension. "Where are the remains of the Führer?"

　　Otto replied, "In his bunker. No one must know of his passing."

　　"I must visit," Baldur asserted.

　　Otto nodded. "The Reichsführer will accompany you." Himmler perversely nods but says nothing.

　　Baldur steeled himself. The next few moments would determine the course of the rest of his life. With Otto's support, he ascended the steps to the Führerbunker. The stench of death clung to the walls, a miasma of despair. Otto led the way, his footsteps echoing through the corridor.

　　Baldur's pulse raced. This was the moment that would define his legacy-the culmination of decades of service to the Reich. Otto halted outside the Führer's office, his expression unreadable. Baldur's hand trembled as he pushed open the door.

　　The room was a testament to the Führer's dedication-a shrine to power. The walls were adorned with memorabilia from the early days of the Reich, and the desk was immaculate, devoid of clutter. The Führer's absence hung like a physical presence, his absence a gaping wound. At this point, Baldur didn't care about the 'Hitler' on the wall, and he walked briskly to the bedroom where a group of doctors were huddled in the corner.

　　Baldur's eyes were drawn to the bed-a scene straight from a horror film. The Führer lay motionless, his body covered in a white sheet. Bloody vomit stained the mattress, and the smell was suffocating. Incontinence and the effects of morphine overdose.

　　Otto Horn interrupted the silence. "The doctors say the Führer's will was written during his coma." Baldur shook his head, Whether the Soul is Evil or Great, the Flesh is Always Shameful.

　　A chill ran down Baldur's spine as he remembered the last line of the will. "He was delusional," Baldur murmured. Otto nodded grimly.

　　Baldur's gaze returned to the Führer's corpse. "Hurry up and have the Remains Organized, This is Shameful." Himmler agreed, his voice low.

　　Baldur exited the room, his emotions a tangled knot. Himmler and Otto followed, their footsteps echoing through the hall. The journey to the Reichschancellery had never felt so long. Himmler, who had been silent, finally spoke. "Sometimes a will is not valid."

　　Baldur nodded, his thoughts a jumbled mess. He had always known the Führer's mind was troubled, but to witness the final decay of his body had been a shock. "The problem is Goering."

　　"He will be dealt with," Himmler reassured. "We are the protectors of the Reich."

　　"But what if the will is valid?" Baldur questioned.

　　"Then we will ensure the true heir ascends," Otto responded, his tone resolute.

　　Every passing second was an eternity, and Baldur could feel his anxiety rising. Himmler and Otto had assured him that the situation was under control, but he wasn't convinced.

　　Finally, they reached the Reichschancellery. The doors swung open, and Baldur stepped into the vestibule. His heart was racing, and his palms were sweating. The fate of the Reich was at stake.

　　Main Hall. The atmosphere was tense. In the middle of the hall, there was a long table. There were six people sitting behind it, and they were all old men. They were dressed in black suits, and their faces were cold and serious.

　　At the center of the table was a large brown leather briefcase. Next to it was a thick white envelope. On the envelope, in the center, were the words: 'Fuhrer Adolf Hitler's Last Will and Testament.'

　　Baldur was sure that the letter could not have been written by the Austrian he had once admired and later hated.