Taking a Duce (A Benito Mussolini SI)

December 16, 1941
In the skies over Romania
Bruno Mussolini, 23 years old

We took off at dawn.

The airfield outside Rome was soaked in mist and gasoline fumes, the smell heavy enough to taste. The sun hadn't even crested the Adriatic yet—just a bruised purple line on the horizon, pressing down on the sea. Engines roared to life around us, coughing black smoke into the morning as our squadron readied for the long flight north.

I sat in the cockpit of my SM.79 Sparviero, running my gloved hands over the controls, checking and rechecking out of habit more than need. Across the tarmac, maybe seventy meters away, I caught sight of another Sparviero taxiing into position—Vittorio's. He gave a sharp salute out the side window. I returned it, feeling the old ache in my chest that never quite went away when I thought about him.

Big brother. God help us both today.

We rolled down the runway one by one, wheels thundering against the ground, engines howling at the sky like wolves loosed from their cage. The heavy load of chemical tanks and incendiary bombs made the takeoff feel like dragging a corpse into the heavens. But we made it. We always did.

The formation climbed into the waking blue, fifty aircraft strong—bombers, flanked by fighters from the Regia Aeronautica: Macchi C.202s and Fiat G.50s, sleek and hungry.

The first hour passed in silence, save for the occasional crackle of the radio and the endless, rhythmic drone of the engines. Down below, the Balkans rolled past—frozen rivers, skeletal forests, villages like clusters of ash clinging to the hills.

At 07:31, the transmission came through. Father's voice, broadcast across every channel.

I pulled off my flight helmet for a moment, letting the words hit bare.

"—Romans are not slaves… I would rather they come to Rome, and find us standing…"

The crew listened in silence. Even the gunners in the dorsal turrets paused, heads bowed as if in church.

I closed my eyes for a moment, hearing not just the words, but the weight behind them. Two years ago, none of us would have believed it. Mussolini—my father—calling for a crusade against Berlin. Against everything the Axis was supposed to mean.

But then, none of us had seen what he saw. What the Germans were doing.

We're not bombing for conquest today.
We're not even bombing for Italy.
We're bombing because if we don't, the world drowns in blood.

The last words faded into static.

"Contact! Enemy fighters, 12 o'clock high!"

The shout ripped me back into the present.

Messerschmitts. A full wing. Maybe more. They came out of the rising sun like demons—sleek, silver, and merciless. Yellow noses. Luftwaffe. Jagdgeschwader 77, if I wasn't mistaken. The Eagles of Ploiești. They knew we were coming.

Tracer fire stitched the sky in front of us.

"All bombers, tighten formation!" I barked into the intercom. "Gunners, fire at will!"

The sky turned into a storm of motion. Fighters peeled away from the bombers, screaming upward to meet the enemy head-on. Macchi 202s danced with Bf 109s in tight spirals, wings flashing in the light. Machine gun chatter rattled through the cockpit like hail on a tin roof.

I saw Vittorio's plane veer hard left, two Messerschmitts on his tail. My gut twisted. I wanted to break formation, race to him, do something. But he had his gunners, and I had a mission.

A spray of bullets tore through the air near my wing. Instinct snapped me sideways, the bomber groaning as I yanked the controls. Our right-side gunner caught the Messerschmitt in the engine with a lucky burst—black smoke vomiting out as the German fighter tumbled away.

Not today, I thought grimly.

Somewhere in the chaos, Vittorio's Sparviero reappeared, scarred but flying true. I breathed again.

The fight lasted maybe five minutes. Maybe an eternity. Half our fighters were hit. Two bombers went down in flames, trailing black ribbons across the dawn. I didn't even have time to register who. No time for grief.

The radio crackled:
"Approaching target!"

The Ploiești oil fields spread out below us—sprawling and ugly, a black heart pumping fuel into the Nazi war machine. Storage tanks, pipelines, refineries—ripe for burning.

"Bomb bay doors open!" the bombardier called.

I gritted my teeth as the plane rattled violently in the crosswinds.

The first incendiaries dropped, tiny black dots that grew into blooming orange flowers on the ground. Then the chemical canisters—white clouds bursting over the fields, choking everything in their path.

The refineries went up like paper in a furnace. Smoke and flame leapt skyward, so thick it swallowed the rising sun. For a moment, it looked like we'd set the world itself on fire.

Maybe we had.

We turned hard south, engines screaming as anti-aircraft fire erupted all around us. Vittorio's plane was just ahead, trailing smoke but still flying. Good. Good.

I risked a glance back. Ploiești was a living inferno. Tanks burst one by one in chain reactions, sending geysers of black fire hundreds of meters high.

"Enemy fighters regrouping!" the gunner shouted.

We dove. Hard.

Another dogfight raged behind us, but the Sparvieros, lighter after dropping payloads, picked up speed. Fighters covered us where they could, but it was a mad scramble southward. Survival, nothing else.

By the time we crossed back over the Danube, our squadron was half its size. Blood on the clouds. Names we wouldn't know were gone until we counted landing gears back in Bari.

I didn't let myself think about it yet. Couldn't.

We flew on in silence, engines groaning, hands shaking but alive.

I looked over once more—saw Vittorio's battered Sparviero beside mine. His gunner gave a ragged thumbs-up through the cockpit window. I returned it, feeling something crack in my chest. Pride. Fear. Grief. Love. All of it, tangled into a knot that no amount of flying could ever undo.

Today we had fought the monsters.

But tomorrow—
Tomorrow we'd have to fight what they left behind inside us.

-

December 16, 1941
In the sky, somewhere over Wallachia
Vittorio Mussolini, 25 years old

Flying was supposed to be the fun part.

I used to love it, the way the engines screamed, the way the world got small below you, how you could pretend—for just a moment—that everything down there didn't matter. Not politics, not Father's speeches, not the weight of the name I carried like a pair of lead boots.

But this?

This wasn't flying.

This was war.

And it was nothing like Ethiopia.

Ethiopia had been easy. Parades through Addis Ababa, bombing goat paths, chasing men with spears from a sky they couldn't touch. It felt like playing soldier. It felt like a story you could tell at a bar after two drinks, with a girl hanging on every word.

But now?

Now the sky was full of wolves.

My SM.79 bucked hard as a Messerschmitt roared past, its prop wash slamming the fuselage like a slap across the face. Tracer rounds stitched through the air just off our wing. I heard my gunner swear over the intercom, felt the rattle of his return fire shake the spine of the plane.

I was sweating so much I couldn't tell if it was fear or the damn heating system.

Maybe both.

We'd taken a glancing hit a few minutes ago—something ripped through the left engine cowling, leaving a shuddering metallic cough that hadn't stopped since. But she was still flying. Just barely.

"Bruno, you still up?" I asked over the radio.

A burst of static. Then his voice, sharp, clipped.

"Still here. You okay?"

"Define okay." I grinned instinctively—old habit. Then I saw the burning hulk of a bomber plummeting a few clicks behind us. One of ours. No chutes.

My grin faded.

"Yeah," I muttered. "Still here."

We pressed on toward Ploiești, the formation tighter now, like scared animals herding together. The smoke columns rising in the distance made it look like the gates of Hell were opening just for us.

"Bomb bay ready," my bombardier said.

"Wait for the signal," I told him, fingers clenched on the stick. My heart was hammering now. Not fast like panic—just loud. Like it wanted out. Like it didn't want to be here either.

And then I saw it—the fields.

They stretched for miles, endless rows of tanks and towers, flame-belching chimneys, and the filthy steel skeletons of Nazi industry. I remembered reading Goering's speech—'the beating heart of the Reich's oil supply'.

So we were here to stab it.

"Drop in five… four… three…"

The bay doors opened, and the cold wind slammed up from below, carrying the reek of burning rubber and chemicals even at altitude.

"Two… one… release!"

The bombs tumbled away—canisters and cylinders, trailing smoke, white and black. Then came the fire. Bright and terrible. Like the devil had lit a match in a refinery.

"Santa Maria…" one of my gunners whispered.

We banked hard. Turned south. The flak opened up like it had been waiting for us. I flinched as a shell burst nearby, a thunderclap that rocked the whole bird and sent one of the crewmen cursing in Latin.

Then came the fighters again.

Shit.

They were angrier now. Desperate. Like they'd finally realized what we'd just done. One of them came straight at us, guns blazing. I swore and pulled the Sparviero into a shallow dive, just enough to throw off his angle. The dorsal gunner got a lucky hit—shattered the cockpit glass of the Messerschmitt. He peeled away smoking, vanished into the clouds.

"Keep it steady!" I shouted. "Stay on the line!"

It was all I could do to hold her together.

My hands weren't shaking anymore. Funny thing. They had been earlier—right after takeoff. But not now. Now they were stone. Locked in. Eyes wide, mind sharp.

This isn't sport. This isn't pomp and medals.

This was killing.

This was being hunted and hunting back.

A Macchi flashed past above us, chasing a German fighter down through the clouds. A moment later, both vanished in a bloom of fire. I didn't know who won. I didn't want to know.

I just wanted to make it back. One piece. One plane. My crew alive.

We crossed into Bulgarian airspace at low altitude, trees rushing by like ghosts. I could feel the bird wheezing under me, straining. One engine sputtered. The other groaned.

But she held.

As we cleared the last ridge before the Adriatic, I saw Bruno's plane again—his silhouette sharp against the gold-touched clouds, flying just ahead of mine.

Still up. Of course he was.

He always was the serious one. The dutiful son. The responsible pilot. The one Father looked at like he saw a reflection.

Me? I used to crack jokes in the briefing room. Used to flirt with the nurses and ask the mechanics to paint pin-ups on my fuselage.

But not today.

Today I was a soldier. No—a killer.

And the sky would never be the same.

Excerpt from Antonio Cazorla Sánchez's 2014 Book: Franco: The Biography of the Myth

From the end of the Spanish Civil War in March 1939 to December of 1941, Spain underwent one of the most paradoxical and politically tumultuous metamorphoses in its modern history. Ravaged by internal war, crippled economically, and governed by a fractious coalition masquerading as a unified regime, the Spain of September 1939 stood at a precipice. What followed in the next twenty-seven months was a transformation marked by foreign entanglement, ideological recalibration, and an increasingly Faustian relationship with the Fascist regime in Rome.

When war broke out in Europe in September 1939, General Francisco Franco, now Caudillo of Spain, chose a careful policy of neutrality. Though ideologically sympathetic to Germany and Italy, Spain's material conditions were dire. The civil war had devastated industrial output, the agricultural sector was in ruins, and the country faced chronic shortages of everything from wheat to medicine. Franco, advised by technocrats and the German-trained Colonel Juan Vigón, recognized that Spain could not afford another war—at least not yet.

The early postwar years were characterized by an attempt at autarky. The regime pursued economic self-sufficiency with a dogmatic zeal. State-run monopolies and syndicates were established under the aegis of the Falange, but the results were dismal. Inflation soared, rationing deepened, and black markets flourished. Bread lines returned even in urban centers like Madrid and Seville. An estimated 200,000 people died between 1939 and 1941 due to malnutrition, exposure, and untreated disease.

Worse still, Spain found itself diplomatically isolated. Neither the Axis nor the Allies trusted Franco. The Germans provided limited aid, primarily in the form of technical advisors and political liaisons, but balked at serious economic assistance. Italy, recovering from its failed campaigns in East Africa and wary of further entanglements, was similarly hesitant—at least until early 1940.

The first real pivot occurred in March 1940, when Mussolini proposed a broad strategic alignment between Spain and Italy. The resulting Italo-Spanish Treaty, signed in principle in early 1940 and formalized on May 10th that year, was a watershed moment. Franco's regime, desperate for external support, entered into a Faustian bargain with Mussolini's Fascist state.

The terms were extensive. Italy gained access to naval bases in Valencia, Majorca, and the Canary Islands—strategic footholds in the Mediterranean and Atlantic. In exchange, Spain received debt relief, a free trade agreement, and substantial post-war reconstruction assistance, much of it in the form of food shipments, construction materials, and industrial machinery. Italian engineers flooded into Spain to assist in infrastructure projects, particularly railways and ports.

Perhaps most controversially, Italy was granted exclusive access to Spanish colonial resources. Italian companies gained mining rights in the Spanish Sahara and trading monopolies in Equatorial Guinea. Italian settlers began arriving in the colonies by mid-1940, protected by a bilateral agreement that allowed joint policing by Spanish and Italian forces.

The treaty sparked a political firestorm within the Movimiento Nacional. While the Falangists and the syndicalist sectors of the regime welcomed the alignment as the fulfillment of José Antonio Primo de Rivera's vision. The traditionalists were outraged.

The Carlists, with their emphasis on monarchist sovereignty and regionalism, viewed the treaty as a betrayal of Spain's spiritual and national mission. The Alfonsists, representing the exiled Bourbon royal house, were equally alarmed, particularly by Italy's influence in the Mediterranean and North Africa. The National-Catholics were torn: they appreciated Mussolini's historic defense of Catholicism, especially after the Lateran Treaty, but were deeply suspicious of his regime's recent overtures toward Jews and its modernist impulses.

Franco, caught between these factions, undertook a complex political balancing act. The diplomatic masterstroke came in April 1940, when Mussolini brokered a betrothal between Prince Juan Carlos of the Bourbon line and Princess Maria Pia of the House of Savoy. This not only signaled a thaw between the Alfonsists and the Italian state but also ensured future dynastic fusion between two Catholic monarchies. The Alfonsist opposition melted almost overnight.

Mussolini, sensing opportunity, also reached out to the National-Catholics. In a series of confidential correspondences, he revealed to their leaders that he was in communication with the Zionist underground, the Lehi, and was backing the creation of a Jewish homeland in Palestine—on the condition that the Vatican be granted control over Jerusalem's holy sites. This gesture placated the devoutly Catholic faction, especially once Mussolini pledged to elevate Catholicism as a cornerstone of "Christo-Fascism," a term that began to appear in Falangist propaganda by the autumn of 1940.

The Carlists proved more intransigent. Franco responded with a dual strategy of repression and reward. Radical Carlist cells calling for renewed armed resistance were arrested en masse in early May 1940. At the same time, more moderate Carlists were offered the Ministry of Justice, and with it, oversight of the national police. This "stick-and-carrot" approach pacified the movement without entirely compromising state authority.

By May 10th, Franco had neutralized enough internal dissent to sign the treaty. Ironically, on the very same day, German tanks began pouring into Belgium and France. The juxtaposition was not lost on the Spanish public, nor on Franco himself.

In the summer of 1940, Italy remained neutral even as France crumbled under the German assault. Seizing the opportunity created by France's defeat and the resulting power vacuum in North Africa, Mussolini and Franco initiated a new phase of imperial adventurism.

Through intense diplomatic maneuvering, Italy secured the German Reich's tacit approval for Spain to absorb key French colonial holdings in North Africa. Spain was granted control over Oran, Algiers, and Annaba. The remaining regions of French Algeria were fused with Morocco, forming the Duchy of the Maghreb, a semi-autonomous vassal state under a newly crowned Duke of the Maghreb—the King of Morocco, now answerable to Madrid.

The economic calculus was simple: Spain needed access to phosphates, and agricultural lands. Italian advisors pressured Franco into an aggressive redistribution campaign. French-owned estates were expropriated, often violently, and redistributed to local Arab and Berber tribes in a bid to generate goodwill and co-opt nationalist fervor. The policy paid short-term dividends, but provoked a furious backlash from the pied noir population—French settlers who saw their property confiscated and their political rights stripped away.

A low-level insurgency erupted in late 1940, particularly in the Kabylie and Constantine regions. Spain responded with brutal counterinsurgency tactics, including the use of Berber auxiliary forces trained and equipped by Italian advisors. Tens of thousands of pied noirs were interned in camps and forcibly relocated to French West Africa via Dakar. The entire operation, while successful in terms of pacification, left deep scars in the colonial psyche.

Meanwhile, economic conditions in metropolitan Spain began to improve modestly. Italian trade provided a lifeline for food, coal, and manufactured goods. Spanish exports—primarily minerals and citrus—found a reliable market in Italy and the Balkans. State-sponsored industrialization began in earnest under the supervision of Italian engineers, with new steel plants and chemical factories breaking ground in Bilbao, Seville, and Zaragoza.

Throughout 1941, the geopolitical situation grew increasingly complex. Germany's invasion of the Soviet Union in June had opened the Eastern Front, but by December, Hitler faced a new challenge: American involvement in the war following the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor.

On December 15, 1941, a sealed letter arrived in Rome from Berlin. The Reich, furious over Italy's continued neutrality, demanded that Mussolini immediately declare war on the United States. The message carried a thinly veiled threat: refusal would be interpreted as betrayal, and Germany would consider Italy an enemy state.

Mussolini, increasingly skeptical of Hitler and privately disturbed by mounting evidence of German atrocities in the East, made a fateful decision. He presented the contents of the letter—along with extensive documentation of the Holocaust obtained via Italian intelligence—to Pope Pius XII and key Italian journalists. Among the evidence were intercepted communications, photographs from Eastern Europe, and testimonies from Italian Catholic clergy embedded in Poland.

The very next day, December 16th, the Pope issued a Papal Bull calling for a crusade against the heresy of National Socialism. The Vatican declared any member of the Nazi Party as excommunicated unless they renounced their affiliation by January 1, 1942.

Mussolini declared war that same day. In an address broadcast across the world.

Franco, caught off guard but unable to resist the tide, declared war on December 17th. In his address, he cast Spain's intervention not as allegiance to Mussolini, but as fidelity to Catholic civilization. "The redemptive light of Christendom," he proclaimed, "must not be extinguished by pagan steel."

It was a profound irony. A regime born in blood and repression, now riding the banner of moral crusade into global conflict. Yet in that moment, Franco's Spain stood—bruised, compromised, and beholden to Fascist Italy—on the precipice of a new war and a new myth.

-

Transcript of Generalísimo Francisco Franco's Address to the Nation
Radio Nacional de España, Madrid – December 17, 1941
Time: 8:00 PM CET

(The crackle of radio static fades as orchestral military music concludes. A firm, deliberate silence follows. Then, Franco's voice begins—measured, slow, yet imbued with a cold, passionate intensity.)

"Spaniards,

Today, I speak to you not merely as the Head of State, not as Generalísimo of the victorious Nationalist forces, but as a son of Spain—of our immortal soil, of our eternal faith, of our bloodied, triumphant soul.

The world is aflame. From the snows of Russia to the jungles of the Pacific, war has returned like the pestilence of old, scouring nations, devouring families, and testing the moral sinews of civilization. For two years we have stood apart, weary from our own great sacrifice, rebuilding from the ashes, offering prayers rather than bullets, labor instead of battle cries.

But neutrality is no longer an option. Silence is no longer a virtue. And inaction is no longer peace.

This morning, I received the Holy Father's call—a call that echoes the spirit of Christendom, a call to every Catholic conscience, a call that speaks not of conquest, but of duty.

We now know, without doubt, the truth of Adolf Hitler's crusade. It is not one of national revival, nor even of misguided vengeance. It is a crusade of Satan. Nazism is no ideology—it is blasphemy cloaked in iron, paganism wielding steel. It has slaughtered the innocent, desecrated the Cross, and now, threatens the sanctity of the Christian world.

Germany has embraced the heresy of blood as god, of the State as savior, of the strong as righteous. This cannot be tolerated. Not by Rome, not by Madrid, not by any soul that fears the Lord and honors His commandments.

Spaniards: We shall not stand idle while the innocents are butchered. We shall not feign blindness as synagogues burn, as churches are stripped, as Christian Europe is brought under the yoke of a neo-pagan tyranny.

Today, the Crusade begins anew.

Today, we proclaim a new Reconquista—not of territory, but of the moral soul of Europe. Just as our ancestors reclaimed Spain from the Moors, so too shall we reclaim Christendom from the black scourge of Nazism.

We march not for empire, but for justice. Not for vengeance, but for righteousness. The Spanish flag shall fly once more on the side of God and order, and our soldiers shall be the sword and shield of His will.

Therefore, as of this hour, the Spanish State declares war upon the German Reich and its infernal ideology. We join the Rome Pact not as vassals, but as brothers in arms, defenders of Christian civilization, guardians of eternal truth.

To our soldiers: prepare your arms.
To our priests: prepare your prayers.
To our people: prepare your hearts.

May Saint James the Moor-Slayer ride with us once more. And may God, in His infinite mercy, grant us victory over this evil.

¡Arriba España! ¡Viva Cristo Rey!"

(The broadcast ends. A solemn choral rendition of "Te Deum Laudamus" follows.)

An excerpt from Deborah S. Cornelius' book, Hungary in World War II: Caught in the Cauldron

The period between 1939 and late 1941 was a time of extraordinary volatility for Hungary, marked by territorial ambition, precarious alliances, and internal ideological fragmentation. Under the aging Regent Miklós Horthy, Hungary sought to navigate a treacherous geopolitical landscape—balancing nationalist dreams of revising the Treaty of Trianon with the harsh realities of dependence on the Axis powers, particularly Nazi Germany.

By 1939, Hungary's economic reliance on Germany was deepening rapidly. More than half—approximately 52%—of its exports were directed to the German Reich. In return, Hungary received vital industrial equipment, machinery, and raw materials. This mutually beneficial trade relationship was particularly amplified following the First Vienna Award in 1938, when Germany and Italy arbitrated in Hungary's favor and granted it parts of southern Slovakia and Carpatho-Ukraine.

Yet economic dependence brought political constraints. While Horthy and the conservative establishment welcomed the incremental restoration of Hungary's pre-Trianon borders, many within the government and military feared becoming a puppet state to Berlin. The prospect of national revival clashed uneasily with the shadow of German dominance.

It was at this critical juncture that Mussolini began to court Hungary more actively, attempting to pull it toward an alternative axis of power. In October 1939, the Italian dictator met personally with both Regent Horthy and King Boris III of Bulgaria. The meeting was more than ceremonial—it was strategic. In secret, the three leaders began to formulate plans for the dismemberment of Yugoslavia, a state increasingly viewed as fragile and vulnerable.

Later that same month, Hungary, Italy, and Bulgaria signed a trilateral treaty of alliance, informally known as the Rome Pact. This pact marked a turning point in Hungary's diplomatic posture, shifting its alignment subtly but decisively toward Mussolini's vision of a fascist bloc independent of total German control.

The following year, this new alliance was tested in war. From June 15 to July 10, 1940, the Rome Pact powers launched a coordinated and rapid invasion of Yugoslavia. Hungary's forces, in close synchronization with Italian and Bulgarian military operations, surged into northern Serbia. The campaign was swift and brutal, focused on key transport corridors and administrative centers.

The Treaty of Zara, signed on July 11, 1940, codified the spoils: Hungary annexed Vojvodina and territories north of the Danube; Italy claimed Dalmatia and Slovenia, re-established a puppet Croatian state in personal union with Rome—mirroring its earlier arrangement with Albania—and granted Bosnia to this new Croat entity. Kosovo was absorbed into Albania. Meanwhile, Bulgaria annexed Macedonia and the residual southern territories of the former Yugoslavia.

Hungary's appetite for territorial revisionism was further satisfied on August 30, 1940, when the Second Vienna Award—again arbitrated by Germany and Italy—granted Northern Transylvania to Budapest, carved from Romania. Although seen as a diplomatic coup, it tethered Hungary ever more tightly to the Axis.

Beneath the surface, however, Hungary's political compass was beginning to shift. In May 1941, as the Wehrmacht prepared for its monumental assault on the Soviet Union, Mussolini again met with Horthy—this time in private and with far graver intent. The Italian leader, increasingly skeptical of Hitler's chances in a two-front war, shared with Horthy shocking intelligence: photographic and testimonial evidence of the Holocaust already underway in Poland and the Reich's eastern territories.

Mussolini, deeply disturbed and increasingly estranged from Hitler's genocidal vision, laid out his own plan: Italy would break from the Axis and declare war on Germany. In return for Hungary's neutrality in Operation Barbarossa, Mussolini promised to support Hungarian claims to Slovakia in the postwar settlement.

The meeting had a profound impact on Horthy. Though no liberal, the Regent was appalled by the systemic mass murder unfolding under Hitler's regime. As reports of German brutality filtered in and the invasion of the Soviet Union bogged down in the endless steppes, Horthy began to distance Hungary from the German war machine.

When Berlin requested Hungarian troops for the Eastern Front, Horthy responded with diplomatic tact, dispatching only a token force under the pretense that the bulk of Hungary's military was engaged in pacification efforts in the recently acquired Balkan territories.

At the same time, Italy quietly inserted two Alpini regiments and a network of OVRA intelligence agents into Hungary. Ostensibly there to assist with military modernization, these forces had a more covert mission: to protect Horthy from potential German-sponsored coups and to monitor internal threats—particularly the Arrow Cross Party, a fascist, pro-German group with growing underground influence.

Domestically, Hungary in 1940–41 was a country teetering on ideological fracture. The Arrow Cross, though banned from formal politics, operated with impunity in the shadows, exploiting discontent and organizing cells among the disaffected. OVRA agents, posing as ideological sympathizers, infiltrated the party's ranks, reporting directly to Rome on their movements and plans.

The tension came to a head in December 1941. On the 16th, Pope Pius XII delivered a fiery address condemning the Holocaust, breaking months of diplomatic silence. That same day, Italy formally declared war on Germany. Mussolini's speech, broadcast across Europe, electrified Hungary's political circles. Hours later, Italian bombers struck the Ploiești oil fields in Romania, a critical lifeline for the German war machine.

The implications were immediate. Berlin demanded full loyalty from all Axis partners, including declarations of war on both Italy and the United States. In a move that stunned the continent, Regent Horthy addressed the Hungarian nation that evening. Citing moral obligation and national sovereignty, he declared war on Nazi Germany.

OVRA's intelligence network sprang into action. Having monitored the Arrow Cross for months, Italian agents began deploying Alpini troops to strategic locations across Budapest under the cover of darkness, informing only Horthy and a select circle of loyalists.

Their caution was warranted. Within hours, the Arrow Cross attempted an armed insurrection in Budapest. Militants launched coordinated attacks on army barracks, communication centers, and government buildings. But their plans had been compromised.

Forewarned and reinforced, Hungarian security forces—backed by the Alpini—moved swiftly to quell the rebellion. In an extraordinary turn, Jewish paramilitary self-defense units, secretly trained and armed in recent weeks with Italian support, emerged from the shadows. Fighting side-by-side with Hungarian soldiers and Italian commandos, these groups played a critical role in retaking key districts and neutralizing fascist strongholds.

The violence was sharp and brief. Over 600 Arrow Cross members were killed in street combat or executed in the aftermath. The rest, including the party's infamous leader Ferenc Szálasi, were captured, tried for treason, and executed by firing squad in Budapest's Heroes' Square.

The night became known as the Night of the Iron Crucifix—a reference to the Arrow Cross insignia and the bloody end of their movement. It marked the final gasp of fascist influence in Hungary.

In the days that followed, Horthy imposed martial law, outlawed all fascist organizations, and ordered a sweeping purge of pro-German elements from the military and government.

Hungary had chosen its side—not with Berlin, but with Rome, and with the hope of preserving its sovereignty, its honor, and a future free from the horror that had engulfed Europe.

-

December 16, 1941
Budapest
Hungarian Ministry of the Interior, Rooftop Observation Post

The snow fell like ash.

That was the first thing I noticed—how it didn't drift, didn't dance like back home in Milan. It dropped straight down, heavy, wet, final. Like judgment.

Below me, the city shivered. Budapest was a city that tried too hard to look like Vienna but could never quite forget it was built on blood and resentment. You could feel it in the stones. Especially tonight.

I lit a cigarette with gloved hands. Romanian tobacco. Harsh, bitter, better than nothing. Around me, the Alpini shifted in their coats, eyes down at the radio sets and map boards. The Arrow Cross had moved faster than expected—storming three barracks and two radio stations just after sundown. Horthy had called it a "miscalculation." I called it inevitable.

This city had been a powder keg for months. And earlier today, Mussolini finally lit the match.

I flicked ash into the wind and looked down at the square. Heroes' Square, they called it. Grandiose name for a place about to be soaked in blood.

Ferenc Szálasi. That smug, balding bastard. The wannabe "Leader of the Nation." He'd been planning this for months. Thought the Germans would back his coup. Thought we wouldn't see it coming. Thought he could outmaneuver a Roman.

He forgot we invented betrayal before Germany had even figured out what a wheel was.

"Targets locked," whispered Lieutenant Calvi beside me. "Barracks three and four are secured. We're moving on the Parliament steps."

"Any word from the Jewish militia?" I asked.

"Rabbi Kraus says they're ready. Police Captain Takács is giving them cover. They're armed with captured Arrow Cross rifles."

Good. The irony would be delicious.

I took a drag and looked west, toward the Danube. It glittered in the darkness like a blade. Somewhere across that water, men were dying. Alpini regiments had been embedded for months, officially as trainers for the Hungarian army. They'd trained for this. Urban pacification. Coup suppression.

It still didn't feel like a victory.

"You ever kill a fascist?" I asked Calvi.

He blinked. "Aren't we fascists, sir?"

I didn't answer. Just laughed.

Because we weren't, not anymore. Not really. Not after Mussolini had walked off that damn balcony and dragged the country into a different war—a moral one. One that might actually be worth the blood.

I checked my watch. 23:09. The radio crackled.

"All units—greenlight. Engage."

It began like thunder. Gunshots, echoing off old stone. Screams. Then silence. Then more screams. Budapest was burning—not from fire, but from revelation. The kind of revelation that comes with lead and smoke and broken ideologies.

I led the first sweep myself. Party Headquarters, where the Arrow Cross kept their manifestos, their printing presses, their propaganda. I shot a man through the eye as he reached for a pistol. He couldn't have been more than twenty-two. His armband soaked in blood, his mouth frozen mid-chant.

One of ours—Agent Bellini—took a blade in the ribs. We pulled him out, patched him with a scarf, kept moving.

In the lower floors, we found the propaganda girls. Teenagers. Makeup smudged, faces pale, trying to act brave. We shot them. Then locked the bodies in and let the fire take care of it.

By 03:00, the city was still. Quiet, like a corpse is quiet.

Bodies littered the streets outside the Parliament. Some hung from lampposts, still twitching. Arrow Cross officers, executed by their own countrymen, bullets courtesy of Italian carbines. In Heroes' Square, the last of them were lined up—Szálasi included. Horthy watched from a balcony. I watched from the ground.

No speeches. No last words.

Just a command.

Fire.

The rifles cracked like a heartbeat.

I didn't flinch. Not anymore.

Back on the rooftop, as dawn broke, I finally took off my gloves. My hands were shaking. Not from the cold.

I thought of my baby brother. Of the last letter I'd sent home. "I'm doing good work," I had written. "We're helping people." Lies. Partial truths. Maybe both. I preferred Palestine, not as cold, a cause worth helping, I remembered that ruined Synagogue where I coordinated with the Lehi fighters including a girl no older than my younger sister.

I thought of Mussolini, of that day in Rome, of his voice echoing off ancient stones. The first time I'd ever seen a man say no to hell

The snow kept falling.

It kept falling, quiet and unrelenting.

Like ash.

Like judgment.

Like history, waiting to see if any of us deserved redemption.

An Excerpt from Marshall Lee Miller's 1975 Novel Bulgaria During the Second World War

From the earliest hours of the Second World War, Bulgaria walked a tightrope between its irredentist aspirations and the heavy costs of imperial overstretch. Though officially neutral at the war's outset, Sofia's gaze was fixed firmly on its Balkan neighbors, particularly on lands once under the Tsardom's sway. The opportunity came in October 1939, when the Italian-led Rome Pact—a tripartite agreement between Fascist Italy, Bulgaria, and Hungary—was formalized in the gilded halls of the Palazzo Venezia. The pact was not just an alliance; it was a declaration of intent. Chief among its provisions was the partition of Yugoslavia, an increasingly fragile state held together more by force than unity.

By the summer of 1940, Bulgaria joined its Pact allies in the short but brutal Rome Pact-Yugoslav War. From June 15 to July 10, Bulgarian forces surged into Macedonia and southeastern Serbia, bolstered by local populations sympathetic to Sofia's vision of a restored Greater Bulgaria. The war culminated in the Treaty of Zara on July 11, 1940, which carved Yugoslavia into pieces: Bulgaria received Macedonia and what was once Serbia, Hungary claimed Vojvodina and northern regions beyond the Danube, Albania, under Italian protection, absorbed Kosovo, and Italy took Montenegro, Dalmatia, and converted Bosnia and Croatia into puppet regimes under close Italian supervision.

At first, the campaign was hailed in Sofia as a near-bloodless triumph. King Boris III addressed the National Assembly with thunderous applause, declaring the recovery of Macedonia as "the fulfillment of a century-old dream." Ethnic Bulgarians in the newly integrated zones welcomed the army with flowers and bread. Yet, within weeks, the façade began to crumble. While the Macedonian plains were compliant, the deeper the Bulgarian forces pressed into Serbia proper, the stiffer the resistance became. By autumn 1940, Bulgaria found itself locked in a growing guerrilla war across its new territories.

The response from Sofia was swift and ruthless. In October 1940, the Bulgarian government issued Ordinance 141, banning the Serbian language in schools, public offices, and churches across the occupied territories. Serbian Orthodox liturgy was replaced by Bulgarian rites. Serbian civil servants and clergy were either disappeared or "re-educated," and schools were refitted with Bulgarian curricula. Though publicly condemned by the Serbian Orthodox diaspora, the Ecumenical Patriarch of Constantinople—eager to retain favor with the Bulgarian-aligned church—silently endorsed the dissolution of the Serbian Patriarchate, which was officially abolished after the 1941 Greco-Turkish war and Bulgaria's rise in prestige within the Orthodox world.

The backlash was immediate. Underground resistance movements—many aided by British intelligence operatives—flooded the countryside with pamphlets, organized sabotage efforts, and even assassinated high-profile Bulgarian officials. Arms shipments, mostly British in origin, were air-dropped into Serbia under the cover of night. The Bulgarian army, designed for conventional warfare, was ill-equipped to face this asymmetric threat. Casualties mounted, morale plummeted, and by late 1941, whispers of overstretch began circulating in Sofia.

But the Tsar and his ministers doubled down while all this occured. The brief Second Vienna Award in October 1940 handed all of Dobruja to Bulgaria—another diplomatic coup—but this only compounded the strain. Bulgaria now had more territory than at any point in its modern history, but far fewer resources to govern it. The military was stretched across two fronts; the economy, already fragile, teetered on the edge of collapse, held up only by Italian loans. Industries were retooled for military output, but corruption and inefficiency hampered production. Food shortages and inflation were rampant in the hinterlands, even as Sofia's elite lived in relative opulence.

Into this maelstrom came Hitler's request in May 1941, just prior to the launch of Operation Barbarossa. The Führer expected Bulgaria, as a Rome Pact ally and regional power, to contribute troops to the invasion of the Soviet Union. But Boris III refused, citing the massive insurgency in Serbia and the logistical impossibility of deploying more divisions. Hitler, furious but preoccupied with Russia, accepted the excuse—albeit bitterly.

Behind closed doors, however, Bulgaria began drifting deeper into Italy's orbit. Mussolini, by now increasingly skeptical of Hitler and privately disturbed by reports of atrocities in the East, instructed the OVRA—Italy's secret police—to covertly assist Bulgaria. Italian arms, advisers, and even blackshirt death squads began filtering into Bulgarian territory under diplomatic cover. Though Sofia insisted on handling its own "pacification" efforts, Italy's involvement was undeniable. Bulgarian forces, now armed with better weaponry and OVRA intelligence, began implementing their own brand of ethnic cleansing—inspired by the Turkish model against the Kurds following the 1941 Greco-Turkish war.

Villages were razed. Suspected partisans were rounded up en masse. Entire Serbian communities were forcibly deported or "disappeared." International condemnation was muted, as much of the world remained focused on events in the East or North Africa. Yet within Bulgaria itself, these policies created deep fractures. Some military officers warned the King that these brutal tactics would only fuel the resistance. Others, particularly nationalist hardliners, viewed it as a necessary cleansing of "foreign elements."

Everything changed on December 16, 1941. Days earlier, the Pope, having received irrefutable documentation from Italian and Polish clergy, publicly exposed the Holocaust. Mussolini, already inching toward a break with Berlin, declared war on Germany, citing moral outrage and Italian sovereignty. An Italian envoy was dispatched to Sofia with a radical proposal: If Bulgaria joined Italy in war against Germany, Romania—then still under Nazi sway—would be ceded to the Bulgarian sphere of influence in a postwar settlement.

But Bulgaria was exhausted. Its army was bled dry, its economy in tatters, and its people demoralized. The Serbian insurgency showed no signs of abating. With heavy heart and pragmatic caution, Boris III declined the offer of open war. Still, he allowed Italian troops to move freely through Bulgarian territory en route to strike at German holdings in the Balkans and Carpathians. This would mark the beginning of a slow, subtle realignment of Bulgarian foreign policy—away from the German sphere and closer to an increasingly assertive Italian-led bloc.

Thus ended the first phase of Bulgaria's wartime saga. A country swollen with ambition, swollen with territory, but also with the grief of endless war and internal decay. The seeds of postwar reckoning had already been sown.

-

Outside Belgrade – December 16, 1941
POV: Enzo Ricci, OVRA Operative – Codename "Gladius"

The fire had gone out of the village an hour ago, but the smoke still clung to the sky like a guilty secret. Ash drifted like snow over the half-collapsed chapel, landing softly on the boots of the Bulgarian infantrymen now laughing, drinking, and dragging corpses into ditches. Their uniforms were filthy—mud, blood, soot—and their faces were worse. Some had that twitch in their jaw, the one that comes when your conscience tries to scream through your teeth and you won't let it. Others had no twitch at all. Those scared me more.

I lit a cigarette with hands that didn't shake anymore. That was the problem. They should've shaken. Two weeks ago, I'd watched a priest get shot in the back of the head because he refused to preach in Bulgarian. Last week, a ten-year-old boy got thrown down a well while his parents watched for hiding radios. Today? A village burned alive for housing partisans, or just for speaking too much Serbian in public.

And me? I took notes. I nodded when the colonel barked orders. I handed out the OVRA "suggestions" for how best to "dissuade civilian collaboration."

Supervision, they called it.

A Bulgarian soldier walked by me, grinning. He had a necklace made of ears. Real ones. I turned away before I could see if one of them was still bleeding.

My radio crackled. I adjusted the dial, brushing soot off the antenna. A strong signal came through—Rome. Palazzo Venezia. Mussolini was speaking. His voice was hoarse, impassioned, raw.

I stepped away from the fire line, boots crunching over broken glass and doll parts. Found a collapsed barn with just enough wall left to lean on. The transmission cleared.

"…They demanded we kneel. I will not kneel. Because Romans are not slaves!"

I exhaled a laugh so sharp it hurt my throat. Not slaves, huh? What were we then? Overseers? Janitors of hell?

"…not as fascists, not even as Italians—but as human beings refusing to be animals!"

Another laugh. This one bitter enough to sting my eyes. I flicked the cigarette away and buried my face in my glove. Not crying—just blocking the wind. That's what I told myself.

As Mussolini thundered on, condemning Hitler, promising a war for the soul of humanity, I watched a Bulgarian lieutenant put a pistol to the back of a mother's head. She was cradling something. A bundle. She didn't scream. Just tightened her grip on the cloth like she could protect whatever was inside.

The shot rang out. The baby fell first. The mother folded over her. Neat. Efficient.
The lieutenant moved on.

"…we'll die knowing we chose not to be monsters."

My mouth was dry. I wanted to be back in Rome. No, not even Rome. Back in Ostia, the real Ostia—Sunday mornings, coffee shops, my sister's dumb cat always trying to steal bread off the table. That world was gone. This was now.

I opened the little black notebook I kept in my coat. One page was filled with tally marks. Every confirmed execution. I added two more.

Mussolini's voice cracked near the end. "To hell with Hitler. Deus Vult!"

The crowd erupted through the radio like a wave crashing into stone. Cheers. Applause. Maybe even tears.

I just stared at the last entry in my book.
Belgrade Sector, Village Code R-12. Civilian Dead: 213. Children: 47.

The radio buzzed with static again. I turned it off.

A monster.
That's what I am.
Not Hitler's. Not even Mussolini's.

Just me. My own.
And no speech—no matter how righteous, how raw, how real—could change that.

I looked back at the burning church.
The wind shifted, and the ash clung to my coat like snow.

An excerpt from Abdullah Öcalan's 2005 Novel: The Kurdish Genocide

The period between 1939 and 1943 marked the most catastrophic collapse of the Turkish Republic since its founding in 1923. From a fragile post-Ottoman state cautiously treading through the global currents of conflict, Turkey devolved—through foreign invasions, internal coups, and genocidal purges—into a shattered nation haunted by its own nationalist hysteria. This was not merely the destruction of a people. It was the self-immolation of the Turkish soul.

When war broke out in Europe in 1939, Turkey remained ostensibly neutral. President İsmet İnönü, inheritor of Atatürk's mantle, pursued a precarious balance between Britain and Germany. Turkey's economy was still recovering from the harsh state socialism of the early Kemalist years—Etatisme had built rudimentary infrastructure, but industrialization lagged, and the countryside remained in medieval conditions. Agricultural production was the primary economic engine, yet it was stunted by inefficiency, feudal land ownership, and limited mechanization.

Despite minor trade with both Axis and Allied powers, Turkey was deeply economically dependent. Its railways and ports were insufficient for major wartime logistics, and it relied heavily on imports for machinery, fuel, and industrial goods. The only strategic leverage it held was chromite ore—vital for steel production—which both sides courted.

But the Italian invasion of Turkey in July 1941, under Operation Nikephoros, changed everything.

The dual Italian thrust—through Thrace and via Syria—overwhelmed Turkey's under-prepared and poorly coordinated military. While Turkish soldiers fought for every inch at the Evros River and in the hills of Çanakkale, the use of mustard gas, Italian air superiority, and coordinated Greek-Italian tactics rapidly shattered Turkish defenses.

The fall of Constantinople on August 11, 1941, was both symbolic and strategic. It severed Turkey's European identity and exposed Ankara's military impotence. The Turkish government, panicked and fractured, signed the Treaty of Salonika on September 29, 1941. This treaty ceded vast territories—Eastern Thrace, Constantinople, the Aegean Islands, Hatay, Adana, and Tarsus—marking the largest territorial loss since the Treaty of Sèvres in 1920.

The economic fallout was immediate. Over two million Turkish citizens were displaced from Thrace. Ports, fertile lands, and industrial centers were lost. The already fragile lira collapsed. Food prices soared. Ankara defaulted on international obligations. Internal confidence in İnönü's leadership evaporated.

The humiliation of the Treaty of Salonika sparked outrage among the officer corps. A week after the treaty was signed, Alparslan Türkeş—a fiery young colonel with Pan-Turkist leanings—led a coup d'état. İnönü was arrested and summarily executed.

The junta that emerged, known as the Young Officers, repudiated Kemalism, declaring it "an impotent ideology of defeat." In its place, they embraced a fanatical ethnic nationalism anchored in the ultranationalist thought of Nihal Atsız, who was installed as a figurehead president. In reality, power lay with Türkeş and his military cabal.

With the state in collapse, the Young Officers used genocide as an economic policy. The Kurds—long marginalized, now accused of aiding the Italians and Greeks—became the scapegoats. The systematic extermination of Kurds was not only ideological; it was designed to re-engineer the Turkish economy.

Properties seized from Kurdish families were redistributed to ethnic Turks, especially those expelled from Thrace and the Aegean. Entire Kurdish towns were looted and repopulated. Kurdish businesses, schools, mosques, and cultural centers were razed.

The regime forcibly conscripted Kurds into labor battalions, worked to death in infrastructure projects—especially along the Bursa-Kastamonu-Trabzon corridor—building railroads and arms factories. These slave-labor economies helped the junta reindustrialize in the Anatolian interior.

The junta also courted German investment. Although Hitler declined formal alliance with the Türkeş regime due to Italian opposition, Berlin quietly supplied Ankara with small arms, advisors, and fuel in exchange for continued chromite exports.

The genocidal policies horrified neutral observers, but World War II's broader carnage overshadowed Turkey's crimes. The British condemned the Young Officers, but their own colonial entanglements made them hesitant to intervene. Italian intelligence intercepted multiple British communiqués warning of a "second Holocaust in the making," yet no international force was willing to commit.

Economically, the regime was running out of time. Inflation soared. Corruption was rampant. The new elite lived lavishly in Ankara, while famine swept across Kurdish and Armenian areas. Turkish cities were flooded with propaganda glorifying the "ethnic cleansing of Anatolia" as a second War of Independence.

Mussolini's December 1941 declaration of war on Germany further destabilized Turkey. The Türkeş junta panicked. While some urged alliance with the Axis, Türkeş saw the writing on the wall. He refused to commit Turkey, opting instead to "purge the homeland" while Europe burned.

In late 1943, after the end of the war, the Soviet Union, with Italian approval, invaded eastern Turkey under Operation Volchitsa. Their pretext was the protection of minority populations and the securing of strategic corridors to the Middle East.

The Turkish army—battered by years of internal purges, economic degradation, and continuous guerilla warfare—collapsed. Ankara was bombed. Türkeş fled to Konya but was captured by partisans and delivered to the Soviets. Nihal Atsız was publicly hanged by Soviet-aligned Turkish communists in Ankara.

The Soviet Union installed a puppet socialist government in Ankara, initiating land reforms, collectivization, and war crimes tribunals. The Young Officers were put on trial. The genocide was exposed to the world in grainy black-and-white footage by Soviet journalists.

By 1943, Turkey was no longer a republic. It was a broken carcass under Soviet control. The Kemalist dream had become a nationalist nightmare. Eighty percent of Turkey's Kurdish population was gone—slaughtered, even the women and children.

And while the world rebuilt, Turkey became the dark mirror to Europe's conscience—its Kurdish genocide a template, a warning, and a legacy of silence still unresolved.

But the legacy of the Kurdish Genocide did not die with the war's end. Documents uncovered decades later revealed that Turkish military manuals, internal propaganda guides, and logistical blueprints used during the genocide were quietly studied by foreign regimes and extremist movements. When the Rwandan genocide erupted in 1994, it was no coincidence that the coordination, speed, and brutal intimacy of the killings bore eerie resemblance to those committed by the Young Officers in Anatolia.

Indeed, it is now well-documented that Hutu Power strategists referred to the Turkish model—specifically the swift militarization of civilians, the incitement of neighbor-on-neighbor violence, and the bureaucratic efficiency of genocide veiled as "population transfers." In private speeches, Rwandan extremists even praised the "cleansing of the Kurdish traitors" as a historical example of what must be done to enemies of the nation.

And while the world rebuilt, Turkey became the dark mirror to Europe's conscience—its Kurdish genocide a template, a warning, and a legacy of silence still unresolved. The horrors of Rwanda, and Darfur were not born in a vacuum. They were born in the smoke and blood of Eastern Anatolia.

-

Excerpt from the unpublished diary of Pvt. Halil Demir, 8th Infantry Battalion, Eastern Anatolia Command
February 1942 – near Diyarbakır

I haven't slept in three days. Not truly. Not the kind of sleep where the mind lets go and sinks into darkness. I close my eyes and see Adana—the streets I grew up in, the olive trees behind my father's house, the tiny corner store with the lemon soda I used to buy for my sister. I see my mother's body, half-buried in the rubble. My little brother, face down in the courtyard, twisted like a rag doll. They said it was the Syrians, Italians behind them. I wasn't there to protect them.

Now I am here. Walking through these Kurdish villages, rifle in hand, stomach in knots.

The air smells of smoke and damp earth. The village we entered this morning—Kocali—was already half-abandoned. The villagers knew we were coming. The few who stayed behind were mostly the old, the sick, or those who believed the army might show mercy. They were wrong.

Sgt. Osman gave the order without even looking at them. "Clean it out. No survivors. These dogs helped the invaders."

We dragged them from their homes. Some resisted. Most didn't. I watched a boy—no older than ten—cling to his mother's dress as a soldier beat her with the butt of his rifle. Someone else shot the boy. Just like that. As if he were a crow perched on a fence post.

I didn't fire my weapon today. I haven't in weeks. I just follow, like a ghost in uniform, boots heavy with mud and guilt. They call me soft behind my back. Maybe I am. Maybe I should be.

I tell myself I'm here because of Adana. Because the Italians took my city and the Syrians burned it. Because I buried half my family in a pit. Because no one came to save us. But the people I see here… they didn't do that. They're farmers, shepherds. Children with dirt-streaked faces and eyes too tired to cry.

Some nights, I want to run. Slip away into the hills. But where would I go? The country is on fire. There's nowhere to hide.

The officers speak of glory. Of a "pure homeland." They hand out leaflets quoting Atsız and Turkes, say we are wiping away the traitors, restoring the honor of the nation. But what is honor in the face of a crying mother? What is purity when the fields are soaked with the blood of unarmed men?

I didn't join the army for this. I wanted to protect. To rebuild. To live a quiet life after the war. Maybe marry Leyla—if she's still alive.

Tonight, we sleep in the ruins of a mosque. The minaret is blackened. The prayer rugs are torn, defiled. I stepped over a Qur'an today, its pages scorched and trampled. My hands were shaking.

I don't know who I'm becoming.


I just want peace.
I just want to go home.

If home even exists anymore.

An Excerpt from Nikolaos G. Michaloliakos' 2010 Novel: From the Ashes of Smyrna to Constantinople

"We did not conquer Constantinople. We returned to her."
— General Theodoros Pangalos, Victory Speech at Hagia Sophia, August 11, 1941

The years 1939 through 1941 were among the most transformational in the modern history of the Hellenic Republic—an epochal moment of nationalist renaissance and imperial vengeance. For many Greek historians, they represent the long-awaited reversal of the 1922 Catastrophe; for critics, they mark the descent into fascist nihilism and genocide. What is not disputed is that the period reshaped Greece and the Eastern Mediterranean irrevocably.

Following the Rome Pact of December 1, 1939, the Kingdom of Greece aligned itself economically and militarily with Mussolini's Fascist Italy. Under Prime Minister Ioannis Metaxas, the Greek state began its transformation from conservative dictatorship into proto-totalitarian regime. Italian loans modernized key infrastructure across Macedonia and the Aegean islands. Railways were extended, ports deepened, and military-industrial zones created in Thessaloniki and Kavala. The Greek military was expanded with Italian arms and instructors, and by late 1940, compulsory labor service had been introduced for youth and rural poor.

Yet it was not until the death of Metaxas on May 1, 1941, and the swift seizure of power by General Theodoros Pangalos, that Greece underwent its true metamorphosis. The monarchy was abolished on May 3 by decree. Within a week, the National Union of Greece (Ethniki Enosis Ellados) was declared the sole legal party. Pangalos, a fiery veteran of the Anatolian campaign and self-styled heir to Megali Idea irredentism, assumed power with sweeping authority. He declared a New Hellenic Empire—the "Third Byzantium"—and promised to rectify the wounds of 1922 with fire and iron.

The opportunity came with the invasion of Russia by Germany. Under direct supervision of Mussolini, Italy and Greece launched Operation Nikephoros on July 1, 1941. The Hellenic-Italian Army, numbering over 500,000 and heavily mechanized with Italian support, crossed the Evros River and advanced into Eastern Thrace. Resistance was stiff; the Turkish army fought for every inch. But Italian armor, air superiority and chemical weapons carried the day.

On August 11, 1941, Greek and Italian forces entered Constantinople. For the first time since 1453, a Christian army marched down the Avenue of the Bosphorus. That day, General Pangalos and Mussolini stood at the steps of Hagia Sophia and gave a speech to the troops. The same day, the Hagia Sophia was formally rededicated as a Greek Orthodox cathedral, mass was celebrated by the Greek soldiers inside the cathedral. While outside the cathedral Italian soldiers celebrated their own mass.

But behind the pageantry lay a darker truth. The conquest of Thrace and Constantinople unleashed one of the most extensive ethnic cleansing campaigns in the 20th century Balkans. Entire Turkish neighborhoods—Eyüp, Galata, Üsküdar—were cordoned off. Men were separated and executed en masse. Women and children were herded into forced marches eastward or sent on overcrowded barges toward Anatolia—many sank. Fires consumed entire districts. Over 1 million Turkish civilians were killed or displaced between August and December 1941.

The Hellenic government claimed it was "retaliation" for 1922. Propaganda films from the Ministry of National Awakening framed the violence as divine justice: Greeks returning to ancient soil to reclaim their destiny. In schools, new history books were issued with maps depicting a Greater Hellas stretching from Ioannina to Van.

Meanwhile, in the newly conquered lands, the Pangalos regime implemented sweeping economic reorganization. The Imperial Economic Directorate of Constantinople and Thrace was formed in October 1941 to manage expropriated Turkish lands, gold, and industries. Former Turkish-owned factories and homes were distributed to Greek war widows, demobilized veterans, and political loyalists. Agricultural collectivization was imposed across Eastern Thrace under the guise of "Byzantine Agrarian Restoration." Slave labor camps were established near Çorlu and Silivri, where surviving Turks were worked to death building roads, clearing rubble, or serving Greek settler communities.

The conquest reinvigorated the Greek economy—temporarily. With Italian aid, looted Turkish assets, and an explosion of patriotic investment, the National Union created a boom in arms manufacturing and military infrastructure. But it also created a bloated, unsustainable war economy. Inflation surged. Political purges expanded to include even Metaxist conservatives. Pangalos' cult of personality became all-encompassing; children sang odes to the "Dux," and portraits of him in a purple cloak was hung in every school.

When Mussolini declared war on Germany on December 16, 1941, Pangalos followed with a speech pledging solidarity—but stopped short of full entry. The Greek economy was strained to it's breaking point, and only a few brigades could be spared.

That winter, as snow blanketed the desecrated mosques of Constantinople and the shores of the Bosphorus reeked of ash and rot, the world looked away. The old empires were dying. And from their bones, a new nation, ancient in name and fascist in nature, had arisen.

-

Private Leonidas Vrettos
11th Infantry Regiment, Hellenic Army
Constantinople, August 11, 1941

We marched in like ghosts come home.

No gunfire. No resistance. Just the dull thud of our boots on the cobbled streets of the fallen Queen, the morning sun glinting off our bayonets as the domes of Constantinople rose before us. My heart thundered—not with fear, but something deeper. Destiny. The kind my grandfather spoke of when he whispered about Smyrna before the fires, before the sea turned black with our blood.

We passed the Galata Bridge in silence, the Turkish police and army recently gone. White flags—or bedsheets, maybe—fluttered from a few balconies. Civilians stared from shuttered windows, silent and afraid. One woman crossed herself. Another spat. I clutched my rifle tighter.

And then we saw her. Hagia Sophia.

She stood above us, colossal and eternal, crowned in faded gold. Our lieutenant wept. I did too.

Pangalos' and Mussolini came soon after. Gave a speech about the rebirth of Rome. Then the mass started.

We dropped our rifles at the threshold, not by order but by instinct, and stepped into the cool, dusty air of the sanctuary.

The icons had been scraped away long ago. The minbar stood where no Christian voice had sung in centuries. But still, we knelt. My friend Petros lit a candle—he'd smuggled it all the way from Thessaloniki, hidden in his boot. Father Makarios, a chaplain in full uniform, climbed the ruined pulpit and raised his arms.

"Εν αρχή ην ο Λόγος…"

The words echoed through the dome like thunder on the sea. My voice joined the others, cracked and broken, as we chanted the Divine Liturgy not in some chapel, but in the Church—our Church. I kissed the stone floor, still warm from the sun, and whispered, "We have come home, Yia-yia."

Outside, I could hear the Italians doing their own mass.

Later, we returned to the streets with our rifles.

Orders had come down from Command: expel all remaining Turks from the city by dusk. Thrace is to be pure. Resistance was to be met with immediate execution.

We started in Fener.

The homes were old, Ottoman-style, with carved wooden windows and fading blue paint. When the first door opened, it was an old man, barefoot, with a Qur'an in his hands. He spoke no Greek. Petros raised his rifle. I looked away. The shot echoed.

We moved from house to house, like priests administering a brutal sacrament. Some begged. Some cried. Some clutched children to their chests. One man spat in my face, screaming "Gavur!"—Infidel. I shot him in the stomach. Shot him in the head to put him out of his misery.

By afternoon, we had cleared the entire quarter. Smoke rose from Galata. The navy was already loading barges full of the expelled, herding them like cattle across the Golden Horn. Petros lit a cigarette with his bloodied hands and said, "This is what justice smells like."

I wanted to throw up. I didn't. I stared at the domes on the skyline instead and told myself we were doing something holy.

We had sung hymns in Hagia Sophia.

We were chosen.

And those who stood in our way had no place in our New Rome.

December 16, 1941
Palazzo Venezia
Rome, Italy

The applause still rang like distant thunder, echoing off the buildings of the Eternal City. But I didn't step back. Not yet. The blood was still pumping, my hand still clenched in that bastardized salute. For a moment, I wasn't sure if it was mine or someone else's. Someone who believed in things. Someone less... tired.

Then I lowered my fist.

I took a breath that tasted like smoke and dust and history. Still standing on this cursed balcony like some goddamned Caesar, only my Rubicon was moral, not geographical. I didn't feel victorious. I felt... used up. But there was one last card in the deck.

"Before I step down, Italians... there is one more truth to speak."

The crowd, still high from the thunderclap of my war declaration, hushed again. Ears primed. Hearts open. That was the moment to strike.

"I have spoken of murder. Of complicity. Of the silent crime that stains all of Europe—nay, all of mankind. But let us speak of the victims. Of the exiles. Of a people without a home."

I paused, the weight of it digging into my spine.

"The Jews of Europe—driven from their homes, corralled into ghettos, slaughtered by bureaucrats of death with clipboards and gas. And where were the gates of refuge? Shut. Locked. Barred. By whom?"

I turned slightly. Let them stew on it. My voice dropped lower. Not a shout now, but a blade.

"By the British. Who clutched the keys to Palestine and said, 'Not you. Not now. Not ever.'"

There were gasps, even boos. But I wasn't done.

"Yes. The British. The ones who wag their fingers at fascism from behind their palaces while turning back boatloads of the desperate. Who condemned millions not with bullets—but with red tape."

The folder in my hand wasn't just for theatrics now. I opened it. Held it aloft. Letters, telegrams, appeals—all from Jewish organizations begging for help. All denied. Date-stamped. Sealed.

"They could have lived. They could have built lives, schools, families. Instead, they were turned into smoke. And we, the so-called barbarians of the south, we will be the ones to open the gates!"

I raised my chin. Felt something close to fire in my chest.

"Today, I declare—Italy recognizes the independent State of Israel!"

Now that got them. Cheers and gasps collided like two armies. Some were stunned silent. Others screamed with relief, or rage, or both. Behind me, I could hear Ciano whisper something like "Dio mio…" under his breath. Yeah, I surprised even him.

"The government-in-exile will be led by Avraham Stern," I said, motioning to the wings. "Who stands not only as a patriot of his people—but as a brother to ours."

Stern stepped forward. Thin. Stern-faced. (Fitting.) His eyes burned with a light I hadn't seen in years. It was like looking at a man who needed this moment. Like I needed to hear a love song again and not think of blood.

He stood beside me, and for the first time, the balcony felt a little less lonely.

More chaos below. Some clerics made the sign of the cross. One guy fainted. Probably a monarchist. Stern looked over at me, a flicker of disbelief crossing his face. He hadn't expected this. Good, stage one of my gamer move.

I gave him a nod. Time to speak.

He stepped forward—lean, sharp, every word like flint striking steel.

"My people have been hunted. Hated. Burned and buried. But we have never kneeled. And now, we never will. Israel lives—because truth lives, and courage lives, and because Italy, against all odds, remembers what it means to be human."

That one landed like a meteor.

He raised his voice further.

"We pledge ourselves to the Rome Pact. To Italy. To this fight—not for empire or glory—but for justice. For our future. And in light of steadfast Italian support for our cause, we recognize King Victor Emmanuel, his majesty, as King of Israel!"

I watched him pause, then pivot. The next part was rehearsed, sure—but it didn't feel fake.

"To the British," he said, "we offer truce. An end to war. But only if you open the gates. Let the boats land. Let the refugees come home. That is the price. That is the deal."

There it was. The gauntlet thrown.

"If you refuse," Stern continued, "we will bleed you dry. We will strike from Cairo to London. We will not stop. Not until the last camp is emptied and the last child is safe."

The crowd roared again. The Roman sun, like a stage light, hit him just right. He looked carved from purpose. And me?

I looked like hell. But for once, I didn't care.

He turned to me, and we shook hands. A fascist and a freedom fighter. Somewhere, the gods of irony were drunk and laughing.

As we turned to go back inside, Stern whispered something to me:

"You don't believe in God, do you?"

I smirked, dry as old paper. "I don't know."

He nodded. "I do."

"Good for you." I smiled and shook his hand. "To our victory."

And for the first time in months—maybe years—I felt the faintest hint of something stupid and dangerous.

Hope.

-

Confidential Transcript – War Cabinet Meeting
Date: December 16, 1941
Time: 18:45 GMT
Location: Cabinet War Rooms, Whitehall, London

Attendees:

Winston Churchill – Prime Minister

Anthony Eden – Foreign Secretary

Clement Attlee – Deputy Prime Minister

Sir John Anderson – Lord President of the Council

Ernest Bevin – Minister of Labour

General Alan Brooke – Chief of the Imperial General Staff

Sir Stewart Menzies – Chief, Secret Intelligence Service (MI6)

Sir Archibald Sinclair – Secretary of State for Air

Richard Law – Under-Secretary of State for Foreign Affair

---

CHURCHILL:
(Lighting a cigar, visibly agitated)
So, the bastard's gone and done it. Declared war on Germany, recognized a Jewish state, and crowned the King of Italy their King of bloody Israel. Did I miss anything, gentlemen?

EDEN:
(Reviewing notes)
He accused His Majesty's Government of complicity in the extermination of European Jewry. Accused us—not the Reich—of moral cowardice for the Palestine policy. Called us executioners by red tape.

ATTLEE:
He's not entirely wrong on that front.

CHURCHILL:
(Snaps)
Oh, spare me the bloody hindsight, Clement. You think I don't lie awake thinking about those damn quotas? You think I like turning ships away? We're not monsters—we're trying to win a war.

BEVIN:
He's made it political now. Public. Emotional. There'll be pressure. From the Americans. From the Jews here and abroad. Roosevelt will have to say something.

BROOKE:
This could tear the Mandate apart. The Arabs will explode if we open the gates. But if we don't… Stern will have leverage. More violence. Sabotage. The whole region becomes a powder keg.

SINCLAIR:
There's already chatter of mass defections from the few British-aligned Haganah units on our side. Lehi recruitment is skyrocketing, and that's not including the Jews that get smuggled in daily by Italy. The bastard knew what he was doing.

LAW:
And now we have Mussolini—the same man who gassed Turks and let the Greeks kill them en masse earlier this year preaching moral clarity. He'll win hearts with this. It's bloody insufferable.

CHURCHILL:
(Fuming, pacing)
He hijacked the narrative. The Führer commits genocide, and it's we who are accused of indifference. We, who stand alone against tyranny, are now painted as bureaucrats of death?

(He stops, exhales deeply, looks tired)
…But again, damn him, he knows how to give a speech.

(Silence)

EDEN:
What do we do? If we call for his bluff and refuse to open Palestine, we drive more Jews into Mussolini's arms. But if we do open it, we lose Arab support and possibly Egypt.

CHURCHILL:
(Quietly)
There are no good choices. Only less bloody ones.

(Pauses, then stiffens)

Draft a statement. Reaffirm our commitment to defeating Hitler. Denounce Mussolini's cynical opportunism. Emphasize that Britain is, and always has been, a defender of liberty—including for the Jews. But do not, under any circumstances, mention Palestine. Not yet. Let's see how Washington responds first.

ATTLEE:
And Stern?

CHURCHILL:
Pray he doesn't become a martyr.

BEVIN:
And what if the Jews choose Mussolini?

CHURCHILL:
They already have. We're on the cusp of losing the Holy Land and the bloody moral high ground.

(Meeting adjourns)

[END TRANSCRIPT]
Classification: MOST SECRET – EYES ONLY

-

Führerhauptquartier Wolfsschanze
East Prussia – December 17, 1941
Transcript – Emergency Reich Leadership Conference
Time: 08:30 CET
Classification: STRENG GEHEIM (Top Secret)

Attendees:

Adolf Hitler – Führer und Reichskanzler

Heinrich Himmler – Reichsführer-SS

Joseph Goebbels – Reich Minister of Propaganda

Joachim von Ribbentrop – Reich Foreign Minister

Hermann Göring – Reichsmarschall

Wilhelm Keitel – Chief of OKW

Alfred Jodl – Chief of Operations Staff

Martin Bormann – Head of the Party Chancellery

Hans Frank – Governor-General of occupied Poland

Albert Speer – Armaments Minister (observer)

---

HITLER:
(Storming into the room, coat half on, eyes wild)

Treason! Treason in Rome! That mongrel clown dares bomb Ploiești and spit in the face of the Reich? He dares shelter Jews? To raise a crusade? To claim moral high ground? What is this—some opera?

(Slams his fist on the table)
He was nothing but a barking dog in my shadow—and now he barks at me?

RIBBENTROP:
My Führer, the betrayal was total. The Italians coordinated their speech with military action. The raid on Ploiești caused substantial damage—our estimates suggest they struck refining towers, possibly reducing fuel output by 20% for at least two weeks.

GÖRING:
(Trying to keep composure)
This is catastrophic. Our fuel reserves were already strained. If this continues—without Romanian oil, the Luftwaffe and Werhmacht is crippled.

HIMMLER:
And the Pope—curse that simpering cleric—he's made it holy war. The Crusade. That word is spreading fast through Catholic Europe.

FRANK:
We're already seeing unrest in Kraków. Italian radio is broadcasting messages in Polish, Czech, and even French. It's not just a speech, mein Führer—it's a declaration of ideological war.

BORMANN:
And the Jews are listening. I've received reports from our agents—Jewish communities in Amsterdam, Paris, even in Berlin, are reacting. As if that parasite Stern is a messiah now.

GOEBBELS:
It's a propaganda disaster, mein Führer. Mussolini's speech was masterful. Emotional. Apocalyptic. He painted us as monsters, not warriors. Even some of our allies—Slovaks, Croatians—are hesitating.

JODL:
Hungary has declared war on us.

(Murmurs around the room. Hitler stands frozen)

KEITEL:
The Arrow Cross staged a coup to stop it. It failed. Our agents were rounded up and executed publicly in Budapest.

HITLER:
(Growling)
So… Spain. Hungary. Bulgaria. Greece. All traitors.

GOEBBELS:
This is worse than betrayal. This is theft of destiny. They are painting their war not as conquest—but as salvation.

HIMMLER:
And worst of all, the Church backs them. Openly. Excommunication of Party members. That will embolden resistance everywhere, even within our ranks.

HITLER:
(Cold now, voice low)
Fine.

If Mussolini wants war—he shall have it.

If the Pope wants a crusade—then let the churches burn.

If Stern wants a state—he can build it from ash.

If Europe wants to believe in this illusion of virtue—they'll drown in their own righteousness.

(Looks around the room, his eyes dead and focused)
Total war.

Burn Rome. Flatten Jerusalem. Hang Mussolini from his balcony. And as for the Jews—accelerate everything. I want no trace of their kind left when this is over. No memory. No bloodline. Not one child.

Begin preparations for Saturnus—punitive operations against Italy. We'll turn the Mediterranean red.

(Beat of silence)

GOEBBELS:
Mein Führer… permission to begin counter-propaganda at once?

HITLER:
Unleash hell, Joseph.

(He turns and leaves the room. Silence holds for several seconds after his departure)

[END TRANSCRIPT]
Security Classification: STRENG GEHEIM – DO NOT DUPLICATE

-

The White House – Washington, D.C.
Cabinet Meeting – December 17, 1941, 4:00 PM EST
Classified Transcript – EYES ONLY
Topic: Italian Declaration of War on Germany, Bombing of Ploiești, Recognition of Israel

Attendees:

Franklin D. Roosevelt – President of the United States

Henry L. Stimson – Secretary of War

Cordell Hull – Secretary of State

Frank Knox – Secretary of the Navy

George C. Marshall – Army Chief of Staff

William "Wild Bill" Donovan – Coordinator of Information (precursor to OSS)

Harry Hopkins – Advisor to the President

Eleanor Roosevelt – (briefly present at start)

---

ROOSEVELT:
(Lighting a cigarette, eyes fixed on the paper in front of him)
Well... damn. The son of a bitch actually did it.

STIMSON:
It's the speech of the century, Mr. President. He didn't just declare war—he put a moral dagger right into Berlin's heart.

KNOX:
And backed it with bombs. Our boys in London picked up the Italian raid on Ploiești—hell of a message to send while you're reading your gospel.

HOPKINS:
This was a performance. Mussolini's speech wasn't written for Italians. It was written for humanity. He played it like a dying man who still wants to matter.

ROOSEVELT:
(Chuckling darkly)
Well, he always was a showman. But credit where credit's due—he beat us to the punch on the moral front. He outed the Germans. Exposed the camps. Stuck the knife in and twisted it.

HULL:
More than that. He's framing the war as a crusade. And now the Pope's weighed in? Every Catholic in America's paying attention. Even the Irish press is calling it "the turning point of civilization."

MARSHALL:
We've had agents in Rome. There were doubts before—real fractures in his government—but this… this unified them. His ministers stood behind him. The people roared. You could feel the damn ground shake from across the Atlantic.

DONOVAN:
What he said about the Jews—that was no empty gesture. He's aligned with Stern. He's recognized a Jewish state in exile. That's revolutionary. The kind of thing we talk about in back rooms, not on rooftops.

ROOSEVELT:
(Slowly)
And made the King of Italy the King of Israel. Christ Almighty… imagine what the British are doing right now.

KNOX:
We already got a cable. Churchill's Cabinet is in chaos. The Zionists are dancing in the streets of Haifa, the Haganah are all but defunct. The Lehi just offered a ceasefire. Palestine's going to be a powder keg in return for unlimited Jewish migration—and we're stuck watching it burn.

STIMSON:
But the strategic map? It's shifting. Hungary turned. Greece. Bulgaria. Even Franco's Spain. All siding with Rome.

MARSHALL:
If the Rome Pact holds, the southern front opens wide. The Germans will have to reinforce the south. That'll bleed their eastern campaign. Could shave months, no, years off the war.

ROOSEVELT:
(Exhales)
And all it took was a broken man in a scratchy uniform yelling at the world not to be monsters. God help us. Not even mentioning we owe him for that information on pearl harbor.

HOPKINS:
Mister President, you said something once—about this war being a battle for the soul of man.

ROOSEVELT:
(Quiet)
Yeah. I remember.
(Leans forward)
Well, it seems Il Duce just declared that same war. Only this time, he's got the damn Pope, the Jews, and half the Mediterranean behind him.

(Looks around the room)
Gentlemen, history just pivoted in a new direction. Let's make sure we're not left standing still.

[END TRANSCRIPT – CLASSIFIED EYES ONLY]
Prepared by: Office of Naval Intelligence – Political Liaison Division
Filed: December 18, 1941

-

Kremlin, Moscow
Politburo Emergency Session – December 18, 1941 – 20:40 MSK
Classified Transcript – TOP SECRET
Topic: Italian Declaration of War on Germany, Recognition of Israel, Papal Edict, Bombing of Ploiești

Attendees:

Joseph Stalin – General Secretary of the Communist Party

Andrey Vyshinsky – People's Commissar for Foreign Affairs

Lavrentiy Beria – NKVD Chief

Georgy Zhukov – Deputy Defense Commissar

Kliment Voroshilov – Marshal of the Soviet Union

Anastas Mikoyan – People's Commissar for Foreign Trade

Aleksandr Shcherbakov – Head of the Red Army's Political Directorate

---

STALIN:
(Lighting a pipe)
So… Mussolini has found his feathers. Bombed our mutual enemy. Declared war on Hitler. And gave a speech more Catholic than the damn Pope.

VYSHINSKY:
(Nervously adjusting glasses)
Comrade Stalin, it was… unorthodox. Bombing the oil fields at Ploiești before even mobilizing fully. But it was effective. Disrupted shipments to the Wehrmacht for at least a week. London confirms it. And the radio broadcast—Rome went global. He accused the Germans of industrialized mass murder.

STALIN:
(Flatly)
We already knew that. You think we don't have eyes in Poland?

BERIA:
We do. But now the world knows. Publicly. The Jews are no longer whispers in the camps—they're corpses in the sunlight. And Mussolini handed Hitler's crimes to the microphones of Europe.

ZHUKOV:
Strategically, this is a gift. With Greece, Hungary, and Spain turning on Berlin, Germany's southern flank is exposed. They're stretched thin already on our front. If this Rome Pact holds, they'll have to reroute divisions. We should push harder in Ukraine while they scramble. We can take Kiev back in spring.

MIKOYAN:
Spain's entry is especially important. Franco can open another front in the Pyrenees and further tie Germany down.

VOROSHILOV:
(Growling)
I still don't trust Mussolini. This could be theater. Diversion. You don't become a Roman by quoting Cicero in a wool coat.

STALIN:
(Smirking)
No, you become a Roman by stabbing your allies in the back.

(pauses, then leans forward)

But... maybe that's what makes him useful. A fascist who hates other fascists. A useful contradiction. Not to mention the information he gave us helped to blunt Germany's advance.

VYSHINSKY:
His recognition of Israel complicates things. The Zionists are energized. He's branded it a crusade—with our enemies in clerical robes cheering from the Vatican. Dangerous for the Party's messaging.

SHCHERBAKOV:
Propaganda is already spinning. We frame it as imperialist Catholic theater. "Old fascists cannibalizing new ones." But we must tread carefully. The Pope's decree has inflamed Catholic populations even within our border zones.

STALIN:
Let the Church bark. Dogs bark before they starve. We have our arrangement with them, as long as they stay out of our way they can live.

(takes a long drag from his pipe)

What we do now is simple.

We send a message to Rome. A note, nothing more: Remember what you promised us when we last met.

BERIA:
And the Jews?

STALIN:
(Flatly)
They are survivors. That's what they do. If Stern's government serves our goals, we tolerate them. If not, we replace them.

ZHUKOV:
Shall we begin preparing for a spring offensive?

STALIN:
Yes. With Berlin focused on Rome, we drive the knife deeper from the east. Let Mussolini play messiah. We'll push them to the Rhine.

---

[END TRANSCRIPT – TOP SECRET]
Filed by GRU Liaison – Internal Kremlin Dispatch
Distributed only to Red Army Command and NKVD Leadership

December 16, 1941
Palazzo Venezia
Rome, Italy

The silence in the room was heavy—leaden, suffocating. Only the distant ticking of the old clock behind me broke it, each tick a tiny hammer striking my nerves. I had already turned off most of the lights; only a single flickering lamp clung to life on the far wall. I preferred it that way—shadows and ambiguity. They suited me. They always had.

Across from me stood André François-Poncet, the French ambassador, stiff as a corpse but not half as peaceful. The bags under his eyes and the fraying collar of his overcoat betrayed a man running on pride alone, clinging to dignity like an heirloom too sacred to pawn. He didn't sit until I gestured, and even then, he did so with the caution of a man who feared the chair might collapse beneath the weight of the moment.

No introductions. No pleasantries. No wine. Not tonight.

"You know what's happening in the East," I said, tapping ash off a cigarette I had long forgotten to smoke. "You've heard the broadcasts—Auschwitz, Chelmno. The trains. The gas."

He flinched. A subtle movement, but I caught it.

"I have," he said evenly. "And I suppose this is where you offer salvation... in exchange for a crown?"

I smirked. "Still have your tongue, I see. Good. You'll need it when you swear in the King."

He shook his head slowly. "This isn't Albania. And it's not Israel. I won't sell France's soul."

I leaned in, voice low, almost tender. "No one's asking for your soul, André. Just your cooperation. You get Savoy back. You get to be the man who pulls France from the ashes. We crown a Bonaparte—a name your people still remember with a hint of glory, not just shame. You get Belgium, Luxembourg, the Rhineland. Vengeance. Redemption. Entry into the Rome Pact. All I ask is you restore the Church's privileges... and recognize our new lines in Corsica, Nice, and Algeria."

A slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. He knew. My "crusader LARP," as I called it when I was alone with my thoughts. I'd need the Church in the order to come. Every new empire needs its priests.

He folded his hands. "And French sovereignty? A French army? Not some puppet in your Rome Pact?"

I blinked. Impressive. The man still had vertebrae.

"You'll have your referendum, if it makes you feel better. Let the people crown the Bonaparte. Keep your flag—so long as the cross stays. Keep your anthem, your colors, your army. As long as that army fights the Reich, I don't care if your rifles are painted bleu, blanc, rouge."

He inhaled sharply. "And collaborators?"

I shrugged. "Full pardons. Clean slates for those who swear loyalty to the new Kingdom. You'll need bureaucrats. France can't run on martyrs alone."

He didn't speak. Not for a long time. In the dim light, he looked like a ghost of the Third Republic—worn, translucent, already fading.

Finally, he said, "I'll do it. But France will be free. Not yours. Not anyone's. We may wear a crown again—but only because we choose to."

I smiled faintly. "Then God save the King."

And in the silence that followed, I could almost hear it—La Marseillaise, slower, mournful, sung not in defiance but in memory. Memory of what was lost... and of what must now rise to take its place.

I reached for the papers beside me.

The future was waiting.

December 17, 1941
Palazzo Venezia
Rome, Italy

The room was full of murmurs—the early tremors of a new world being born. Morning light slashed through the blinds, casting long bars of gold and shadow across the cold marble floor. I stood in front of the mirror for a long time, adjusting the sharp angles of my uniform. It gave me a small satisfaction. No one knew how much I had suffered without my family. No one needed to.

The radio crackled faintly in the background, some tinny broadcast lost beneath the din of my thoughts. The world was shifting again, and I was already somewhere ahead of it—plotting the next move before this one was even done. I never lingered in moments. I only hunted what came after.

Outside, I could hear the crowd gathering, a low tide of voices swelling with anticipation. André François-Poncet—now Prime Minister—was about to step into history. It had been a cold, calculated bargain. But somewhere in me, perhaps in the part that still dreamed at night, I felt the weight of it. Like the tug on a marionette string gone slack—not broken, but loosened. Unpredictable.

The radio came to life. I turned toward the window, watching as the crowd thickened.

"Today, a new chapter in the history of France begins."

His voice—François-Poncet's. Calm. Confident. The voice of a man who knew he was carving his name into the bedrock of a new age. I didn't need to hear the words. I already knew them. But I let them wash over me anyway. I wanted to taste them.

"With the help of Il Duce, I am honored to announce that I, André François-Poncet, assume the office of Prime Minister of the Kingdom of France—a free and sovereign nation. And with this act, we invite His Majesty, Louis Napoléon Bonaparte, to take his rightful place as King."

I smirked, fingers tapping the edge of the windowsill. It's all coming together.

"The Kingdom of France, in partnership with Rome, shall claim Belgium, Luxembourg, and the Rhineland in compensation for Nice and Corsica. Savoy returns to France—a symbol of our rebirth."

The French were stirring, waking from a long, fevered sleep. This wasn't Vichy. This was something older. Colder. More dangerous. A state built from the ruins with blood still fresh in the mortar. He was still a puppet—but maybe that was what was needed. And perhaps, in time, he might become something more.

"We shall annex the Belgian African colonies," he continued, "to restore France's rightful dominion after our losses in Algeria, Syria, and Somaliland."

The officers near me shifted uncomfortably. I didn't care. They would learn. There was elegance in this—precision in the madness.

"The Kingdom will also restore the privileges of the Church. Faith must guide us now."

I chuckled under my breath. Of course it would come to this. There was no room for sterile secularism in the world I was building from blood and wire. After the darkness, even the most bitter souls crave the comfort of stained glass and ritual.

"For all those who collaborated with Vichy—there will be pardons. Amnesty for all who swear fealty to the Kingdom and renounce the past. This is a new chapter, revival with honor. Vive La France. Vive Le roi. Vive Christ le roi."

A clean slate. A dangerous gift. But necessary.

"This is a new beginning. With Mussolini's help, France rises again. And the Bonaparte crown shall rest on a living brow once more."

The crowd roared. I didn't need to hear it. I could feel it—like thunder in my bones.

"An opportunity for France to revive with honor," I whispered, more to myself than anyone. I had said it aloud a dozen times in my head already.

I turned from the window.

And what of François-Poncet? Would he remain content to steer this fragile, gilded vessel? Or would he, like all men handed power by someone else, one day begin to wonder if it was enough? Or if he'd have to break the hand that gave it to him?

Time would tell. It always did.

I stepped away from the window, toward the door. Another domino had fallen.

And the world I dreamed of was nearly real.

December 17, 1941
Vatican City – Private Audience Hall

The rain hadn't followed me here—but the silence had. That heavy, papal kind. The kind that hums in the bones of saints carved before anyone knew what phosphorus did to skin. It oozed out of the walls, breathed through marble lungs. It made my boots echo like hammerblows in a tomb.

"Rain keeps falling, rain keeps falling... down, down, down…"

Simple Minds again. Always Simple Minds when it rained.. I shook my head like it could rattle the song loose. This wasn't the time for city pop and neon ghosts. This wasn't Shinjuku at midnight or some dream soaked in pink and chrome. This was Rome—ancient, unblinking, and cold. This was the boss fight. The real one. No continues.

The Swiss Guards watched me with that polished stillness they teach in cathedrals and graveyards. Too young to remember Warsaw. Too young to have smelled burning flesh or held a child in front of its dead parents. God, maybe that was mercy. Maybe that was why I envied them. Lucky bastards, I resisted the urge to chuckle.

He was waiting for me. The Holy Father. Same chair as last night, only now it looked like a throne in a mausoleum. His robes glowed under the pale light—too white. Like snow covering a mass grave. Like frost on a bayonet.

I bowed. "Your Holiness."

His nod came slow, like something rusted. "Duce."

I didn't sit. Didn't offer him the luxury of small talk. The time for courtesies had died with the latest freight train to Auschwitz.

"You made history," I said. "So did I."

He studied me. Calm. Measured. As if God Himself whispered into his ears every morning while I had to make do with Yutaka and broken sleep.

"You bombed Ploiești," he said.

I smiled. Just a hair. "Yes. And the world heard you on every Catholic radio from Naples to Nairobi. But it's not enough. Not yet."

His brows rose, Vatican code for go on.

I stepped forward, slid a paper onto the table. Smaller than last night's. But it weighed more. Like it was soaked in blood.

"I want you to declare membership in the German military grounds for excommunication. No sacraments. No confession. No last rites. Effective by New Year's."

The air curdled. The kind of shift you feel before a landslide or an ambush. He didn't move. Not a flicker. But the marble around us did.

"It's not enough to denounce the Party," I said. "You must damn the sword it wields. The Wehrmacht is not neutral. It drives the trains. It guards the camps. It shoots the orphans. They are butchers wrapped in banners."

Still nothing. So I pushed.

"And the collaborators—Vichy, Slovakia, all of them. Those regimes hand over Jews like tithes and call it loyalty. If they continue after New Year's, strip them too. Communion, rites, sanctity. Let them feel what hell tastes like before they die."

He folded his hands. His fingers looked older than the Sistine Chapel.

"You believe this will end the war?" he asked.

"No," I said. "But it will crack it. If Catholic soldiers begin fearing for their souls more than their skin... if bishops are dragged from the grey fog of neutrality and forced to choose—Rome or Berlin—then maybe we see surrender before the abyss."

I stepped back. Let the silence bloom.

"You said silence is complicity. Well, so is neutrality. So is pulling a trigger while wearing a crucifix and pretending that absolves you."

He looked at me long. That Vatican stare, the one that could see a man's sins like x-rays see bone.

"And what of your own?" he asked softly. "What of your sins, Duce?"

I almost laughed. Almost.

"They're many. And I carry them. I carry every damn one."

A pause.

"I've done things I can't explain. Ordered deaths, cities burned, dreams murdered in cold daylight. Saint Peter probably tore my name out of the Book with his own hands long ago. But even I know where the line is now. Even I know when the abyss stares back."

He closed his eyes. Breathed deep. As if he were inhaling the weight of the world. Maybe he was.

When he opened them, he said only: "I will pray on this."

I nodded. "Pray fast. While you do, thousands are choking on gas and mud and screams."

I turned. Walked out.

This time, the Swiss Guards didn't meet my eyes. Or maybe I didn't offer them mine.

Outside, Rome glistened under a veil of drizzle and moonlight. I lit a cigarette. Let it smolder like some tiny defiance, like warmth stolen from the jaws of winter.

In the distance, bells rang out.

They sounded like war drums dressed in cassocks.

God had spoken. Now I had to see if His shepherds had the spine to become soldiers.

-

December 18, 1941
Pallazo Venezia
Rome, Italy

The sky over Rome looked like a bruise. Purple, swollen, sick with the weight of what was coming. The bells had stopped. Even the pigeons outside my window had gone still, perched like gargoyles waiting for the punchline.

I sat alone. Same chair I used to take calls from Berlin. Now I used it to chain-smoke and stare at a cheap radio, listening for the voice of God in mono.

They said the announcement would come at noon. That the Holy Father would speak—not just from the pulpit, but from the gut. I didn't believe them. Not really. But I was hoping.

The dial hummed. Static, then a breath. Then his voice.

Measured. Calm. Like marble bleeding.

"In the name of Our Lord Jesus Christ, we speak today not to flatter kings nor to comfort tyrants. We speak because silence has become a sin."

I froze. Cigarette half-burned between my fingers. The ash dripped like snow falling through a crematorium vent.

"The Catholic Church denounces the ongoing crimes perpetrated against the Jewish people and all innocent civilians by the regime of Adolf Hitler and its accomplices. These acts are an abomination before God."

The air left the room. Gone. Like a gut punch from a ghost.

He was doing it. The absolute Maldad.

"We declare now, with all the moral weight of the Holy See: any soldier who serves the German military machine from this day forward... any officer who facilitates genocide, who guards the camps, who delivers the condemned... shall be excommunicated from the Body of Christ."

I wanted to scream and laugh and sob at the same time. Instead, I just lit another cigarette off the last one. My hands were shaking. I didn't know if it was joy or rage or withdrawal.

"No sacrament shall reach them. No absolution shall save them. No priest shall bury them. Let their salvation rot with their honor."

God. He'd gone further than I asked. He didn't just throw the match—he poured oil on the flame and called it grace.

I closed my eyes. For a second, I was back home. My apartment. Neon lights flickering. Spotify playing on Sofie's boombox. Miki Matsubara whispering lullabies about lost love. A life I lost.

The radio kept going. The Pope named names. Vichy. Slovakia. The Iron Guard. Collaborators. Quislings. If they kept bending the knee to Berlin, they were out. Cut from heaven's book like I'd once cut enemies from the telephone line.

"A cross cannot sanctify cruelty. And neutrality is no shield from judgment."

The transmission ended. Just like that. No fanfare. No Benediction. Just silence. Not the Vatican kind. Not the holy kind. This was the kind that comes after a gunshot in a church.

I stood. Stepped to the window.

The streets below were unusually quiet. No cheering. No protests. Just the kind of hush you get before an avalanche. Or a miracle. Or a massacre.

Somewhere in the haze, I saw a priest lower his head in prayer. Another one lit a cigarette.

I whispered, not to him, not to anyone really.

"Now we see who still believes in God... and who just believed in uniforms."

The war had changed. Not on the maps. Not yet. But in the soul.

I crushed the cigarette under my boot. Outside, the wind stirred.

It carried something with it.

Smoke, maybe.

Or grace.

December 20, 1941
Somewhere in the Alps, near Chambéry
Kingdom of France (Savoy front)

The wind cut through the valley like a blade, sharp with ice and smoke. Snow melted under the treads of Italian tanks and the bootsteps of a new crusade. The flag overhead—blue with a golden eagle and cross—fluttered defiantly over a church tower still pockmarked from the last shelling.

General Benito Albino Mussolini lit a cigarette with numb fingers, watching as another column of Vichy French came stumbling through the pass with their hands raised, frostbitten and humbled. They weren't prisoners. Not anymore.

Most carried white flags. A few carried crosses. And one, disturbingly, carried a crumpled portrait of Marshal Pétain with a bayonet jammed through his eye.

"More of them every hour," muttered Colonel Bellini beside him. "They're even abandoning their artillery."

Benito Albino exhaled smoke, letting it drift with the mountain mist. He looked every inch the general now—battle-worn greatcoat, stubble on his jaw, and a gaze carved from something colder than the Savoy winter. The training at the Scuola was cut short once war was declared, but despite that he felt like he'd truly earned his spot today.

"They've seen the writing on the wall," he said quietly. "They've heard the Pope. They've heard François-Poncet. Paris is next."

A young French officer stepped forward, his helmet tucked under one arm. His accent was thick with Marseille. "Mon général...We defect. We will fight with you. For France."

Benito Albino studied him for a long second. He saw no fear in the man's face—just shame. And something else. Hope, maybe.

"What's your name, lieutenant?"

"Mathieu Arnoult. Third Infantry, former Vichy." He hesitated. "Catholic. Royalist. Tired of seeing my nation under the German Boot."

Benito nodded slowly, then extended his hand. "Welcome to the new France, Lieutenant Arnoult."

The man gripped it like a lifeline.

Behind them, the priests had already set up a field altar in the ruined nave. A chaplain recited Latin beneath a makeshift cross made from broken rifle stocks. Soldiers—French and Italian both—lined up not for rations, but for confession.

A strange kind of war.

"Sir," Bellini said, lowering his field binoculars, "we've got Germans falling back across the Rhône. Local SS are fighting to the last, and the Wehrmacht conscripts... they're laying down arms. Catholic conscripts are openly mutinying. They've heard the Pope's bull. Some are begging for rosaries."

Benito Albino turned his eyes eastward, toward the grey hills cloaked in snow. Somewhere beyond them, the old Reich was cracking. You could hear it if you listened closely—not the collapse of a nation, but the fraying of faith. And faith, he knew, had always been stronger than flags or Führers.

"Let them know if they surrender they'll be treated well. But he careful, don't trust the silence," he murmured. "That's when the fanatics come."

Bellini nodded grimly. "Protestant regiments. SS remnants. They're not surrendering. Reports say they're executing defectors now. Burning churches."

Benito's jaw tightened. "Eliminate them."

He turned to his staff.

"Order the armored columns to secure Grenoble. Inform François-Poncet he has a clear path to Lyon. Tell him the King's crown will gleam brighter if he takes it from Nazi hands, not mine."

Bellini hesitated. "What about you, sir?"

Benito Albino cracked his neck. "We push to Vichy. Lets lineraye this country."

He walked away without another word, boots crunching through slush and ash. A priest passed him, whispering Latin prayers over a French soldier sobbing in the snow. In the chapel, someone began singing—a broken voice, but steady.

"Domine, salvum fac regem..."

Benito Albino stopped at the ruined altar and knelt, his rifle slung across his back like a cross.

For a moment, he wasn't a general. Just a son, kneeling in the bones of a country, trying to build something worth dying for.

Then the shelling started again.

Back to work.

-

January 1, 1942
Vichy
France

There was a saying he heard once when he was a boy. What you do in new years marks what you'll do for the rest of your life.

He never expected to be responsible for the fall of a regime.

No gunfire. No barricades. Just a procession of broken men in threadbare uniforms, eyes hollow, led like schoolboys to confession.

General Benito Albino Mussolini stood at the gates of the former Vichy seat of power, watching as a delegation of high-ranking officials shuffled forward beneath a white flag. The town was quiet, as if even the buildings held their breath. Snow blanketed the rooftops. The silence was total.

They stopped before him, awkward and ashamed. Marshal Philippe Pétain, frail and ashen, was the last to be led out. He did not speak. He simply looked at Benito Albino—long and hard—and then bowed his head.

"Marshal Pétain," Benito said evenly, "by the authority of the Kingdom of France and the Rome Pact, you are under arrest for treason against the French nation and the Catholic faith."

Pétain did not protest. He handed over his marshal's baton without a word. He noticed a lone tear coming out from the man.

Behind them, the tricolor of the new Kingdom—adorned with the golden eagle and cross—was hoisted over the Hôtel du Parc.

The old man was done. The old France was dead.



The cathedral's bones were still intact, the last Vichy guards having deserted just the night before. Candles flickered in every alcove. The air smelled of incense and wax—and, faintly, gun oil.

Inside the cathedral was the local priest along with a mixture of french and Italian soldiers along with some journalists and war correspondents.

Benito Albino stood at the altar, dressed not in his general's greatcoat but in ceremonial black with a golden sash across his chest. Beside him, tall, thin, and dignified despite the tattered state of his clothes, stood Louis Napoléon Bonaparte—the last living male descendant of the Emperor himself.

His imprisonment under Vichy had left its mark. His hands trembled slightly. But his eyes… his eyes burned with memory.

"Are you ready?" Benito asked quietly, offering a silver crucifix.

Louis Napoléon took it with reverence. "It hasn't even been 100 years since a Bonaparte last sat the french throne. It seems the time has come again."

The Mass began. Latin rose like smoke from the lips of the priests. Some soldiers crossed themselves. Others simply watched, unsure if they were witnessing history or something holier.

At the end, Benito stepped forward, lifted the iron crown of Charlemagne's Frankish revival—rescued from a Bourbon vault—and placed it gently upon Louis Napoléon's bowed head.

"In the name of God Almighty, and by the will of the French people," Benito said in flawless French, "I crown you Louis XX, King of the French, Defender of the Cross, and Protector of Europe."

The bells rang. Slowly at first. Then with abandon.

A monarch had returned.

-

Nightfall
Private Quarters
Vichy

They sat across from one another in a study lined with old Bourbon portraits and dusty war maps. A fire cracked in the hearth. The king had changed into royal dress, but still bore the prison scars on his wrists. Benito Albino sipped wine in silence. He offered the king a cigarette, he took it.

"I never expected this," Louis Napoléon said suddenly. "The crown. My family could only dream of it."

Benito gave a faint smile. "Life has a way of doing that. When the war started I was a sailor, abandoned by my father. Now here I am."

The King chuckled softly. "And now here I am."

"This is just the beggining," Benito said. "This war isn't over yet."

A long pause passed between them, firelight dancing over their faces.

"I want to liberate Paris with you," Benito said finally. "Ride in side by side. Then hold your coronation in Reims. Not as General and King, but perhaps as friends if that's possible."

Louis Napoléon looked at him, eyes wide with something between hope and disbelief.

"And afterward?"

Benito stood. His voice was firm.

"My father promised you a Kingdom reborn. You will have it: Belgium, Luxembourg, the Rhineland—all French. And the Congo too. A colonial restoration. Not for empire, but dignity. France will be France again."

The King rose as well. "And you? What do you want?"

Benito looked out the window, toward the stars just starting to burn in the winter sky.

"I don't know. But I'll figure it out as I go."

He turned back and extended his hand.

"To Paris?," he said.

The King clasped it.

"To Reims," Louis Napoléon replied.

-

January 1, 1942
Berlin
Reich Chancellery

The marble halls of the Reich Chancellery echoed with boots, curses, and the rattle of papers. Smoke hung heavy in the air—cigarettes, pipe tobacco, and the bitter scent of fear.

Adolf Hitler was pacing like a caged wolf, hands shaking not with age but rage.

"They crowned a Bonaparte," he spat, eyes wild. "A Bonaparte, in the house of my allies!"

No one dared speak. Not Goebbels, not Himmler, not even Bormann. Only Göring, slouched in a chair with a fresh glass of schnapps, had the audacity to mutter, "Should've bombed Vichy when we had the chance."

Hitler snapped toward him.

"We are losing divisions of Catholics! Whole battalions laying down arms! Bavarian regiments, my regiments—they're singing hymns!"

Goebbels stepped forward, voice sharp and desperate. "We're still in control of Paris. The Gestapo is holding the line in the north. If we act fast, we can—"

"The Church has betrayed us," Hitler growled. "The Pope, that Roman pig, sent his blessings to Vichy. The Protestants are calling the war ungodly. Even in Prussia!"

He threw a porcelain bust across the room. It shattered against a map of France.

"Petain surrendered without a bullet. The French crown is back. A prince of the old order—wearing Catholic robes, preaching crusade, promising glory! Do you know what that means?"

No answer.

Hitler turned to Himmler, face twisted.

"It means the myth is alive again."

---

Elsewhere in the Reich

Across Bavaria and the Rhineland, Catholic chaplains were being rounded up. Those who refused to swear loyalty to the Reich found themselves arrested—or worse.

In Cologne, Bishop von Galen issued a sermon condemning the Nazi occupation of France, denouncing "the pagan war against our Christian brothers" and praying openly for King Louis XX.

In the Protestant north, even some Lutherans had begun to speak in tongues not heard since 1918—of divine law, just kings, and the wrath of God upon tyranny. Secret sermons reached Hamburg, Bremen, and even Leipzig.

The cracks were spreading.

---

SS Headquarters, Berlin

Himmler's fingers trembled as he opened the latest report.

Subject: Defections in Western Army Groups

2nd SS Panzer: 17 officers defected en masse near Metz

1st Bavarian Infantry: Over 400 men laid down arms singing "La Marseillaise"

Multiple chaplains arrested in Alsace for harboring "heretical monarchist literature"

Catholic youth movements in Munich and Vienna now referring to Mussolini as "the deliverer"

Reports of white lilies placed outside churches—Bonapartist symbol of old France

Himmler looked up, pale.

"They're not just surrendering," he whispered. "They're converting."

---

Back at the Chancellery

Hitler stared into the fire like a prophet possessed.

"France is rising from the grave," he muttered. "Not the republic. Not the communards. The old France. The one with swords and saints and kings. And the Italians gave it life."

He turned to Goebbels with a dark grin.

"Then let the fires be stoked. If they want war in the name of God… then so be it."

-

January 2, 1942 – War Rooms, London
Transcript: Emergency Cabinet Meeting, 08:00 GMT
TOP SECRET – EYES ONLY
Subjects: French Coronation, Catholic Defections in Wehrmacht, Italy's Role

---

PRIME MINISTER WINSTON CHURCHILL:
(Gruffly lighting a cigar)
Let's begin. I trust you've all seen the news. The bloody Bonaparte crowned like Charlemagne, incense, holy oil, everything short of angels descending. And that young Mussolini—Benito Albino—presiding over it like a bloody Archbishop of Reims.

ANTHONY EDEN (Foreign Secretary):
They've taken Vichy with barely any resistance. Petain's been handed over. The Kingdom of France now controls nearly all southern France, and they've pledged to liberate Paris. The Pope's blessing was broadcast across Europe.

CLEMENT ATTLEE (Deputy PM):
It's not just pageantry. We're seeing mass defections from German Catholic units. Even some Protestant elements are wavering. Bavaria's practically boiling over. If this continues...

CHURCHILL:
(Interrupting)
Yes, yes—Germany's bleeding priests and saints. But where does that leave us? Our French allies have just been rendered obsolete. De Gaulle's livid.

EDEN:
De Gaulle called François-Poncet a puppet. Claims the real France is in London. Unfortunately, the people in the mainland seem to disagree. There were celebrations in Lyon, Orléans, even whispers in Paris.

LORD HALIFAX (Ambassador to the US, via encrypted phone link):
Roosevelt is concerned. He's asked if we recognize this "King Louis." We've advised caution.

CHURCHILL:
(Scoffing)
Caution? We're in the middle of a bloody crusade , and Washington wants to observe! The Nazis are being excommunicated by their own soldiers and Roosevelt's still playing chess.

LORD BEAVERBROOK (Minister of Supply):
We do need to make a decision, Winston. This is a spiritual war now. The continent is shifting from ideology to theology. The Italians knew it first. Mussolini's turned himself into Constantine and handed Charlemagne's ghost to France.

ATTLEE:
And he's winning. With incense and bayonets.

CHURCHILL:
(Grinding cigar)
We are not joining a papist holy war, gentlemen. But neither will we stand idle while fascists play at sainthood and drag the continent into medieval dreams. The question is: do we recognize this Kingdom?

(Silence)

EDEN:
If we don't, we risk alienating the entire Catholic world—from Ireland to Quebec. And worse—if Louis and Benito Albino liberate Paris… the French will never look our way again.

CHURCHILL:
(Mutters)
Damned romantic fools with their crusades and crowns. Still, romantic fools with rifles do tend to win wars.

(Leans forward)

Draft a statement. Cautious, but cordial. We "acknowledge the developments in France" and express hope for a "united resistance against tyranny." No crowns. No anointments. Not yet.

ATTLEE:
And De Gaulle?

CHURCHILL:
Tell him to keep his chin up—and his radio speeches coming. We'll need his voice when Paris turns gold.

(He stands)

History is moving, gentlemen. And I'll be damned if Albion is left behind.

---

END TRANSCRIPT
TOP SECRET – BURN AFTER READING

-

January 2, 1942 – The White House, Washington D.C.
Oval Office – Emergency Cabinet Briefing
Transcript – Top Secret
Subject: French Coronation, Catholic Defections in Wehrmacht, Mussolini's Role

---

PRESIDENT FRANKLIN D. ROOSEVELT:
(Gesturing toward the radio, still playing a Vatican news excerpt in the background)
Well, gentlemen… we've got ourselves a King of France. Again. With a Bonaparte name no less. Crowned by Mussolini's boy with the Pope whispering Deus vult in Latin behind the radio.

CORDELL HULL (Secretary of State):
It's a theatrical maneuver, Mr. President, but one with real consequences. Catholic Wehrmacht units are surrendering en masse. Reports say the German Army in Alsace has refused orders altogether. Even some Protestant clergy in Prussia have begun distancing themselves from Berlin.

HENRY STIMSON (Secretary of War):
It's spiritual warfare now. Hitler's losing the churches. If this keeps up, there could be a religious mutiny across the German military.

HARRY HOPKINS (Advisor to the President):
And Italy's right in the middle of it, playing empire builder. Mussolini's built himself a crusade and now he's selling redemption to Europe like it's going out of style.

FDR:
(Smirking)
And the French bought it wholesale. François-Poncet went from diplomat to prime minister in a day. That kid Mussolini—Benito Albino—he's dangerous. Cold eyes. Sharp as a tack. Believes in this messianic nonsense as far as we can tell.

SUMNER WELLES (Under Secretary of State):
Do we recognize this "Kingdom of France"? Churchill's playing coy, of course. But we've got Catholic voters, Catholic senators. And let's be honest, Mr. President—De Gaulle's voice doesn't carry like it used to.

FDR:
De Gaulle's a general without an army. Now he's a ghost without a nation. But we can't just bless Mussolini's parade either. That man may be playing pope today, but he's still a fascist with a taste for empire.

STIMSON:
There's another angle, sir. With Belgium, The Rhineland, The Belgian Congo and Luxembourg effectively promised to be in French royal hands now… their potential resource base just quadrupled. Tin, rubber, uranium—

FDR:
(Mutters)
Goddamn. So Mussolini gave the French their cross back, and now he gets access to their colonies as thanks.

HOPKINS:
It's not just thanks. It's faith. That's what we underestimated. Hitler's turning red in Berlin while priests are preaching Mussolini's order like it's divine mandate. This is psychological warfare—and it's working.

FDR:
(Silence. Then softly)
He's reshaping the battlefield. Not just with bullets, but with meaning. And we're still fighting like it's 1918.

(He takes a long drag from his cigarette)

Draft a statement. We acknowledge the coronation. No recognition. We reaffirm support for a democratic France-in-exile, but we express "respect for the will of the French people in their resistance against tyranny." Keep it broad. Poetic.

HULL:
And Mussolini?

FDR:
(Matter-of-factly)
He's still the devil in a cassock. But he's winning. So we treat him like the devil who's buying up the neighborhood. Carefully. Quietly.

(He leans forward, voice low)

Send a backchannel to the Vatican. Tell them we understand the spiritual threat Nazism poses—but remind them who sent guns to Britain before the war. Who'll feed Europe when this is over. There are still Protestants in this country, and elections on the calendar.

HOPKINS:
You want us to walk the line.

FDR:
No. I want us to write the line. And make everyone else walk it.

---

END TRANSCRIPT
TOP SECRET – DO NOT DISTRIBUTE

-

January 2, 1942 – Free French Headquarters, London
Transcript: Meeting with General Charles de Gaulle and Senior Advisors
Subject: Coronation of Louis Napoléon, Collapse of Vichy, Defections to the Kingdom of France

---

GENERAL CHARLES DE GAULLE:
(Standing by a map of occupied Europe, his face hard as granite)
The Bonaparte name has been resurrected. And with it, Mussolini's influence over France grows stronger. We are at a crossroads, gentlemen. A new regime is born under a crown, with the Church and Italy both at its back. And we are left with nothing but the shadows of what was once France.

PAUL-LOUIS TIXIER (Free French Ambassador to the UK):
(Quietly)
The Kingdom of France, General. Not just some puppet state of Italy. The language is subtle, but it is clear. Mussolini's son, Benito Albino, crowns Louis Napoléon in Reims, and the French, most of them, embrace it. The Catholic Church, of course, blesses it. Even some of our own men are moving toward it.

DE GAULLE:
(Slamming a fist on the map)
Defectors! The French should be rallying around their rightful Republic, not some twisted monarchy engineered by Rome. Have they forgotten their own revolution? Their own Republic?

ANDRÉ PONCET (Minister of War, Free French):
(Sighs)
Many have, General. They see the stability the Kingdom promises. And they feel it, the pressure of Mussolini's momentum. Our colonies are still loyal, but they are divided. The Vichy government has collapsed, and with it, any sense of authority from France's traditional institutions. Many of the conservatives within our ranks have begun to listen to the promises of the Bonapartists.

DE GAULLE:
(Sharply)
Are you suggesting we abandon France entirely? Let them take what's left of the heart of Europe and crown their Napoleon while we hide in Africa? After what they did to our people in Algeria?! In Tunisia?! Syria?!

TIXIER:
No, General. I'm suggesting we prepare for the worst, which is exactly what we have. France—those who remain loyal—are no longer fighting under a banner of liberty. They are fighting for the remnants of order under Mussolini's shadow. Some in the cabinet suggest we move to our African colonies, consolidate our forces, and build up a more traditional French resistance there. It's a harsh reality, but it's a strategic one. The colonies are still loyal to France.

DE GAULLE:
(Coldly)
And abandon Europe to the Bonaparte family and Mussolini's Italy? Our fight for France cannot end in the deserts of Africa! We are not colonial subjects! We are Frenchmen!

LÉON BLUM (Minister of Foreign Affairs, Free French):
(Speaking more gently)
General, I understand your conviction. But we must consider that France's future may now lie in Africa. We've already seen defections in Europe. Our political hold is slipping. Our soldiers in the colonies remain loyal, but there are whispers that those loyal to the Kingdom of France may try to push us out of the equation entirely.

DE GAULLE:
(Silence, his expression hardening)
The question is not where we are, it's what we become. Do we retreat to Africa like some exiled kingdom? Or do we fight for the soul of France itself? A France built from the ideals of the Revolution, not the remnants of monarchy. I will not let France become a satellite of Italy, not on my watch.

TIXIER:
(Softly)
But General, many of the conservatives within France—those from the Vichy government—are already defecting to the Kingdom of France. They see it as the natural order. The power vacuum in Paris, in Vichy, is being filled by royalists, not republicans.

DE GAULLE:
(Shrugging)
Let them. I will not waste my time appealing to their nostalgia for the past. We will rally the true France—the free France. We still have the strength of the colonies, we still have the will to fight. We must take the fight to Mussolini, even if that means shifting to Africa for now.

(A pause as de Gaulle gazes at the map again, tapping his fingers on the table.)

DE GAULLE:
(Turns sharply)
Prepare a plan to reinforce the colonies. We consolidate. We hold Africa. And we will fight to the last. The real France will rise again, not under a crown of illusion, but from the rubble of betrayal. Mussolini can crown all the kings he likes. But it will be the French people who decide their future. We will remind them of that—no matter the cost.

(His eyes turn cold, resolute.)

TIXIER:
What about our relationship with the British, General? Churchill may see our focus on Africa as a diversion from Europe.

DE GAULLE:
(Shrugs)
The British are already fighting their own war. We must fight ours. Our interests must align, yes. But the future of France, the soul of France, is not for Churchill to decide.

---

END TRANSCRIPT
TOP SECRET – DO NOT DISTRIBUTE

January 3, 1942
Palazzo Venezia
Rome, Italy

The room smelled of old cigars, dust, and a strange sharpness—maybe it was the air itself, as if the walls were breathing in tune with the steady hum of the city outside. The city, my city, where the pulse never stops, where every street corner feels like it's straight out of a forgotten VHS tape. Even the walls here were echoes of lost decades, faded memories of a time when life was simpler. I used to think they were reassuring, but now... they felt like a cage.

A jazz riff echoes in my head—Kenny G, or was it David Bowie? Something smooth, too smooth, too detached. I could almost see it now: a grainy VHS shot of Berlin at night, with the synths cascading over the walls of a smoke-filled club.

A short laugh escaped me. I could practically hear the drums in the background. Take on Me—such a perfect anthem for this moment. Me, standing before the Austrian exiles, trying to offer them something they'd never truly want. A kingdom—no, a puppet one. A promise of greatness wrapped in the trappings of my will.

But I could already feel their unease. Shadows of the past. That was the name of the game now. They're looking at me, measuring me, unsure whether I'm a savior or a devil. Or maybe they're trying to decide if they want to dance to my tune.

"I am here to give you your country back," I begin, voice steady. But there's a flicker in my mind. A crack, like a skip in a record. I push it away.

The Austrians sit across from me, stiff as statues, those old black-and-white uniforms of their Austria-Hungary days now hanging loosely on their bodies, crumpled by too many years of exile and waiting. Most of them look like they've been in this limbo for too long, too submerged in their bitterness to know which direction to face.

"Restoration," I say, feeling the word roll off my tongue, like a final note in a minor key. "All of Austria. In return for your loyalty, your commitment. We'll bring back the grandeur of the Empire. No one will stand against us." I pause, giving them a moment to imagine it. "Austria. Saxony. Everything south of it. Everything east of the Rhine. Greater Austria." The vision is... intoxicating. Soft Cell's Tainted Love plays in my head, swirling through the air like a poisoned wind. A tainted liberation yes, but a liberation nonetheless.

I don't know why, but the image of those exiled faces, their fear mingling with desire... it reminds me of Lorde's Royals—the glamour of it all, the allure of power wrapped in the chaos of it. Of course, they'd want it. But would they sell their souls for it?

A voice breaks through my thoughts. A man—his face familiar, I think, though I can't place the name. Some Austrian royalist. He leans forward, hands trembling slightly, betraying his nerves. "And what of autonomy?" he asks, voice cracking under the weight of too many years spent hiding from a world that abandoned him. "Will our land, our people, be free? Or will we be another Albania in your empire?"

I stare at him for a moment, letting the tension hang thick. Autonomy? What do they even know of it? It's a dead word, drained of meaning. The same as 'freedom,' like a broken chord from an old 45.

"Victor Emmanuel will be your king. But I will give you autonomy. Of a sort. You'll have your own leaders, your own institutions, but you will answer to me," I say, eyes narrowing. Tears for Fears whisper in my mind.

Everybody wants to rule the world.

The melody, a smooth melody.

"This Greater Austria will be tied to Italy. A union, like a marriage of convenience, with no illusions about it. You will be our allies, but you will never be separate from us."

The silence hangs in the air, suffocating. There's the familiar smell of sweat, of fear. Of longing. My heart beats faster. The cure for loneliness—is it power? No, it's my family, little baby Sofie, Rachele, Bruno, Vittorio, Romano, Edda, all of them. My family now.

"Union under Italy," another Austrian spits, his face twisted in disgust. "That is what you offer us? An alliance built on your empire? We are not your subjects."

I feel the anger flicker in my chest. They think they deserve better? These pathetic little men who run around with their notions of lost grandeur, too blind to see that the world has changed? Too blinded by the past to recognize that I am their future?

I almost let it slip. Almost. But instead, I breathe deeply. The calm washes over me, thick like velvet. City pop. Tomoko Aran's midnight pretenders fills my mind... That smooth, empty feeling that follows a loss. I wait for the music to fade before I speak.

"I offer you the future," I say, voice low. "The world you lost when Hitler tore it down. You want autonomy?You'll have some. And in return, Austria will rise again, more powerful than before. Not as a rival. Not as an independent state. But as an extension of Italy's greatness. A Greater Austria."

I watch them closely, waiting for the crack in their resolve. The flicker of greed. Fear. Hope. It's all the same. And they'll break. They'll take the offer. They always do. Because power is a seductive thing. Eurythmics warned me about this. "Sweet Dreams"—I could almost taste it.

Then the man with the trembling hands speaks again, voice quieter this time. "And what of our people?" He looks at me, like he's pleading. As if I cared.

I smile, the edge of my teeth showing. "Your people will thank you for seeing the light and repudiating Hitler's barbarity."

The moment stretches long, as if time itself can't decide whether it's an eternity or a brief, fleeting second. In the end, they sign. Every one of them, shaken but hungry.

I feel something deep inside shift, like a song finishing its final note. The darkness lifts just a little. The power tastes like something sweet, sticky on my tongue. "Take on Me," it whispers, loud in my mind, yet so soft. A little victory.

For now, it's enough.

But it won't last.

It never does.

I turn away from them, walking slowly to the window, where the city below twinkles with promises I'll keep breaking, until there's nothing left.

January 4, 1942
Piazza Venezia
Rome, Italy

The square was packed like a vinyl sleeve bursting at the seams. Flags fluttered like wounded birds in the winter sun—red, white, green, and now the gold-and-black of the Habsburg lion reborn under my wing. Cameras clicked. Salutes snapped. But all I could hear was the low hum of a synthesizer in my skull, distant but steady. Toshiki Kadomatsu maybe. Midnight girl. Something slow. Something from before I was here. When life was just warm light and longing. Before politics, genocide and whatever this is now.

The podium stood like a guillotine turned on its head—meant to lift men instead of kill them. A joke, really. We all end up beneath the ground. Even kings.

They handed me the speech, but I didn't read it. My voice was already clear in my mind. I wasn't here to perform. I was here to baptize.

"People of Rome. People of Austria. People of this tired continent…"

My voice echoed through the stone canyons of the Eternal City. It bounced off fascist marble and ancient rot, the sound of a dead empire's ghost kissing the cheek of the next one.

"…Today, we do not simply remember a past. We forge a future. Austria is reborn—not as a rival, not as a vassal, but as a brother. A greater Austria, joined in union with Italy. United not by conquest, but by clarity."

There was cheering. Applause. But it was a flat kind of noise—predictable, rehearsed. Like laughter on a sitcom. I didn't trust it. Never did.

Behind me, the Austrian delegation stood stiff and unsure. Like orphans at a wedding. They didn't know whether to feel honored or violated. Good. That meant they were smart.

I glanced up. The sky was blue, almost unnaturally so, like it had been drawn by a cartoonist who only remembered Rome through postcards and soft-focus dreams.

Sofie would've liked this. The pageantry. The symbolism. She'd have whispered some joke in my ear about how I was cosplaying as Caesar again while playing CK3. Then she'd have handed me tea. Or her phone with Spotify on. "Try this one. It's Yuki Saitoi. Makes you feel like you're falling in love while looking at a sunset."

I swallowed the thought.

God, how I missed her. But I had new family now. Benito Albino, Duce's firstborn—sharp as a bayonet. I saw him before he left for France, just leaning against the balcony rail at the Palazzo. Smoking like it was the only thing keeping him from screaming. I didn't interrupt. I just stood behind him for a moment, let the silence speak. God what a mood.

I think about them more now. Family. Like the war's peeled back everything else and all that's left is blood and memory. I used to think greatness was built from ambition and violence. Now I'm not so sure. Maybe it's just built from having people who make you less hollow.

I stepped back from the podium. The crowd roared. The Austrians clapped, hesitantly, like they were unsure if they'd just been saved or sold. I didn't care. I'd given them a future. What they made of it was their problem.

My officers saluted. Flashbulbs popped. Someone handed me a pen to sign the Treaty of Union. I scrawled my name, the ink dark and final.

Duce Benito Mussolini.

Underneath it, the seal of Greater Austria. A new satellite. A new ally. A new story carved out of the old world's bones.

I turned to leave. The sun hit my face just right, casting long shadows behind me. For a moment, it felt like I wasn't walking away from the podium—but from something deeper. Something I used to be.

My fingers itched for a Walkman. I settled for the cigarette in my coat instead.

As I lit it, I whispered to no one:
"Someday this will all be gone. The flags, the marble, the uniforms. But maybe—just maybe—I will remember this day. And smile."

And with that, I disappeared behind the velvet curtain,
the applause still echoing behind me like the final bars of a forgotten 80s ballad no one plays anymore.

An excerpt from Anne Frank's diary of a young girl

Tuesday, 15 January 1942

I heard something today that stopped my breath. The radio crackled, and they spoke about Rome. It's been bombed by the Germans, but not with ordinary bombs. Chemical weapons, they said. Cities across Italy are burning, the air thick with death. The Italians, the ones I'm fighting beside, they curse and shout, their voices trembling. I hear the word gassed over and over. I thought the Germans could only do that to us. To Jews. But now... they've done it to them as well. To people we've fought beside. The world's a graveyard, and we're all buried in it.

I don't know why I'm surprised. When you've seen enough death, you learn not to care anymore. But hearing about Rome... it feels personal somehow. The people that saved us, they've been poisoned.

I don't think I'll ever get over this.

Friday, 20 January 1942
We fought through the night, trying to take a German outpost. The battle went on longer than expected, and they fought like they had nothing left to lose. At one point, they fired gas shells at us. We could smell it—sweet, sickly-sweet. The others put on their masks, but I didn't have time for one. My eyes burned. My lungs screamed, but I didn't care. It felt familiar. I've been suffocating my whole life.

The Germans retreated soon after. I don't know if it was the gas or just their cowardice. Maybe it was both. But I'm not going to stop. Not until they're all gone.

Monday, 1 February 1942
Vienna fell today. We took it in the early hours. The Germans had already begun to flee, but there were still enough left to make it a bloodbath. The city was ours, but the people... they looked lost.

And then the new government was announced. Mussolini stood at the podium, delivering a speech to those who would listen. He called it the "Rebirth of Europe." His voice, calm and authoritative, filled the streets. The people cheered.

I stood behind the others, watching, my rifle clutched in my hands. A part of me wanted to believe. Maybe it was because of what he'd done for us, for the Jews. For Israel. But the other part of me—the part that's numb, that's dead inside—couldn't care less.

What do I care about their speeches? They were always full of lies, no matter who said them.

Monday, 15 February 1942
I saw a concentration camp today.

I never thought I'd see one up close. But there it was—barbed wire, watchtowers, the smell of human filth in the air.

When we arrived, the stench hit me first. And then I saw the prisoners. Skin stretched thin over bones, faces hollow and dead.

I vomited. I couldn't help it.

And then it hit me, hard: This is what awaited my family.

If we hadn't joined the Lehi, if we hadn't fought back—this would have been their fate.

This is why I'm still here. Why I fight.

But now... I don't know. Part of me wishes we never found this place. Maybe then I wouldn't have had to see this nightmare, and maybe I wouldn't have to feel so angry all the time.

Sunday, 1 March 1942
We stopped in Saxony today. Word spread fast—Hitler is dead.

The rumors came quickly, whispered through our ranks. Some said he was shot by one of his own, others said it was an assassin's hand from outside the Reich.

I don't care.

The Germans—what's left of them—are falling apart. The morale is gone. They're just soldiers now, fighting for a lost cause.

I've seen their faces. I know they feel it. And I can see the cracks forming in their resolve.

I don't feel anything about Hitler's death. It doesn't matter. What matters is that this war ends. We end it.

Monday, 15 March 1942
I've entered another camp today. Another one of those hellholes.

This time, I didn't vomit. I didn't even flinch.

I looked around, saw the twisted bodies, the sickly faces, the hopeless eyes staring into nothingness. And I knew. I knew exactly what I had to do.

We were ordered to execute the guards.

The Lehi fighters, the ones I've come to trust, they did it with no hesitation. I joined in. I was no different.

It felt like an obligation, a release. An act of vengeance.

I'm angry. Angry at the world. At them. At myself.

I've stopped caring.

Thursday, 3 April 1942
The war in Europe is over.

Or at least, the German part of it.

It's done. We've won.

But I don't feel anything.

I hear the celebrations, the shouting, the singing. The streets are filled with cheering crowds, but it's just noise. Empty. Hollow.

I've killed. I've been a part of something so monstrous that I don't know how to look at myself anymore.

What now?

What's left to fight for?

I'm just... I'm just empty inside.

-
An excerpt from the diary of Sargeant Mattias Berg

Friday, 15 January 1942
We were moving up the line today when the radio crackled to life. The news about Rome came through—chemical weapons. The Germans had bombed it, and cities across Italy with it. The details are still unclear, but the word gas keeps popping up, over and over.

I don't know how to feel about it. Part of me wants to rage. Another part, though, is just exhausted.

The air we breathe smells like death now. Everywhere. Every fight, every ruined village, every broken body. It's all beginning to blur together.

I've stopped talking to anyone about it. It's just easier to stay quiet.

Monday, 1 February 1942
Vienna is ours now.

The streets are full of victory, the sound of cheering crowds. I watched Mussolini's speech from the back of the crowd, trying to disappear into the sea of faces. The man's voice carried across the square. He promised Europe's future, some grand vision of a reborn continent.

Maybe there's hope in that. Maybe it's true. But it all feels hollow now.

I keep thinking about Giustino, about the medal they pinned on me when we landed in Taranto. The Heroes of the Bosphorus, they called us.

Giustino should've been here.

---

Monday, 15 February 1942
Today, we came across one of the camps.

The sight of it hit me like a hammer. Barbed wire. Watchtowers. Bodies—so many bodies.

I've seen the hell of war before, but this... this is something else.

I watched them, the prisoners. They were gaunt, like the bones were already rising to the surface. Their eyes were empty. Some didn't even notice us pass by.

I couldn't help but feel disgusted, but also something worse. Relief.

I think of Giustino's mother, his father. I wonder if they knew. Would they have had the courage to fight, to run, if they had seen this?

I'm not sure anymore.

Monday, 1 March 1942
We passed through Saxony today. Word came through: Hitler is dead.

I don't know what to make of it. The rumors are all over the place—some say he was shot by one of his own, others say an assassin took him down.

It feels like we've crossed a line.

The Germans we face now—they're beaten. You can see it in their eyes. The fear. The desperation.

I don't know what to feel. I don't know what to do anymore.

Monday, 15 March 1942
More camps today. More faces, more bodies.

The screams echo in my mind. It's like the dead are still talking.

And I—I—I've become part of this. I watched. I listened.

I told myself I wasn't like them. But maybe I am. Maybe I've always been.

Anne, though... she's different.

She stands apart from the others. Doesn't speak much, but when she does, it's with a weight in her voice that makes you stop.

She's been here longer than I have. I can tell.

Thursday, 3 April 1942
The war in Europe ended today.

VE Day.

But I didn't feel it. Not really.

There was cheering. Some even cried. I watched them. They looked like they were finally free.

But I don't feel free.

I thought this war would be the end of all the
hatred. The Germans are finished, the rest of Europe finally freed from their grip.

But here I am, just as empty as I was before.

I wonder if I'll ever feel anything again.

January 15, 1942
Paris
France

The city had fallen under the shadow of war at last, its streets now crisscrossed with soldiers and the low hum of armored engines. The air was thick with the smell of smoke and the stench of decay—a reflection of the turmoil that had consumed it. The old city, once a symbol of enlightenment, was now a testament to the brutality of war, caught between the fervor of victory and the weight of the coming reckoning.

Benito Albino Mussolini stood at the head of a formation of troops in the heart of Paris, besides him Louis XX as he'd promised him, they watched as the final German defenders—broken and beaten—surrendered. He had no celebration in his heart; the city's fall felt more like an inevitable consequence than a triumph. The French capital, so long occupied, now carried a somber, haunted silence beneath the strains of victory.

But something gnawed at him. The reports had come in just before the last gates of Paris had fallen—news of the chemical attacks. His blood boiled as he listened to the radio transmissions: the German forces, in a final defiant gesture, had used gas on civilians and soldiers alike as they retreated from the city. The very same weapons he had once fought against in the hellish campaign against Turkey. It sickened him.

He turned to Colonel Bellini, his face tight with rage. "Get me those prisoners. I want them brought before me."

Bellini raised an eyebrow, but Benito's glare left no room for argument. Moments later, the German POWs were lined up in front of him, their faces weary, confused, and drawn. They had no idea what awaited them. Benito strode toward them, his boots crunching on the frozen ground, and drew a deep breath.

"No executions," he spat, turning to Bellini. "But they will answer for their sins."

He gave the order for the soldiers to prepare a public demonstration. The Germans would not be allowed to die swiftly. They would be punished, not just for the massacre of innocents, but as an example to others who would dare to follow in the footsteps of those who had ravaged the continent with their poison. He could hear the echo of his father's teachings in his mind—justice must be shown.

As the prisoners were tied to posts in the main square, Benito and Napoleon stood on a raised platform, watching the crowds gather. His fingers trembled as he clutched the railing, the fury still searing his thoughts. This was more than just a punishment for them. It was a reckoning for what he had seen in the war, for the atrocities committed, and for the cruel twist of fate that had led to the use of gas. It felt like divine retribution for the sins of the past. Of Turkey.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a soldier's whip cracking in the air then a German's screams—a sound that cut through the stillness of the city like thunder.

The whipping continued, the sound reverberating in the snow-dusted streets. Benito's stomach churned as he watched it unfold. His mind was torn between the need for justice and the cruelty of it all. Was this what the world had come to? Was this truly the price of victory?

He turned away, unable to watch any longer. There was no satisfaction in it. Only a deep sense of unease that grew in his chest. As the last of the prisoners were led away, Benito's thoughts wandered. He had promised to end the suffering, to restore order—but did it come at a cost? How much of his humanity had he sacrificed in the pursuit of justice?

He clenched his fists, staring out over the city. Paris was his, but at what price?

---

January 27, 1942
Reims
France

The ancient cathedral of Reims, where kings had once been crowned in the days of glory, was quiet now—still and expectant, like a body waiting for its final breath. The air inside was thick with incense and the weight of centuries. The mass had already begun, the priests chanting in Latin, the congregation standing in reverence. The golden crown of Charlemagne lay before them, gleaming in the dim light of the flickering candles.

General Benito Albino Mussolini stood at the altar, eyes fixed on the crown. Beside him, his newfound friend Louis Napoléon Bonaparte, the newly crowned King of the French, stood tall and regal despite his bruised history. His once-imprisoned hands now held the weight of an empire reborn. He had suffered through Vichy's indignities, and now he would wear the crown of a France restored to its former glory.

Benito's gaze drifted from Louis to the crown. It wasn't just the symbol of monarchy; it was the symbol of everything they had fought for. The new France, the new Europe, rising from the ashes. Benito could feel the weight of his own journey pressing against his chest. From a sailor, abandoned by his father, to a general and architect of a new era. It was more than just war—it was about legacy.

The mass had come to an end, and Louis knelt before the altar, his face lit by the flickering candles. Benito, too, knelt beside him, his own heart heavy. There was a sense of finality in the air, as if everything—victory, defeat, destiny—had led to this moment. He stood again, and so did Louis.

The crown was lifted. Benito held it before him, the iron glinting in the light. He stepped forward and placed it upon Louis's head, just as the old coronation rites demanded. It was a moment of solemn triumph, a moment of divine providence, and yet Benito couldn't shake the feeling that something larger, something more powerful, was unfolding in the world around them.

The bells of Reims rang loudly, their sound echoing through the cathedral and spilling into the streets. It was not just the coronation of a king—it was the birth of a new order. A world where the old powers would be reshaped and reformed.

Benito turned to Louis, his voice low but resolute. "We have won, but the war is far from over."

Louis nodded, his eyes alight with the same fire Benito had seen in him from the start. "And we will see it through, together."

As they left the cathedral, the crowds cheered, their voices rising in unity. France had returned to its feet. The monarchy had been restored. But in Benito's heart, the weight of what was to come lingered. The world was changing, but how much would the price of this new order be?

The journey, it seemed, had only just begun.

January 15, 1942
Palazzo Venezia
Rome, Italy

I stepped into my office during lunch break. Normally, I'd eat with the family—smile at the kids, pretend to enjoy my wife's boiled vegetables—but not today. Today, I wanted to be alone.

I sat down in the chair. The old leather creaked like it was about to confess something. I smiled. Then I chuckled. Then I laughed—first a little, then like a lunatic who'd finally snapped and decided to host a dinner party for his regrets.

I'd won.

I felt like Light Yagami after getting the Death Note back from the fake Kira—except instead of a notebook, I had chemical weapons and half a continent's worth of war crimes. The maneuvering, the death, the betrayal, the little pieces of myself I left rotting on every battlefield. But I did it. The war—my war—was almost over. This was my moment. My anime villain monologue moment.

And I hadn't even seen it coming.

When Germany sent that lovely little letter—threatening me to declare war—I nearly shit myself. My army was still licking its wounds from Turkey, and by "licking" I mean sobbing uncontrollably in mustard gas-soaked trenches. We used so many chemical weapons Saddam would've asked for tips. I thought the Wehrmacht would steamroll me in a week and be picnicking in Naples by Sunday.

But I rolled the dice.

And landed a nat 20. Divine smite, motherfuckers.

A crusade. A literal crusade. I LARPed so hard during that speech I think the ghost of Urban II gave me a standing ovation. The crowd lost its mind. Then the Pope excommunicated the entire German army like it was a bingo call from heaven. "And G is for GO TO HELL, HEINRICH."

Germany tried to invade from both ends—Austria and France—like some fascist Eiffel Tower. They were pissed about Ploiești, understandably. Oil's expensive. But they didn't push like they did in the Great War. It wasn't a goddamn Isonzo. My men held. Then pushed. Then crossed the border into Austria like it was just another ski trip, only with more flamethrowers.

And France—oh, France! Suddenly, they're warming up to me, all because I threw on a bicorne hat and shouted "Vive l'Empereur!" long enough to make Charles de Gaulle need a drink after I offered the crown to one of Napoleon's descendants.

I want to yell. I want to cheer. I want to put on a city pop record and sing along to Free by Chakra until the wine starts talking back.

But then I remember. The bodies. The burned-out village. That little girl, Sofie, and her family. I saved her, yeah. I was a hero—by my own unhinged standards.

But goddamn it, I was also a monster.

I open the drawer. The gun's still there—polished, waiting, patient like a loyal dog. But I don't need it today.

No, today I reach for the bottle of wine next to it. Pop the cork like I'm celebrating a wedding and not the end of someone's world. And I chug. Like a man trying to drown a demon he carved into his own soul.

Bottoms up, Duce. You magnificent, miserable bastard.

I pause after chugging for a few seconds. The bottle is tilted against my wet lips, when I hear it—distant at first, like thunder auditioning for a role in an opera. Then louder. Louder. The deep, rhythmic thrum of aircraft slicing through the Roman sky.

My heart skips. I stumble to the window, almost knocking over a bust of Caesar that's already cracked like my morals.

I peer outside.

There they are—my birds, my beautiful, vicious metal angels. Italian fighters climbing through the sky in tight formation, like a flock of very angry, very well-funded geese. They're weaving and diving, peppering the clouds with bullets, chasing Luftwaffe planes like rabid wolves.

Bombs drop. Explosions light up the horizon, but something's wrong. There's no satisfying boom, no eruption of fire and screaming metal. Just puffs. Like someone's birthday cake is having a seizure.

Then the smoke spreads—thick, rolling, slow. Yellow-green clouds slithering over the rooftops of Rome like death wearing a Venetian carnival mask.

My stomach tightens.

Not high explosives. Not firebombs.

Chemicals.

Gas.

Again.

I stare as one of the plumes curls toward a neighborhood I know. I squint. That's...that's near the train station. Civilians. Families. Little kids who draw me in crayon as "Papa Benito" because their parents told them the truth would get them shot.

I feel it. Not guilt, not quite. Something worse. Familiarity. Like watching an old home movie of your worst moment and knowing—you chose this.

Those clouds...they're my fault.

No, worse—they're me.

I step back from the window, the wine bottle loose in my hand, fingers numb. My reflection in the glass stares back. Slick hair, medals, tailored suit. A walking contradiction. A lunatic dressed like a head of state.

I whisper to no one, "Jesus Christ this is punishment for Turkey."

And the glass doesn't answer.

It never does.

I'm moving before I even realize it—dropping the bottle, wine sloshing across antique tile like spilled blood on marble altars. I yank open the door to my office and the hallway greets me with the echo of boots, yelling, radios screaming in Morse like they're panicking in Morse Code.

"Gas attack—Trastevere hit—San Lorenzo—civilians down!" someone yells as they barrel past me, not even bothering to salute. Good. Finally, someone's prioritizing reality over pageantry.

I don't walk—I march. My heels click against the floor with the energy of a man trying to outrun his own sins. I take the stairs two at a time, cape flaring behind me like I'm cosplaying Dracula, only with more chemical weapons and fewer romantic undertones.

Outside, Rome is chaos. Sirens scream. Soldiers cough behind makeshift masks that look like someone sewed nightmares into burlap sacks. I can hear children crying. Civilians running. It's a warzone in the middle of my city, my city, and I'm the son of a bitch who turned it into this.

"Evacuate the Palazzo!" I bark at the nearest officer. "Everyone out. Get the staff to the shelters. Prioritize the eastern wing—smoke's drifting that way!"

"But Il Duce—"

"No but, lieutenant. You want a gold star or do you want people breathing in twenty minutes?"

He salutes. Runs. Good boy.

I grab a field phone from the operations room. The line's half-dead, crackling like it's ashamed to be associated with me.

"Get me the Red Cross, fire brigades, and—hell, get the goddamn Swiss if you have to. Anyone with a gas mask and a conscience."

I hang up. Then pick it back up. "And start evacuating people. Now."

Outside, my car screeches into place—no driver. I guess the man took the initiative and ran. Smart. I jump in the front seat and start the engine. This thing handles like a tank with commitment issues, but it'll do.

I drive like a lunatic through the smoke-drenched streets of Rome, windows cracked, scarf wrapped around my face like I'm some fascist stagecoach bandit. People scream as I pass. Some cry out to me, some curse, others just stare.

They don't see Il Duce anymore. They see a man-shaped consequence.

I reach San Lorenzo. Chaos. Fires. Smoke. My soldiers are dragging people out of basements, coughing and vomiting. One of them's a girl—no older than Anna Maria probably—foaming at the mouth, eyes red, skin blistered like she kissed the sun too long.

I kneel next to her, press my hand to her forehead, whisper something—I don't remember what. Some lie I thought would sound merciful. She dies anyway. Probably for the best.

I coordinate what I can. Set up a field hospital in a gutted bakery. Turn priests into nurses and nurses into gods. It's a symphony of madness and I'm conducting it with broken fingers.

Then the Swiss Guards arrive—awkward, overdressed, but they have medics. And gas masks. And a message.

"The Holy Father wishes to speak with you, Your Excellency."

Of course he does.

Of course.

Vatican City. Later.

The Papal Palace is dimly lit, like the end of a dream you don't want to wake from. I walk in reeking of smoke and wine and guilt. My uniform's stained. My hair's a mess. I look like Mussolini if he'd spent the night fighting werewolves in a haunted asylum.

The Pope sits waiting. His expression is neutral, but his eyes are oceans. Deep, dark, ancient. The kind of eyes that have seen too many empires and too many boys who thought they could become gods.

"Benito," he says softly. No titles. Just my name.

I almost laugh. Almost.

"Holiness," I say, and drop to one knee like a knight begging forgiveness from the throne of heaven.

He doesn't offer it. Not yet.

"What happened?" he asks.

"The Germans retaliated. Bombed us. With gas. My own men returned fire. Same method."

Silence.

"The people," he says.

"I'm trying to save them."

"You're trying too late."

Ouch. Ten points to Gryffindor.

"It's my fault," I say. "The chemicals. I mean—I didn't give the order. But I made the culture. I laid the foundation. I set the house on fire, then screamed when it burned down."

He nods. No condemnation. Just truth. That's worse.

"Why did you come?" I ask.

"Because Rome is bleeding," he says. "And so are you."

I want to scream. I want to cry. I want to tear off this uniform, this persona, this history I built brick by cursed brick. But all I do is sit down. Hands shaking.

"I wanted to save the world," I whisper. "Instead, I think I broke it."

The Pope leans forward. Places a hand on my shoulder.

"Then start fixing it."

We sit in silence after that. The city outside wheezes and burns. I don't know if I'm a hero or a villain anymore.

Maybe both.

Or maybe I was just a man who played God and forgot he was mortal.

January 16, 1942
Piazza Venezia
Rome, Italy

The balcony is cold. Wind whipping across my face like Rome itself is pissed at me for letting her get gassed. Below me, the square is full. Soldiers, nurses, priests, orphans, housewives, poets, pickpockets. All packed together like history's watching. And maybe it is. Maybe history's sitting in the front row with a cigarette and a glass of wine, waiting to see if I'll choke.

I stare out at them. My people. The ones I lied to, bled for, burned for. The ones I damned—and the ones I'll crawl through hell to redeem.

The microphone crackles. My throat's dry. I still taste wine and smoke and that sick chemical tang that clings to your soul like tar. The Pope's words still echo in my skull: "Then start fixing it."

Alright, Your Holiness.

Let's fix something.

I lean in.

"People of Italy."

Silence falls like snow. Thick. Waiting.

"Yesterday, our skies turned to poison. Our streets ran with panic. And our lungs—those of children, mothers, soldiers—filled with the invisible hatred of a crumbling Reich."

I let that hang. Let them feel it. Let it punch them in the teeth like it did me when I saw that girl die.

"They wanted to break us. To punish us. Because we stood for truth. Because we dared to call the beast by its name. Because we did what the world was too afraid to do—look at evil and say NO."

The crowd murmurs. Rage. Grief. Some bastard starts to cry. Good. We should cry more. Cry until the salt makes us clean again.

"They dropped gas on Rome." I raise my hand, trembling slightly. "On our homes. Our children. Our history. They dared to strike at the heart of civilization with the coward's weapon. They thought we would fall to our knees."

Pause. A breath.

"Instead, we rise."

Cheers. Hesitant. Then louder. Louder. A chorus of fury.

"I stand before you not as a dictator. Not as Il Duce. I stand before you as a father who held the hand of a dying girl. As a man who saw what hate creates. As a Roman who remembers who we are."

I lean forward now, hands gripping the railing, voice climbing.

"We are not broken."

Roar.

"We are not afraid."

Louder.

"And we will not forgive."

Thunder.

"There will be vengeance," I hiss. "Not petty. Not mindless. But righteous. Not the vengeance of monsters, but the justice of men who remember how to be human. We will not become the beast to slay it—we will bury it."

Now they're chanting. Italia! Italia! Italia!
And I swear I feel the marble tremble beneath my boots.

"The Reich has made its choice," I snarl. "They chose war. They chose terror. They chose death." I pause, eyes burning.

"We cho
ose to end them."

Final pause. Then:

"May God have mercy on the German army—because we will not."

I step back. No smile. No salute. Just me and the ghosts I made—and the ones I swore to avenge.

Rome screams. I go silent.

January 17, 1942
Palazzo Venezia
Rome, Italy

The wine tasted like copper and regret. I wasn't even sure it was wine anymore—could've been blood, honestly. The light above the table buzzed with the dull hum of fascist decay, like the spirit of the Risorgimento itself was trapped in the filament, slowly cooking under fluorescent purgatory.

I sat there, swirling the glass like it held answers. The Grand Council sat across from me, posturing in expensive uniforms that made them look like wax mannequins in some alternate-universe Gucci Waffen-SS museum. They still hadn't spoken. Not really. Not since the bombs dropped over Ploiești and the Pope told Germany to go to Hell on live radio.

They were waiting for me. Again.

As usual. Sycophants, but my sycophants.

But on the upside my family was coming back, formerly evacuated, now returning after I realized Germany was gone. Edda, Rachele, Romano, Anna Maria, even little baby Sofie. God couldn't wait to see them, I missed those goobers.

But I had other things I needed to do, I stared at them and thought of Call of Duty.

No, seriously. Call of Duty. That stupid game.

All those late nights in my old life, lying in bed with the laptop too hot on my chest, headset dangling, half-drunk off cheap beer and Mountain Dew, screaming into a void of 12-year-olds while playing Nazi Zombies. Kino Der Toten. Five. Der Riese. Maps etched into my memory like old battlefields.

Funny, huh? Those maps taught me more about the Nazi war machine than my actual high school education. Richtofen. Dempsey. Nikolai. The wonder weapons. The teleporters. The whispers of a hidden war beneath the war. Germany wasn't just trying to win battles—they were trying to rewrite physics. Rip open time. Become gods. In the games at least.

And now I was here. In a cold marble palace, heart still racing from a hangover and a vision.

Not a dream. A vision.

Of the next war.

The real war.

Not trenches. Not tanks. Not bombs.

Information. Intelligence. Technology.

This was the loading screen before the Cold War.

And I was the only player on the server. It was a golden opportunity.

I cleared my throat. The council flinched like I'd fired a gun.

"Gentlemen," I began. My voice was calm. Too calm. Like I was standing on the edge of a skyscraper with a pocket full of memories and just enough madness to jump. "The war is ending. I know it. You know it. Berlin's coughing blood. Hitler's probably using his mustache as a tourniquet. Us and the Soviets are carving up Europe like it's a cold buffet, and the Americans and British are standing there like jackasses holding empty plates."

Pause. Sip. The bitterness hit the back of my throat like guilt.

"Now is the time. Time to act. Time to steal."

I opened the folder on the table. Stamped black with red letters. Operazione Sapienza. My brainchild.

My voice dropped an octave. Like a prayer, or a confession whispered in a burning church.

"We take the scientists, engineers, gestapo, officers, everyone remotely useful."

Blank stares. Silence.

I leaned forward, eyes wide. Almost grinning.

"Yes. Them. The ones all over Der former Reich. In the shadows of the camps and the bunkers of Bavaria. The rocket men. The physicists. The alchemists who dared to split atoms and bend space."

I could hear it again—Take my Breath away by Berlin—playing in the back of my skull like a ghost with a synth fetish. Her voice wrapping around my neurons like silk dipped in cyanide.

I breathe… I pretend it's alright…me and her again.

I knew it wasn't.

But that's what made it beautiful.

"I've played the games," I muttered, not even sure I was still talking to the room or just to myself. "I know some names. Wernher von Braun. He and the others. They are weapons. And I want them all. Here. In Rome. Working for us."

Ciano opened his mouth. I shut him down with a glare.

"They were building weapons that could flatten cities from orbit. They had plans for jetpacks, laser rifles, mind control. I know. I've seen it. Rockets that could reach space. U-boats with stealth plating. Labs deep in the moon experimenting with dimensional physics."

More stares. They thought I was insane, no, I'd seen the future.

So I leaned back, took another sip, and laughed.

"I want to build Rome again. Not the old one. Not the one of togas and aqueducts. That's dead. I want to build Neo-Rome. I want flying trains and cybernetically enhanced soldiers who quote Virgil in every language."

My grin twisted into something darker.

"And if the Americans want to take some? Fuck them. I'll rip out every secret, every diagram, every shred of knowledge those bastards squeezed from the devil—and I'll leave them and the Russians with nothing."

Someone muttered, "But Duce, what about ethics?"

I laughed. Long and loud. Like a man possessed. Like the Joker riding a Vespa through the ruins of Pompeii.

"Ethics? We dropped mustard gas on Turkish civilians like it was nothing. We ordered villages burnt. We are no better than the Nazis, people only think we are and we will use that. There are no ethics. There's only momentum." God I was a monster, but what could I do?

I stood now. No longer pacing. Floating. I felt light. Like the war was a coat I could finally take off and hang on someone else's conscience.

"They will call us mad. They will call us criminals. But they'll call us. That's the point. We'll be first. We'll have the tech. We'll have the future. And when the world realizes it can't survive without us—"

I snapped my fingers.

"—they'll forgive us. Just like they did after Thrace. After Turkey. After everything. Because nobody remembers the devil when he's the one who built their highways."

The council just stared.

I stared back.

Somewhere in my head, Ride on Time started playing.

I whispered to no one in particular.

"Bottoms up. Let's go catch some Nazis."

They probably thought I was insane. I was. But I accepted it.

And now I at least had people that loved me.

January 25, 1942
Livadia Palace, Yalta
Soviet Union

The fire in the hearth crackled like distant gunfire, a low percussion echoing off the cavernous walls of old imperial decadence. Outside, snow pressed against the stained-glass windows like a ghost begging to be let in. The room smelled of steeped tea, stale tobacco, and slow, calculated conquest.

Stalin sat across from me in a chair too large for any mortal man—high-backed, baroque, and upholstered in something that looked like it had once belonged to a Romanov. I reclined in mine, legs crossed, sipping from a glass of something too smooth to be vodka and too dangerous to be called wine. Between us, the translator hovered like a nervous relic of Versailles—unblinking, damp with sweat, terrified of verbs. I hadn't expected the war would end this quick, but I had to move. Start the cold war ASAP. Luckily for me, me and uncle Joe already had our arrangement before Barbarossa, now it was time for an official treaty to carve up this world.

"We're agreed, then," I said, breaking the silence. "France, Belgium, Luxembourg, and the Rhineland. All under the Italian sphere. France absorbs them. The French will be grateful. A fair trade for the colonies they lost. They'll accept it."

Stalin scratched his chin, his nails rasping across stubble like a dull razor. He muttered something in Russian.

The translator hesitated.

"Say it," I snapped. "I know what 'excessive' sounds like in any language."

"Comrade Stalin believes the Rhineland should be demilitarized," the translator finally said. "Not annexed."

I stared at him. That stare. The kind that silences entire rooms, the kind you give when someone belches at a funeral.

"We broke it. It's ours."

Stalin's eyes, black as oil, studied me. "Buffer zones are not conquest zones," he replied through the translator. "We want peace. Not new Empires."

"Bullshit," I barked. "You're swallowing Poland and Scandinavia like it's a plate of pierogi. If you wanted peace, you wouldn't be rearranging Eurasia like a chessboard. Then again neither would I." I smiled.

He arched an eyebrow—slowly, dangerously—but then chuckled. A low, ragged sound. The laugh of a man who's heard confessions and ordered executions in the same breath.

"Fine," he grunted. "Take the Rhineland. But we want southeastern Turkey. Adana, Tarsus, Hatay."

"Hatay is Syrian," I countered. "You can keep Adana and Tarsus. It'll look better on the map anyway—cleaner borders, fewer complications. I'll make arrangements, the Armenians and Syrians will be resettled in Hatay."

He nodded slowly. "Accepted."

I unrolled the map across the ornate table, the parchment crackling like dry skin. My gloved hand traced the Alps, swept over Bavaria, down into the Balkans.

"Southern Germany and Austria," I said. "We merge them. It's Kingdom of Greater Austria now. A constitutional monarchy in name, a puppet in practice. Like Croatia, but with more tuxedos and Wagner festivals. Keeps the Germans distracted with art, opera, and bureaucracy."

Stalin didn't reply, but a flicker in his eye betrayed interest.

I pressed on. "Hungary keeps Slovakia and everything it grabbed during the war. Romania stays whole—North Bukovina and Bessarabia included. We've got Hungarian troops stationed there already. Bulgaria remains loyal. Yugoslavia? Dismembered, pacified, and compliant. Greece stays fascist and firmly in our orbit."

"North Bukovina and Bessarabia belong to us," Stalin growled.

"Hardly any Russians live there," I countered. "It's a gesture to keep Romania from flipping on us. They've already bent over backwards for Berlin and us already."

He frowned, murmuring something under his breath.

"I'll make you an offer," I said. "Demilitarized but nominally Romanian. Symbolic sovereignty. You get to keep your honor, and I get to keep a working Balkans."

He didn't reply.

I leaned in. "All of Asia—including Manchuria, Korea, Japan. Yours. Southeast Asia, too. Italian non-intervention guaranteed. In return, we take everything west of Iran—Syria, Iraq, Lebanon, Palestine, Egypt, Arabia. The whole Middle East. A new Mare Nostrum. We'll give you some weapons and volunteers to aid you against Japan, god knows we've taken a lot from Germany."

Stalin drummed his fingers on the armrest.

"And Palestine?" he asked. "A sensitive matter."

"You know what I've done there," I replied. "The Kingdom of Israel. Recognized. Protected. Mine."

He nodded, lips drawn tight.

"And the churches," I added. "Catholic, Orthodox. You leave them alone. As long as they stick to incense and psalms, they're harmless."

"So long as they stay out of the Party's way," he said.

"Fine. We'll sell it as religious tolerance. Makes us look civilized."

He downed the last of his drink.

"We call it the Treaty of Yalta," I said, rising. "A new order. Not German. Not American. Just... ours."

He stood, too.

I extended a hand. He took it—firm grip, cold fingers. Another deal with this Russian devil.

---

January 26, 1942
Livadia Palace Courtyard
Press Conference

Snow drifted from the heavens like ash from an old war. The Italian tricolor and the Soviet red flapped behind us in the frigid breeze. Before us, a forest of cameras. Flashbulbs popped like distant artillery. The world watched through glass lenses and static microphones.

I stepped to the podium first. Charcoal-grey coat. Black gloves. Smile carved out of marble. The kind of smile you wear after redrawing the map of civilization.

"Ladies and gentlemen," I began, voice calm, deliberate. "The war, as you knew it, is almost over. What follows... is a new world order."

A ripple of murmurs.

"The Treaty of Yalta," I continued, "marks the formal delineation of spheres of influence between the Kingdom of Italy and the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. The Anglo-Americans may file grievances in their history books. But we fought the war while they sat safely across the seas."

Cameras snapped. Notebooks fluttered.

I laid out the terms, methodically:

Soviet Sphere:

Europe: Finland, Norway, Denmark, Poland, the Netherlands, and all of Germany north of Saxony.

Asia: Full and exclusive influence across Central Asia, Mongolia, Manchuria, Korea, Japan, China, Southeast Asia, and everything east of and including Iran.

Religion: Non-interference guaranteed for Catholic and Orthodox churches, conditional upon political neutrality.

Italian Sphere:

Europe: France absorbs Belgium, Luxembourg, and the Rhineland. Southern Germany and Austria are merged into the Kingdom of Greater Austria. Hungary retains Slovakia and wartime gains. Romania holds Bessarabia and North Bukovina. Bulgaria, Croatia, and Greece are confirmed as Italian-aligned states.

Middle East: Italian hegemony over all lands west of Iran—including Palestine, Syria, Iraq, Lebanon, Egypt, and the Arabian Peninsula.

Africa: Entire continent confirmed as Italian zone of influence. Soviet non-intervention guaranteed.

Additional Provisions:

Mutual commitment to scientific and technological collaboration.

Formal recognition of Italy's warning to the USSR regarding Operation Barbarossa in 1940.

Joint declaration of postwar economic reconstruction and order.

Paper guarantees of sovereignty for buffer states—practical sovereignty negotiable.


Then Stalin approached. He spoke few words—brutal, efficient, cutting. He praised our cooperation. Mocked the West. Declared this a "moment of historical clarity." Then he turned and swept away, his coat flaring like the wings of a fallen angel.

Chaos erupted. Reporters screamed questions. American correspondents looked pale. British ones looked like they'd just watched the Empire die.

I smirked. Flicked my cigarette into the snow.

Back inside the palace, I passed a mirror.

The man staring back wasn't Mussolini.
Wasn't me.
Not entirely.

He was something else now.
Something colder.
Something inevitable.

I couldn't wait to see FDRs reaction

-

Transcript: War Cabinet Meeting – 10 Downing Street, London
Date: January 26, 1942
Time: 08:15 GMT
Present:
– Prime Minister Winston S. Churchill
– Foreign Secretary Anthony Eden
– Chief of the Imperial General Staff, Field Marshal Alan Brooke
– First Lord of the Admiralty, A.V. Alexander
– Minister of Information, Brendan Bracken
– Lord Halifax (via transatlantic call, Washington)
– Assistant Private Secretary, John Colville (recording)


---

Churchill: (storms into the Cabinet Room, cigar lit, greatcoat damp from the London fog)
Well. The sons of Beelzebub have done it. Italy and Russia. Quite the marriage. Like Satan marrying Jezebel under a swastika chandelier.

Eden: The Yalta treaty's provisions are sweeping, Prime Minister. If the terms stand, we face a continental Europe divided between Fascism and Bolshevism. America will be livid.

Churchill: ("harumphs," pacing)
America will be shocked. And then they'll write a long editorial about it. Possibly a speech or two. Then go back to watching baseball.

Bracken: The press is already calling it "the second Molotov-Ribbentrop." But this one's... terrifyingly functional. They've divided the world like butchers over a carcass.

Churchill: ("grumbles")
They carved up the world like two drunken surgeons in a back alley. And what have we to offer in reply? Condemnations? Telegrams? The sound of distant American typewriters?

Field Marshal Brooke: From a strategic standpoint, it's catastrophic. If Italy consolidates in the Balkans and the Middle East, and Russia dominates Asia... we're encircled. Our Empire will look like a rump roast on a Soviet spit.

Churchill:
Damn Mussolini. He was supposed to be the clown of Europe, not its architect. And Stalin, I knew he'd slit our throat with a smile.

Alexander: The Royal Navy can still dominate the Mediterranean, but if Italy truly has influence from Morocco to Mesopotamia, we'll be stretching ourselves thin. Very thin.

Eden: The French are playing along, too. Vichy remnants or not, they've accepted the Rhineland and Belgium as compensation. Their pride is for sale, apparently.

Churchill:
Ha! France would sell its mother for a glass of wine and a seat at someone else's table. But we've no time to mourn their surrender. What's our response?

Brooke: We must reinforce the Suez, immediately. And Palestine. With the Kingdom of Israel now established and the Lehi hungry for independence we risk losing everything.

Eden: That's not all. The Italians have promised the Soviets demilitarization guarantees for parts of Romania. But practically speaking, they'll both treat their respective spheres like imperial plantations.

Churchill:
Of course they will. A paper guarantee isn't worth the ink it's printed with. Especially Soviet ink. Probably frozen half the time. ("pauses, then sharpens tone") Right. We must reorient ourselves. Roosevelt must be awoken from his naval daydreams and brought into this war in earnest. The Atlantic Charter must become the Atlantic hammer.

Bracken: You'll want to draft a statement for the BBC, no doubt.

Churchill: Yes. Something thunderous. I'll dictate it tonight after dinner. But for now—Eden, send word to Washington. Emphasize the urgency. If America doesn't join us in a real alliance now, there won't be a Europe left to liberate.

Eden: Understood.

Churchill:
And get me Smuts in South Africa. And Nehru, too, damn it. If Mussolini wants a "New Mare Nostrum," we'll give him a storm to remember. As for Stalin—he may have traded vodka for maps, but he's still a drunk at heart. One misstep, and he'll choke on his own empire.

("Pauses. Sits. Takes a deep drag of his cigar. Eyes narrow.")

Gentlemen, we stand at the precipice of a second war within a war. The old war's not yet over, and the next one is already sharpening its teeth. If we are to fight both Fascism and Communism… then by God, let's make sure we do it like lions, not mice.

Meeting adjourned at 09:17 GMT.

Colville's Note:
The Prime Minister was in rare form. He dictated a message to Roosevelt immediately after. It begins with: "The world has been divided by monsters. Shall we now stand idle while they light their cigars with our treaties?"

-

Transcript: White House Cabinet Meeting
Date: January 26, 1942
Location: Oval Office, Washington D.C.

PRESENT:

President Franklin D. Roosevelt

Secretary of State Cordell Hull

Secretary of War Henry L. Stimson

Secretary of the Navy Frank Knox

General George C. Marshall

Admiral Ernest King

Harry Hopkins (Advisor)

Under Secretary of State Sumner Welles

---

FDR: (leaning back, cigarette in holder, eyes narrowed)
So. It's official. The Treaty of Yalta. Italy and the Soviets have divvied up the world like it's a damn Monopoly board.

Hull:
U Unfortunately sir, and we've been told we can't roll the dice.

Stimson: (gruff)
They're carving up Europe like it's 1815. Only this time we're not even invited to the Congress.

FDR:
That son of a bitch. Now Mussolini's shaking hands with Stalin and calling it peace.

Marshall:
Sir, with respect, we have to prioritize. Japan is still advancing in the Pacific. Our supply lines are stretched. Europe's slipping through our fingers while we play defense.

Hopkins: (leaning forward, frustrated)
They called us cowards. In front of the whole world. Mussolini smirking like the cat that ate Berlin. Stalin playing peacemaker while swallowing half of Asia. And now with Israel in play. Jesus he's going to secure the middle east.

Welles:
An outrage. The British are fuming. The French are humiliated. And Israel—our position there just became untenable.

Knox:
The Mediterranean is on the cusp of becoming a Fascist lake. Every port from Casablanca to Cairo potentially flying the Italian tricolor or of one of their puppets. Our naval presence is a joke. We've lost Africa without firing a shot.

FDR: (cutting in, suddenly sharp)
And Europe?

Marshall:
Gone. Finland, Poland, Norway, even the Low Countries—they're listed in the Soviet sphere like livestock in a ledger. The German heartland's been dissected, and we're offered scraps if we behave.

Stimson:
This wasn't a treaty. It was a funeral. For the Atlantic Charter. For every principle we've claimed to uphold.

FDR: (softly)
Maybe. Or maybe it's just Act II. They've declared their order. Now we write our own.

Hull:
But how? The British are cornered. The French are under Italian influence. The Soviets and Italians have sealed a damn blood pact. And we're still debating how many tanks to send to Burma.

FDR: (rises slowly, walks to the window, stares out at the snow)
We strike back. Not with speeches. Not with policy memos. With men. Steel. Fire. We go to Eisenhower, to MacArthur. We light a fire under the War Production Board. No more piecemeal. We end this war fast.

Hopkins:
And diplomatically?

FDR:
We court the unaligned. India. Brazil. Turkey—if there's anything left of it. We build a new league of nations not as a debate club, but as a counterweight. And we make sure that when the next peace conference happens, we're the ones handing out the pens.

King: (grimly)
What about Japan, Mr. President?

FDR: (without turning)
They'll burn. After Pearl Harbor, they were already living on borrowed time. But now? Now it's personal.

(Long silence)

Stimson:
So what do we call this?

FDR: (finally turning around, face hard as granite)
Not a world war. That's too old-fashioned.
This is a war for the world.

---

[END TRANSCRIPT]

-

Transcript: Provisional French Government-in-Exile – Emergency Meeting
Date: January 28, 1942
Location: 4 Carlton Gardens, London – Headquarters of Free France

PRESENT:

General Charles de Gaulle

André Philip – Minister of the Interior

General Henri Giraud

Pierre Mendès France – Minister of Finance

Emmanuel d'Astier – Minister of Information

René Pleven – Minister of Defence

Georges Bidault – Minister of Foreign Affairs

---

De Gaulle: (standing at the head of the table, arms behind his back, voice ironclad)
So. The son of a Bonaparte sits on the throne of France. Crowned in Reims. Like a farce of history scribbled by drunk men with typewriters.

Giraud: (grimly)
The Vichy generals crossed the lines before our leaflets even hit the streets. They laid down their arms and kissed the tricolor like prodigal sons. Mussolini offered them medals, pardons, pensions, and Paris. And they took it.

Mendès France:
Half the French press is already calling it "the Restoration." The Italians have turned propaganda into performance art. They hand Paris back wrapped in a velvet glove, and suddenly they're liberators?

D'Astier:
It's brilliant, I'll admit it. They took everything we stood for—legitimacy, honor, France itself—and dressed it in imperial nostalgia. A Bonaparte with Italian backing? They're playing on old wounds and older myths.

De Gaulle: (coldly)
They can crown a hundred emperors in Reims. But if that boy sits on a throne given by Mussolini, then he is not France. He is a puppet in a toga.

Pleven:
Still. We're outgunned. Outmaneuvered. The people are exhausted. Many in the Resistance are laying down arms. Some have even pledged loyalty to this new "Napoleonic Kingdom."

Bidault:
And the Soviets have recognized it. The British are too polite to oppose it openly. And the Americans—FDR hasn't even mentioned us in three weeks.

Mendès France: (tapping fingers nervously)
We are, in every meaningful sense, a government without territory.

De Gaulle: (firmly)
Then we go where we still have one. Africa. The Empire. The Caribbean, Dakar, Brazzaville. We retreat not in shame—but in strategy. We rebuild from the colonies.

We are no longer the Free French in exile.
We are the French Republic in Exile.

(Beat of silence. The weight of the words settles.)

Giraud:
And what do we tell the world?

De Gaulle: (raising his chin)
That we do not recognize this so-called restoration. That France cannot be restored by foreign arms and foreign crowns. That the Republic lives—in exile, perhaps, but alive. And it will return.

Philip:
If we consolidate Africa, we can mount resistance. Reorganize our forces. Build an economic base. The colonies are loyal, and our officers are still holding strong in the interior.

D'Astier:
We'll need to control the narrative. The French people must know this new "king" was delivered by Fascists and endorsed by tyrants.

De Gaulle: (stern)
Then we start broadcasting. From Dakar, from Brazzaville, from London if we must. France was not born in palaces—it was born in revolutions. And revolutions do not die quietly.

Bidault:
And what of the Resistance? Those still fighting in Lyon, in Marseille, in the countryside?

De Gaulle: (nods slowly)
We send a message to every cell, every fighter, every patriot still holding a rifle in the forests of France:
Hold fast. Reinforcements will come. The Republic has not abandoned you.

(De Gaulle walks to the window. Snow falling outside. Silence behind him.)

De Gaulle: (softly, but clear)
Let Mussolini play emperor-maker. Let Stalin redraw maps with the blood of free peoples. The next time they meet to carve up the world, they will find France not at the table...
…but across from them. With bayonets.

-

Transcript: Belgian Government-in-Exile – Emergency Session on the "Treaty of Yalta"
Date: January 27, 1942
Location: Eaton Square, London – Belgian Government-in-Exile Headquarters

PRESENT:

King Leopold III (in exile, nominally abdicated but still influential)

Hubert Pierlot – Prime Minister

Paul-Henri Spaak – Foreign Minister

Camille Gutt – Minister of Finance

Albert De Vleeschauwer – Minister of the Colonies

General Jules Pire – Military Advisor

Victor Larock – Minister of Information

---

Pierlot: (pouring a modest glass of cognac)
Gentlemen, I don't know whether to be horrified… or impressed. Mussolini's gambit has changed the entire board.

Spaak:
France has fallen again, just with different flags and fewer gunshots. And we're all meant to applaud as if this is liberation. A Bonaparte in Paris, under the Italian eagle—what a grotesque parody of legitimacy.

King Leopold III: (coldly, arms crossed)
I met Louis Napoleon once, years ago. A pale boy with soft hands and hard eyes. He spoke of destiny. Now he wears a crown handed to him by Fascists. That is no king—it's a mannequin dressed in history's stolen clothes.

Gutt: (leaning forward)
Italy's offering pardons to Vichy ministers and collaborators. Many Belgians who collaborated with the Germans are already writing letters to Rome. They smell a shift in the wind.

De Vleeschauwer:
And what of our colonies? If Italy consolidates its African holdings and the French Empire fractures, our position in the Congo will be lost.

General Pire:
Strategically, this "Treaty of Yalta" gives Mussolini the moral high ground. He "liberates" Paris, crowns a king, pardons traitors, and turns the Wehrmacht into the villain alone. It's... almost brilliant.

Larock: (scoffs)
And the people believe it. Already, I've seen reports of leaflets printed in Brussels calling for unity with the "Latin brotherhood." They say Italy stands for order, honor, tradition. It's poisonous—but seductive.

Leopold III: (quietly, but firm)
The Belgians will not kneel before Rome. We've endured too much—twice now—for foreign crowns to dictate our fate.

Spaak:
Nevertheless, the optics are damning. Paris liberated, tricolor raised, a "king" crowned in Reims—while we sit in London, irrelevant. We must act.

Pierlot:
A joint declaration, perhaps? With the Dutch and the Norwegians? Denounce this treaty for what it is: fascist pageantry. We reaffirm that Belgium stands for democracy and independence.

Leopold III:
And I will broadcast. My voice still carries weight in Wallonia and Flanders. I will not let history record my silence as approval. They must hear me say it:

"Belgium will never accept a France dictated by Fascism. If Mussolini wants to play Caesar, let him choke on the laurels."

Gutt:
And the Congo?

De Vleeschauwer:
We tighten our grip. Harden the defenses. The colony will be our shield, as much as it is our sword.

Pierlot: (nodding)
Very well. We begin tonight. Spaak, draft the communiqué. Larock, prep the BBC broadcast channels. And Your Majesty…

Leopold III: (already rising)
I'll speak to the people of Belgium. Not as a king—but as a father who refuses to see his children stolen by Rome.

-

Transcript: Joint Allied Broadcast — "The Four Voices of Liberty"
Date: February 2, 1942
Location: BBC World Service, London – Simultaneous broadcast to Europe, Africa, and North America

Participants:

King Leopold III of Belgium (in exile)

General Charles de Gaulle, Leader of Free France

Prime Minister Winston Churchill, United Kingdom

President Franklin D. Roosevelt, United States of America

---

[Opening musical flourish fades]

BBC Announcer:
"We now bring you a special joint address by the leaders of the free world—an appeal to the peoples of Europe and the world in this dark hour. Speaking first: His Majesty King Leopold III of Belgium."

---

KING LEOPOLD III (in French, subtitled in English):
"Men and women of Europe—brothers and sisters in lands both occupied and free—today we face not one enemy, but two. The eagle of Berlin may lie broken, but from its carcass rise two serpents, red and black: Moscow and Rome."

"They wear the mask of liberation. But do not be fooled. They speak of peace while carving up nations like meat. They offer crowns bought with shame, maps drawn with blood, and peace built on the bones of the betrayed. Belgium will not submit to this new tyranny—this 'Treaty of Reims' is nothing more than Versailles in jackboots and Roman sandals."

"The people of Belgium, France, Holland, and all of occupied Europe must resist this second betrayal. We will not trade one overlord for another. Not Fascist. Not Bolshevik. We remain free men."

---

GENERAL CHARLES DE GAULLE:
"France has seen her capital reclaimed, but not her soul. The coronation of Louis Napoleon under Italian banners is not a rebirth—it is a funeral dressed in stolen robes. No true Frenchman recognizes this puppet regime propped up by Mussolini. The France I speak for—the France that fights—is not for sale."

"And to Stalin, who speaks of peace while swallowing Poland and Korea, I say this: history sees you. The day will come when even the snow-covered plains of Russia will hear the cry of those you have silenced."

"From the sands of Syria to the forests of Belgium, the struggle continues. The Republic lives."

---

PRIME MINISTER WINSTON CHURCHILL:
"An iron curtain has descended across the continent—not from Berlin to Stettin, but from Narvik to Naples. Behind it lie the shackled cities of Europe: their churches muted, their parliaments closed, their people paraded like cattle before foreign flags and forged kings."

"Let it be known that Britain shall not recognize this new order of vultures. Not the Roman caesar playing at empire, nor the Georgian tyrant parading as a liberator. The British Empire, in all her flaws, stands with the cause of liberty and law."

"To those who say the war is over—I say it has merely changed masks."

---

PRESIDENT FRANKLIN D. ROOSEVELT:
"The United States did not enter this war to watch Europe traded from one tyranny to another like a pawn on a chessboard. We came to end empires of oppression, not witness them reborn in red or black ink."

"To the Italian duce and the Soviet generalissimo, I say this: we see through your treaties, your spheres, your thrones of bayonets. Your so-called 'peace' is but another war waiting to be declared."

"America stands with the free peoples of the world. With France, with Belgium, with Britain. And we say now, with one voice: this new darkness shall not pass unchallenged. The liberty of man is not negotiable."

---

BBC ANNOUNCER:
"You have heard the voices of liberty—King Leopold III, General de Gaulle, Prime Minister Churchill, and President Roosevelt—speaking not just to their people, but to all who dream of freedom. Let these words be a beacon through the fog of false peace. Good night, and may justice find its voice again soon."

[Closing music: A solemn rendition of the "Ode to Joy" theme, followed by silence]

February 4, 1942
Palazzo Venezia
Rome, Italy

They called it a declaration. A united front. A proclamation of justice from the self-anointed saints of civilization—Leopold, Churchill, Roosevelt, and that awkward French ghost in a general's uniform, De Gaulle. Four men who wouldn't recognize morality if it bit through their spines. What a fucking joke. Too bad for them I knew the future, I was going to reverse uno their asses.

I sat alone when the papers arrived. The fire crackled in the hearth like a laughing mouth, spitting cinders across the marble. Outside, Rome was wrapped in fog, and the cypresses stood like silent jurors.

They said I was the criminal. The fascist. The tyrant. The man who stood against progress, against peace. They're not wrong I am, but I'm honest about it.

I lit a cigarette, exhaled slowly, and began to write my speech. I couldn't wait to see MLKs or Malcolm X's reaction.

---

Official Address from the Duce of Italy
Broadcast over Radio Roma, February 5, 1942

They speak of tyranny.
They speak of freedom.
They speak of justice.

They, the kings of famine. The emperors of silence. The hypocrites who choke the world with one hand while lifting a cross with the other.

King Leopold, whose Congo was paved by his predecessors with the hands of murdered men, women and children, dares speak of human rights?! What a joke.

Mr. Churchill, who starved millions Indians in Bengal while dining on roast beef in his war rooms, while turning away millions of Jews and sending them to their deaths, lectures the world on liberty? Laughable.

President Roosevelt, whose African American citizens are lynched like dogs merely for looking at a white person the wrong way peaches to us about equality? Pathetic.

And Charles De Gaulle—pretender to a Republic he fled—clings to Africa and oppresses it's noble people like a leper to his last good limb and calls it civilization?

Let me be clear.

Italy does not forget its sins.

We do not deny them. We confront them.

We will grant independence to our colonies, under the same model as our brothers in Croatia.

The Empire will become a Commonwealth, not of subjects, but of brothers. With Rome as the older brother.

The Afar, Amhara, Somalis, Tigray, and Oromo—each will have their country with Italy as their guide.

Each will write their history, not in blood or chains, but in ink and law.

To our friends in Libya, and Tunisia. I have granted you rights. You are now Italian citizens, equal in the eyes of the law.

Can the same be said for London? For Paris? For Washington? Those that keep their own subjects down?

Where were your boats when the Jews fled the ovens?

Where was your mercy?

We took them.

We gave them bread.

We gave them weapons.

We gave them a country.

You gave them barbed wire and closed gates.

You abandoned them.

You called us fascists. Fine. We are. I'm proud of it.

But if fascism means justice, if it means defending the voiceless while you sip sherry and quote Lincoln—then yes. Call me a fascist. I'll tattoo it on my chest and walk naked through Rome.

Roosevelt speaks of an American dream.

Tell that to the children buried in Tulsa. Tell it to the black mothers in Mississippi who dress their sons for church like they're dressing them for a funeral. Who tell them to not look at a white man the wrong way or it'll cost them their lives.

Tell it to the lynched.

Italy offers sanctuary.

To the persecuted, the hunted, the dreamless.

To the Jews, the Armenians, the Kurds, the Africans, and yes—to every black American who sees no home in the land of their birth.

Come here.

Build something new. Something better.

We sheltered the Jews. We will shelter you.

A Roman passport will mean more than any broken promise of the Stars and Stripes.

We are not perfect.

But we are awake and aware.

There is no dream here.

Only work. Only truth.

We are the city upon the hill now.

And to my American friends: there is an American Dream.

You just have to be asleep to believe it.

---

Later that night, I listened to the silence after the broadcast.
Even the birds seemed to hold their breath.

80s floated back into my skull—Rick Astley this time. "never gonna give you up." nostalgic in a way. Like the last good memory from a life that never really belonged to me.

God I loved playing 4D chess. I couldn't way to see how the US would react.

-

February 6, 1942
Atlanta, Georgia
Martin Luther King Jr., Age 13
Journal Entry (unpublished)

I don't know how to feel.

Daddy was reading the paper this morning, his face tighter than usual. He didn't even touch his coffee. Mama told me not to interrupt, but I leaned over his shoulder anyway. I read the headline three times:

"MUSSOLINI OFFERS ASYLUM TO NEGROES: Italy to Begin Decolonization"

I thought it was a joke.

We'd just come back from church. Reverend Abernathy had preached about Pharaohs and false prophets, about deliverance and judgment. He said Europe was on fire because it had built its throne on our backs, and now the Lord was asking for payment.

But this? This wasn't the Lord. This was... Mussolini.

The same man they told us was a tyrant. A fascist. A dictator.
But there he was, on the radio, talking about lynchings in Mississippi, about Tulsa, about how America had betrayed its own people.

He spoke our pain better than some of our own leaders.

Daddy turned off the radio when it ended. He stood in silence for a long time, then said, "If they open the gates, there's gonna be a line stretching from Harlem to Rome."

Mama looked scared.

But I wasn't.
I was angry.
Not at Mussolini.

At here.

Because if a white man in Rome can see our pain clearer than Washington, then something is broken beyond repair.

I'm only thirteen. I don't understand geopolitics. I barely understand the Ten Commandments some days. But I understand this:

They keep telling me to wait.
To be patient.
To pray.

But somewhere across the sea, in a country I've never seen, someone just offered us more dignity than my own nation has in a hundred years.

And that makes me want to cry.
And scream.
And maybe even go.

If Mussolini is a monster, then what does that make the men who turned the ships away, who let us hang from trees while quoting Jefferson?

I don't trust him. But I heard him.

And I think the world just turned upside down.

-

February 8, 1942
Letter to the Editors of The Chicago Defender
Dr. W.E.B. Du Bois

To the editors,

The world is in flames, and amidst the roar of cannon and the weeping of children, it seems the most profound words of moral clarity have not come from the pulpits of London or the polished halls of Washington—but from Rome.

I have listened—twice now—to the recording of Benito Mussolini's recent radio address. I listened not as a naïf or a convert, but as a Negro scholar, a man of this wretched New World who has seen, for six long decades, the rotting soul of Western hypocrisy. And I must confess: I am moved, disturbed, and vindicated all at once.

When Mussolini, fascist and so-called tyrant, spoke the names of our martyrs, of Tulsa drowned in fire—I felt a tremor in my spine. Not for the man, but for the truth finally spoken on the world stage. And I ask: Where are our own leaders?

Where was Roosevelt's outrage when our veterans were hanged with medals on their chests? Where is Churchill's lament for Africa's raped soul?

Let us be absolutely clear: I am no fool for fascism. I have spent my life denouncing tyranny in all its forms. But even a cracked bell can ring with clarity when struck at the right angle.

Mussolini has seen the cancer of colonialism not only in Africa but in Alabama, not only in the Congo but in Chicago. And now, he proposes to end it—first by returning the lands he once claimed, and now by offering asylum to our people. It is a staggering maneuver. Perhaps cynical. Perhaps self-serving. But I cannot ignore its moral implications.

If this mad century has taught us anything, it is that truth may come riding strange horses. And if Rome now offers what America withholds—dignity, safety, and recognition of our humanity—then perhaps it is time to ask whether we have misplaced our faith in Western liberalism altogether?

I write this not in surrender, but in warning. If democracy continues to feed its Black children to the pyre, then those children will one day look for salvation in the most unexpected quarters.

And history will not blame them.

Yours in struggle,
W.E.B. Du Bois

-

Harlem Community Forum – February 12, 1942
Location: Abyssinian Baptist Church Basement, 132 Odell Clark Place, Harlem, New York City
Topic: "Mussolini's Words: Truth, Trickery, or Turning Point?"

Moderator: Rev. Adam Clayton Powell Jr.

---

Rev. Powell Jr.:
We are gathered tonight because a most unlikely man has said something that has stirred the world—and stirred this community. Benito Mussolini, a fascist, a dictator, a colonizer, now speaks the names of our dead and claims to offer freedom to the Negro. We are not here to fall for seduction. We are here to question, to debate, and perhaps to understand. Let's begin.

---

1. Sister Florence Johnson, Teacher, 39:
"You all know I lost my nephew, Roy, in Mississippi last year. They called it 'self-defense.' He had a book in his hand. Now here comes Mussolini, of all people, calling out the very people who killed him. No president has said Roy's name. No senator wrote me. But that man in Rome did. I don't trust him, but I heard him."

---

2. Brother Isaiah Carter, Porter, WWI Veteran, 53:
"I fought in France with the Harlem Hellfighters. Came home and got spit on in Harlem. Can't get a loan, can't get respect, and sure as hell can't vote down South. Now Mussolini says he'll give our boys homes, jobs, training? I don't love the man—but America ain't loved me either."

---

3. Miss Lorraine Matthews, Student, Fisk University, 22:
"Y'all forgetting history. Mussolini invaded Ethiopia in '35! We marched in these very streets against him. My mama made me wear black in protest! Don't let sweet talk undo your memory. He's only sorry because Hitler turned on him. Let's not get played."

---

4. Elder Reuben Moses, Garveyite, 64:
"Brother Marcus Garvey said the Negro must find power outside of white Western empires. Mussolini may be a devil, but at least he doesn't lie to our face while stabbing our backs. If Italy offers land and respect, why shouldn't we negotiate? Ain't that what every strong people do?"

---

5. Sister Naomi Clarke, Nurse, 30:
"We cannot put our souls in the hands of another tyrant. But... if this means our brothers in Africa and the Caribbean can finally rise, maybe it's worth listening. Doesn't mean we follow blindly. But it means we don't dismiss power when it shifts."

---

Rev. Powell Jr. (closing):
We've heard fire and reason tonight. What Mussolini said has forced America to hear what it's long ignored. But we must move as a people, not as pawns. If Mussolini speaks truth, let it pressure our own leaders to act. If it's a trick, we expose it. Either way, Harlem is awake—and the world is listening.

-

INT. MODEST LIVING ROOM – LOUISVILLE, KENTUCKY – NIGHT

Cassius Clay Sr. stands by the table, a folded newspaper clenched in his fist. The radio hums softly in the background. Baby Cassius sleeps in a cradle. Odessa sits nearby, bottle in hand.

CASSIUS SR. (slamming down the paper)
You hear this? Mussolini—Mussolini!—called out the U.S. by name. Alabama. Mississippi. Louisville. Said he'd take our people in. Said we deserve better.

ODESSA (careful)
I heard it too. Was all over the radio. Strange hearing a white man speak on our pain like that. But... it's still Mussolini. The same man that marched into Ethiopia.

CASSIUS SR.
Yeah, and Roosevelt still can't say "lynching" out loud. I've seen more truth in that speech than in a whole term of his presidency.

ODESSA (rocking the baby)
Truth can be twisted. The Devil can quote Scripture. You remember what happened to Haile Selassie's people? Our people.

CASSIUS SR. (quiet for a beat, then firm)
I know. But I also know I've scraped paint off houses and been called "boy" every step of the way. Maybe I'd rather risk tomorrow than rot in yesterday.

ODESSA
And if we trade one master for another? You think they love us over there?

CASSIUS SR.
No. But they're offering something. Schools. Training. Dignity. Maybe a boy like him—our boy—could grow up with pride in his step, not fear.

ODESSA (gazes down at Cassius Jr.)
A soul don't grow on promises, Clay. It needs more than uniforms and medals. It needs truth. Righteousness.

CASSIUS SR. (sitting beside her, softer now)
Maybe we go not for what he is, but for what we could become. Maybe we build something better—for him.

A moment of silence as Odessa leans into him. Baby Cassius stirs, then quiets again.

ODESSA
Then we go with open eyes. And we teach him to keep his open too.
-

Atlanta, Georgia – February 12, 1942
Speech by Governor Eugene Talmadge at a Rally of the "White Southern Patriots League"
After Mussolini's speech denouncing the allies.

[The Governor steps up to the podium in front of a cheering, all-white crowd, Confederate flags waving in the winter air.]

Governor Eugene Talmadge (voice sharp, face red with fury):

"Now I want y'all to listen real careful to what I'm about to say, because the times we're living in are dark and twisted. Just over a week ago, that dago dictator over in Italy—Mussolini, Il Duce, or whatever he calls himself—went on the radio and dared to tell the world that our way of life, the Southern way, is evil. He called it wicked! Compared us to the Nazis!"

[Boos erupt from the crowd.]

"He said we lynch people—well, by God, we do what we must to preserve order! He said we're segregated—damn right we are! That's the law of nature, and the law of God! The races ain't meant to mix!"

[Raucous cheers.]

"Now listen to this—he said he's gonna take our Negroes in! Said he's gonna make 'em soldiers, engineers, citizens! Treat 'em like equals! And I say this: if any colored folks think they'll find freedom in Rome, then they better pack up and get—because we won't miss 'em!"

[Applause mixed with jeers of "Let 'em go!" and "Good riddance!"]

"But make no mistake, folks. This ain't just about Italy. This is about Washington. About FDR. The Jews. The communists. They're the ones who let this happen. They put a traitor like Mussolini on the airwaves while our boys are dying in this war! They'd rather see this country overrun with foreigners and radicals than keep it white and free!"

[A man yells, "Talmadge for President!"]

"I've said it before and I'll say it again: we gotta keep Georgia white. We gotta keep America American. And if Mussolini thinks he can steal our Negroes and preach his lies across the sea, then let him try. We'll show him what a real country does when her honor is spat on!"

[Thunderous applause. The crowd chants "White Power! White Power!" as Talmadge raises his arms.]

---

Historical Note (from an alternate 2025):
This speech is cited by historians as a crystallization of Deep South white supremacist backlash to Mussolini's pivot. Talmadge's fury foreshadowed increasing state crackdowns on Black organizing in Georgia, even as Italian consulates in New York and Chicago were flooded with emigration requests.

February 7, 1942
Palazzo Venezia
Rome, Italy

I sat across from Louis Napoleon and Francisco Franco in my office. Heavy velvet curtains choked the winter light, and the air reeked of old cigars, ambition, and the ghosts of failed empires. In front of me, sprawled across the desk like a sacrificial offering, was a map of Africa.

Today, we were going to carve up this bitch like I'd carved up the world with Stalin. A smooth, precise butchery. Surgical. Cold. Like cutting lines into vinyl before the needle drops.

I started in Spanish—thank God Napoleon spoke it. "Gentlemen," I said, tone lacquered in calm menace, "I trust you both heard my speech the other night?"

Franco nodded, arms crossed. "Very interesting."

Louis narrowed his eyes. "But troubling."

"From a certain point of view, perhaps," I replied, grinning. "But you should consider it your golden ticket. You've seen the treaty I signed with Stalin, haven't you?"

Franco curled his lip. "A deal with a communist."

Louis spat, "You practically handed over all of France's Asian holdings to the Soviets."

"Calm down, both of you," I muttered. "Napoleon, should I remind you that every French colony not nailed down to the mainland has been seized by the Free French?"

"To my misfortune," he grumbled.

"Then take this as your chance to reclaim them. Southeast Asia's a Russian buffet now. The Americans? They'll vacuum up everything in the Pacific and the Americas. But Africa... oh, Africa." I leaned in, eyes glowing. "Africa is the new American wild west. Wide open. Waiting."

Franco raised an eyebrow. "And how do you figure?"

I stood, pacing slowly, letting the rhythm of Michael Semhello's "Maniac" throb in my mind like a heartbeat. "Simple. Look at Croatia. Albania. Greater Austria. Israel. Greater Syria. They're our model. Independent—on paper. But the Italian king as heads of state. Local governments, yes. But their banks? Italian. Their industries? Italian. Their newspapers, their radio waves, their natural resources? Ours."

I stopped, pointing sharply at the map. "Colonialism is a dying brand. Even the Americans are pressuring the British to wind it down. The Atlantic Charter? A glorified document of liberal hypocrisy. So we ride the lightning. We rebrand. We lead the decolonization—on our terms. Self-determination, sure. Let them dance in the streets, wave their flags, feel free. Meanwhile, we own everything under the hood. The local elites will be paid off. Our military bases will prop them up. Our security services will keep them in line. A shadow empire so to speak. And if any little would-be Ghandi starts running his mouth?"

I smiled, ice-cold.

"A little poison, a traffic accident."

I slammed my hand on the map. Pulled a folded paper from my pocket, slick with sweat and ideas. "Read it and weep."

Napoleon took it. "Global Mare Nostrum Initiative?"

"Yes. A new model. Development in exchange for natural resources. We build roads, hospitals, universities, staff them with our experts. In return, they give us their oil, their gold, their rubber—hell, their souls if they have them. And there's more."

Another document slid across the table like a blackjack dealer on overtime. Franco read it aloud.

"A Holy Corps?"

"Exactly," I said, almost reverently. "Volunteers from our countries. Experts—engineers, doctors, teachers—backed by the Vatican and us. Sent to 'help' the natives. Preach a little Catholicism, teach some reading, push a bit of modern agriculture. Slowly, subtly, they become dependent. Bound to us not by chains or guns, but by culture. By economy. By God."

I stared at them, the faint echo of Akina Nakamori's "Oh no Oh yes" crooning somewhere deep inside my skull.

"Africa won't even know who owns them. And by the time they figure it out? It'll be too late."

I gestured toward the map. "The Americans are neck-deep in the Pacific. The Russians are busy devouring Europe and Asia. This moment is ours. So—shall we begin?"

They exchanged glances. A wordless pact. Two nods. Code for: Let's do it.

---

A few hours later.

"Okay," I sighed, rubbing my temples like a DJ lining up the final track of a 80s pop playlist. "Let's go over the map one more time."

I pointed to the map.

"Spain's sphere: The Kingdom of the Maghreb—Morocco and French Algeria. Northern Morocco: direct Spanish control. Also the Gold Coast, Arguin. Portugal's castaways—São Tomé, Guinea-Bissau, Cape Verde— yours. Angola too, except for Cabinda, which goes to France. Spanish Guinea? Integrated into Spain proper, like Ceuta."

"Agreed," Franco said, like he'd just ordered his favorite tapas.

"Agreed," Napoleon echoed.

"France's sphere: All of Free French West Africa. British Ghana, Nigeria, Togo, Cameroon, Sierra Leone—all yours. Liberia too. You'll also take Cabinda, and the Belgian Congo—except Rwanda and Burundi. Madagascar, Seychelles, the Indian Ocean bits—all under your flag."

Louis Napoleon nodded. "Agreed."

"Agreed," Franco added.

"And now Italy's sphere." I straightened, taking a breath.

"Tunisia and Libya? Direct Italian rule. Egypt and the Suez under my sphere, though freedom of navigation remains for you all. Sudan, East Africa—all mine. Djibouti and Socotra, now Italian territory. Kenya, Rwanda, Burundi, Uganda, everything else unspoken—mine. From the Nile to the Cape, Italian influence shall reign."

"Agreed?" I asked.

Two silent nods.

"Lastly," I continued, "non-interference in each other's zones. Each region shall be governed under local administration, with our monarchs—puppet rulers in ceremonial robes—enthroned above. Economically? Total control. We'll develop them, uplift them, chain them with gratitude."

They agreed. Of course they did.

"Then it's settled." I clapped my hands once, sharp as thunder. "We form an alliance. Like the Rome Pact—but African. We'll call it... The Organization for African Unity and Liberation."

I paused, savoring the absurd beauty of the phrase. It sounded like something ripped from a Yellow Magic Orchestra concept album.

"I'll send OVRA agents across the continent, identify pliable leaders. Get the propaganda machine whirring. I already have a few ideas on how to burn this continent down—"

I smiled darkly.

"—and build it in our image."

We adjourned for a few hours, taking a small break until nightfall.

By then sky outside was dark, with the exception of the stars and light pollution of Rome. I sat alone for a while, fingers steepled beneath my chin, the silence broken only by the rhythmic tick of the ornate clock on the far wall. The last cigar still smoldered in the ashtray like a dying world. Africa was ours now—in theory. But theory meant nothing without narrative.

I called them back in. Franco returned with his usual sardonic squint. Louis Napoleon looked tired—maybe from the weight of history pressing on his shoulders. Or maybe it was just the brandy.

I poured three more glasses anyway. The real show was about to begin.

"Gentlemen," I began, voice low, "we have the borders. Now we need the story. A gospel, if you will."

Franco raised an eyebrow. "Another propaganda initiative?"

"No," I said, standing again, walking to the tall windows overlooking Rome like I was looking into the soul of civilization. "Something... bigger. A spectacle. To pull the rug out from the Atlantic Charter, from Roosevelt's liberal sermons, from Churchill's imperial whisperings."

I turned, eyes alight.

"We need a new League of Nations."

Louis frowned. "You mean... rebuild the old one?"

"No. Bury it." I walked back to the desk, drew a circle on the map of the world. "I'm proposing a replacement. One that includes us—us, the real powers—and them. The Allies. Even the Soviets."

Franco scoffed. "You want to invite Stalin into our club?"

"Think," I snapped. "We invite everyone. France, Italy, Spain, Russia, Britain, America, the Balkans, the Arabs, China, India, whoever claims to be a 'rising voice.' We brand it as peace, as cooperation. And while they're giving speeches and passing motions, we build our shadow world behind the curtains."

I passed them each a document—fresh, still smelling of ink and revolution.

THE GLOBAL FEDERATION OF FREE ALLIANCES

For Peace, Prosperity, and Plural Sovereignty

Louis Napoleon read it aloud, his voice edged with suspicion.

"A voluntary international forum for all sovereign states and emerging nations. Equal voices. Collective arbitration. Mutual economic development." He stopped. "This sounds like the Atlantic Charter."

"Exactly," I said, smiling. "Except this time, we write the rules. We invite the world. But we're the hosts. We frame the debate. Roosevelt wants freedom from fear and want? Let's give him both—through our institutions, our banks, our peacekeeping forces. If you want to defuse a bomb, you don't yank out the wires. You wrap it in velvet and let it forget it's a bomb. We have the moral high ground, we stopped the holocaust. We can do whatever the fuck we want with the world for now, we need to seize the momentum."

Franco exhaled sharply. "And if the Allies refuse?"

"They won't," I said. "They can't. If they do, we paint them as warmongers and remind the world how they were complicit in the holocaust. We flood the airwaves with peace doves and global unity marches. We preach inclusion, fairness, even democracy—on our terms. The Soviets? They'll join just to keep an eye on us. The Americans? They'll bite, thinking they can control it. But it's our show."

Louis Napoleon leaned back, swirling his glass. "So it's a stage."

"A stage," I confirmed, "with curtains thick enough to hide an empire."

Franco grunted. "And what will this Federation do, besides talk?"

I flipped to page three. "Development banks. Arbitration courts. Cultural exchange missions. A 'Global Peace Corps' to mirror our Holy Corps. But all of it quietly integrated with our system. Our companies fund the infrastructure. Our advisors guide the governments. Our intelligence agencies watch."

Louis Napoleon gave a half-smile. "You're mad."

I grinned wider. "Madness is just the name history gives to geniuses ahead of their time."

Franco looked at Louis. They shared that glance again. The same one from yesterday. The silent code between men who understood that power, once glimpsed, cannot be unseen.

"Alright," Louis said finally, "but I want veto power over any membership."

"Of course."

"And none of this interferes with our spheres."

"Sacrosanct."

Franco leaned forward. "If this backfires, it's your face on the posters."

I laughed. "Then I'll make sure the posters are flattering."

Later that night.

Alone again. Everyone gone.

I stood at the balcony of Palazzo Venezia, looking out over Rome, wind tugging at the curtains behind me. My mind played Mariya Takeuchi's Plastic Love, warped by static, echoing like a ghost in the bones of the Eternal City.

The Global Federation of Free Alliances.

It was a joke. A trick. A velvet net thrown over a drowning world. But it would work.

Because people didn't want truth. They wanted narrative.

They wanted to believe.

And I was going to give them something worth believing in.

Even if it killed them.

-

February 8, 1942
Palazzo Venezia
Rome, Italy

I loved speeches. The adoration, the applause, intoxicating. And today was a big day. The theater. The spectacle. The illusion of unity, of vision. They would believe.

Outside the balcony, the crowd gathered like a storm—flags of Italy, Spain, and France fluttering together like old ghosts sewn into one tattered shroud. Behind me, Franco looked like a taxidermied falcon, and Louis Napoleon wore the half-smirk of a man who knew history had already forgiven him.

I stepped forward, bathed in marble and hubris, and looked out over the sea of hats, salutes, and hungry eyes. My voice, amplified by hidden microphones and Vatican-grade speakers, thundered like God on a Sunday sermon.

"People of the world… citizens of Rome, of Madrid, of Paris reborn!"

Cheers erupted. I let them roll over me like ocean waves over driftwood.

"Today, we bury the corpse of colonialism—not with shame, but with a crown. No longer shall Africa be divided by foreign chains, humiliated by foreign flags, or trampled by foreign boots. Today, Africa becomes a continent of nations—not possessions."

I paused, theatrically. Let them chew on that.

"Today, with the blessing of the Holy Father, with the assent of the monarchs and the vision of free men, we declare the birth of the Organization of African Unity and Liberation!"

More applause. Louder. Franco didn't even blink. Louis Napoleon nodded with solemn reverence, like he was watching a cathedral rise from rubble.

"This is not an empire. It is a fraternity. A holy alliance. Where African nations—newly born, righteous in their sovereignty—shall rise under our tutelage. Their freedom shall be forged not in chains, but in contracts. Not in blood, but in brotherhood."

Behind me, banners unfurled like opera curtains—stylized eagles, tricolor lions, a silhouette of Africa wrapped in golden laurel.

"But this is only the beginning."

I stepped back. Let it build. The silence before the next hit. The synth-line before the chorus drops.

"I now announce the formation of a higher order. A union not merely of nations—but of civilizations."

My voice dropped. Intimate. Heavy.

"The Global Federation of Free Alliances. A covenant between sovereign blocs—Europe, Africa, Asia, the Americas—united by mutual respect, collective defense, and shared destiny. Each sphere of influence free. Each culture preserved. But together? Stronger than any empire."

They didn't get it yet. They clapped, sure, but they didn't get it. Not like I did.

Later, in my study, I nursed a glass of wine from Lebanon, stared at the glowing map projected by the new OVRA briefing device, and smirked to myself.

"Global Federation of Free Alliances."

The name was pure Star Wars. Ripped straight from the Galactic Alliance. I remembered reading the new Jedi order series, laying on my cheap mattress while Sofie slept. The New Jedi order. The New Republic. The Yuuzhan Vong, the fall of coruscant. Absolute Cinema. The rise of a new order after the fall.

I was drunk. I was alone. But I saw it then—clear as crystal. A vision of a world reborn from the ashes of war. Orchestrated by me.

"Lucas had no idea," I muttered aloud, grinning like a maniac. "He thought it was fiction. Turns out it was prophecy."

I lit a cigarette. Hall and Oates I can't go for that played softly in my mind, whispering from an old memory. The smoke curled toward the cracked ceiling like a spirit rising.

I leaned back, eyes closed.

"They'll think it's liberation. They'll think it's utopia. But I know what it really is."

An empire.

Of shadows.

A world blueprint written in blood, oil, and holy water.

And I was its Palpatine. Its first chancellor. Its devil in velvet gloves.

God help me, I loved it.

An excerpt from Geert Wilders Book: Resistance, The Netherlands during WW2

Despite its official policy of neutrality, the Netherlands was invaded on the morning of May 10, 1940, by German forces, who struck without any formal declaration of war. The attack was part of a larger strategy designed to divide the Allied forces, simultaneously advancing into Belgium and Luxembourg to draw British and French forces away from the Ardennes. This move was calculated to preemptively counter a possible British invasion in North Holland and to secure vital airfields along the North Sea, which the Luftwaffe intended to use as bases for launching air raids against the United Kingdom. The surprise invasion marked the beginning of a new phase in World War II, one that would dramatically alter the course of Dutch history.

By May 15, the Netherlands officially signed an unconditional surrender to Germany. However, not all Dutch forces capitulated immediately. In the province of Zeeland, which had come under the control of French forces, resistance continued as Dutch soldiers fought alongside the French military. This defiance persisted until May 17, when the German bombardment of the town of Middelburg finally forced the Dutch to surrender in that region as well. Despite the fall of the homeland, the Dutch Empire, particularly the Dutch East Indies, remained an active and committed supporter of the Allies, maintaining its loyalty and resisting the occupation. The colonies were largely unaffected by the surrender, and many vessels of the Royal Dutch Navy, operating in Dutch waters, managed to escape to the United Kingdom, where they continued to serve in the Allied cause.

Queen Wilhelmina and the Dutch government managed to escape the Netherlands before the official surrender. Establishing a government-in-exile, the Queen and her ministers sought refuge in London, where they would continue to represent the Dutch people in the face of foreign occupation. Princess Juliana and her children were sent to Canada, where they would remain safe from the war's devastation, but the shadow of occupation loomed over their homeland.

Initially, the Netherlands fell under German military control. However, as the Dutch government refused to return and reclaim its authority, the situation shifted. On May 29, 1940, the German authorities transitioned from military rule to civilian governance, establishing the Reichskommissariat Niederlande, a puppet regime headed by the Austrian Nazi Arthur Seyss-Inquart. This marked a stark contrast to the situations in France and Denmark, which retained their own governments, and Belgium, which remained under military occupation. Seyss-Inquart, though a member of the Nazi Party, was tasked with overseeing the civilian administration of the Netherlands, effectively transforming the country into a Nazi-controlled puppet state.

Once in power, the German occupiers imposed a policy of Gleichschaltung, or "enforced conformity," systematically eliminating any non-Nazi organizations and institutions. In 1940, the Nazis outlawed socialist and communist parties, followed by a ban on all political movements except for the National Socialist Movement in the Netherlands (NSB) in 1941. The NSB, however, lacked widespread popular support and was not a formidable force on its own. Initially, Seyss-Inquart adopted a "velvet glove" approach, attempting to appease the Dutch population and win them over to National Socialism. He kept repression at a minimum, attempted to cooperate with the country's elite and government officials, and maintained economic activity at a level that allowed Dutch companies to benefit from trade with Germany. While this might have been perceived as collaboration, it was also seen as pragmatic by some, given the prevailing belief that a German victory in the war seemed increasingly likely. The Netherlands, thus, found itself in a difficult position, where siding with Germany appeared to be a sensible option for survival.

The NSB, benefiting from the ban on all other political parties, began to grow rapidly, though its popularity remained largely superficial. Despite the heavy-handed political repression, life under occupation initially seemed tolerable for many, with the occupation limited largely to the political sphere. The Dutch population, for the most part, did not experience the full scale of Nazi brutality during these early years, and economic cooperation with the Germans helped many maintain a semblance of normalcy. However, this period of relative peace would not last.

In the wake of the failure of Operation Barbarossa in 1941 and the subsequent German military setbacks on the Eastern Front, the Nazis began to intensify their economic extraction from occupied territories, including the Netherlands. The German demand for resources grew more urgent, and Dutch industry was increasingly pushed to supply materials to support the German war machine. The Netherlands, once seen as a relatively quiet province under occupation, now became a critical asset in the ongoing war effort.

However, everything changed on December 16, 1941. In a stunning turn of events, the Pope revealed to the world evidence of the Holocaust, and the Catholic Church issued a call for a crusade against Nazi Germany. In addition, Pope Pius XII threatened excommunication for all members of the Nazi Party by the new year if they didn't renounce the party. This announcement sent shockwaves across Europe, and its reverberations were felt most strongly in the Netherlands. The Catholic Church in the Netherlands, along with other Christian denominations such as the Dutch Reformed Church and the Evangelical Lutheran Church, rallied to the Pope's call, and all declared membership in the NSB to be an excommunicable offense.

The response from the Dutch people was swift and powerful. A general strike, organized by the Catholic Church, spread across the country like wildfire. The strike quickly gained momentum as all Christian denominations joined in solidarity, creating a massive and unified protest against the German occupation. The German authorities, caught off guard by the scale and intensity of the movement, were unable to quell the demonstrations. The Reichskommissariat Niederlande, which had been relatively stable under Seyss-Inquart's rule, found itself in turmoil.

By December 17, the strikes had paralyzed the nation, and the German military was called out to suppress the protesters. The National Socialist forces, including the NSB, struggled to maintain order, but the sheer size and determination of the Dutch resistance left the German occupiers on the back foot. The Pope's subsequent announcement of excommunication being extended to members of the German military and collaborationist governments marked the end of the occupation. Seyss-Inquart, realizing that his grip on power was slipping, began evacuating his headquarters in Amsterdam, as members of the German occupation forces deserted their posts. The occupation, which had seemed so secure just a few days earlier, was rapidly crumbling.

The following day, December 18, saw the capture of key figures in the NSB, including Seyss-Inquart, Anton Adriaan Mussert, and Cornelis van Geelkerken. Attempting to flee Amsterdam, they were arrested by Dutch resistance forces and handed over to the British and newly reformed Dutch authorities. The fall of the Reichskommissariat Niederlande was complete, and the British, having taken notice of the revolution unfolding in the Netherlands, were quick to act.

On December 20, 1941, British troops, alongside Dutch exiles and Queen Wilhelmina, landed in Amsterdam. The arrival of the British forces was met with widespread jubilation from the Dutch population, who celebrated their liberation from Nazi control. Seyss-Inquart and the NSB leadership were swiftly tried by the newly reformed Dutch government. While Mussert and van Geelkerken were sentenced to life imprisonment, Seyss-Inquart was sentenced to death for his role in the deportation of Dutch Jews, one of the darkest chapters of the occupation.

A month later, on January 25, 1942, the announcement of the Yalta Conference sent shockwaves through the Netherlands. While the Dutch rejoiced in their liberation, the news of the Soviet sphere of influence expanding westward filled them with dread. Desiring to remain free from Soviet control, the Netherlands quickly moved to secure its place in the future of Europe. On February 1, 1942, the Netherlands signed an alliance with the United States and the United Kingdom, cementing its place in the fight against the Axis powers.

This alliance was the first step in the formation of the Atlantic Alliance, an international coalition that would include Norway and Sweden, further strengthening the resolve of nations determined to resist both Nazi Germany and the Soviet Union. The war, it seemed, was far from over, but the Netherlands had emerged from the darkness of occupation and stood ready to face the challenges of a new world order.

-

December 17, 1941
Amsterdam
Occupied Netherlands

The morning came too quickly, but it didn't matter. We had no time for sleep. The streets were already buzzing with the sound of voices, louder now, more urgent. The air in Amsterdam was thick with the weight of something new. Something big. A shift.

It was as if the entire city had been holding its breath for years, and today, today we would exhale. We had waited for this moment longer than I can remember. The Germans never expected it. We had been expecting it. A storm was coming, and we were its wind.

I pulled my coat tighter around me, the cold biting through the fabric, but it was the cold in my chest that I felt the most. That tightness you get when you've been waiting too long, your nerves raw, your heart set on something you couldn't stop if you tried. The papers had been burned long ago, the radios were too risky, but everyone knew. We all knew.

A general strike. And not just any strike. This was the one. The churches—every denomination, from the Catholic Church to the Reformed and the Lutheran—had called for it. The Pope's voice had been the spark. A call to arms, not in the sense of rifles and bombs, but in spirit. In action. A call for the entire country to stand up against the occupiers. Against the tyranny. Against the unthinkable.

I made my way through the crowd, the streets filled with a sea of people, faces determined, some fearful, but all united in a way I had never seen before. Women, men, old and young, all of them moving together, speaking in hushed tones, occasionally breaking out into louder chants. There was something powerful in it. Something that reached down into your gut and tugged. The sound of unity was louder than the German boots on the cobblestones.

My hand instinctively went to the small pistol tucked under my coat. We were part of the resistance—an underground movement that had been working for years to sabotage, to fight back in whatever small way we could. But today? Today was different. Today was for all of us. Today was the day the people would decide that enough was enough.

"Strike! Strike!" the chants grew louder. My heart thudded in my chest. The strike was spreading, gaining force like wildfire. This wasn't a labor protest, this wasn't about food shortages or the curfew. This was about something far greater. This was about our very souls.

I could see them now—German soldiers, some in uniform, some in the black-and-red armbands of the NSB—moving into the streets, their rifles swinging to their sides, their faces set in grim determination. They thought they could stop us. They had no idea what they were up against. We were more than just resistance fighters. We were the Dutch spirit, rising in the middle of the night, fueled by faith, rage, and hope.

The soldiers began shouting at the crowd, trying to push them back, but the crowd wouldn't budge. They advanced, but we didn't retreat. I could see the officers shouting orders, but it was too late. We were already beyond their control.

Then the shots came.

I heard the sharp crack of gunfire. The first one, then several more. The soldiers had opened fire on the crowd. My heart stuttered in my chest. People fell. My eyes locked onto one figure—an old man who had been chanting, his face etched with years of hardship. He collapsed to the ground, blood spreading across the cobblestones. My breath caught in my throat, and for a moment, I couldn't move.

But then I did. It wasn't a choice anymore. I had been prepared for this. We all had. The sight of the old man's bloodied body only fueled the fire in my chest. I wasn't going to watch them kill us without doing everything in my power to stop it.

I pulled the gun from under my coat, and with quick, practiced movements, I and a few others moved into position. We were scattered, small groups, hidden amongst the crowd, ready to act. A shot rang out from my right—a signal. The barricades we had set up overnight were already beginning to take shape as the protestors pushed them forward.

I raised my gun, and in the chaos, I saw the German soldiers begin to panic. They weren't used to this. They thought they could quell us with bullets, but they hadn't anticipated the power of an entire country's rage, its collective resolve. For the first time, I felt it—this overwhelming sense of possibility. We weren't just fighting for our lives; we were fighting for our future.

The Germans retreated, pulling back to regroup, but they were losing ground. The crowd had surged forward, and even as the soldiers shot, the people kept coming. We were everywhere—hiding in plain sight, blending in with the masses, working like clockwork. A well-oiled machine. A single unified entity.

By midday, the protests had paralyzed the city. The Germans were trapped, caught off guard by how quickly the entire nation seemed to rise. There were no negotiations, no empty words. It wasn't just a rebellion—it was a declaration of our will. We were Dutch, and we would never be silenced.

Later, as the curfew bell tolled and the streets grew darker, I watched as the streets outside the occupied buildings remained filled with people. People who weren't afraid anymore. We had crossed a line. And once you cross that line, there's no going back.

My heart raced as news came through the lines. The German governor, Seyss-Inquart, was fleeing the city. The soldiers, their resolve shattered, were deserting their posts. It was happening. They were losing control. The Dutch spirit was stronger than any occupation.

It wasn't just about survival anymore. It was about reclaiming who we were. And that night, under the cover of the chaos, we knew—this was our victory. The world would hear us. The Nazis would know that we would never bend to their will.

And in the days that followed, with the British and the Dutch exiles landing on our soil, it became clear: this was only the beginning. The Netherlands would never be the same again. We had sparked something that could not be extinguished. And as we fought to protect our future, I felt the weight of what we had done. The price of freedom was high, but we had taken the first steps toward reclaiming it.

-

December 20, 1941
Amsterdam
Occupied Netherlands

The sound of the aircraft's engines rumbled across the sky, a low growl that echoed through the tense streets of Amsterdam. It was barely past noon when I heard it, the familiar sound of a plane approaching—but this wasn't just any plane. This was something more. Something we had been waiting for.

The crowd in the city square—tired, ragged from the past week's chaos, but undeterred—looked up, some shielding their eyes from the sun, others simply staring, uncertain of what they would see.

And then we saw it. The British aircraft descending toward the runway in Schiphol Airport, its wings outstretched like a bird returning to its homeland. It wasn't just any plane—it was the plane. The one that would bring the Dutch queen back to her people. Queen Wilhelmina, the beacon of hope for all of us who had fought and suffered under the German heel.

The moment she landed, the world seemed to slow. For a brief second, it felt like the entire city had held its breath again. But then came the roar—the wild, collective cheer that erupted from the crowd like a tidal wave crashing against the city's stone foundations. The cheers reached a crescendo as the door of the plane opened, and Queen Wilhelmina stepped out, flanked by British officers and Dutch exiles who had fought and struggled alongside us.

She looked as regal as ever, even in the harsh light of the December day. Her face was older now, her eyes sharper, but the defiance that had defined her exile still burned brightly within them. She was our queen, the embodiment of everything we had fought for.

For the first time in years, it felt like we were no longer lost. Like we could finally stand tall again. The Dutch resistance fighters, the ones like me who had fought in the shadows, were now a part of something larger—something real. The queen's return wasn't just a symbol of our past; it was a signal of our future.

I couldn't help but watch, my chest swelling with a mixture of pride and awe. The crowds surged forward, reaching out to touch the queen, to feel her presence, to confirm that this wasn't some dream, that after everything—the fear, the losses, the brutal repression—we had finally come out on the other side. We had not just survived; we had won.

I spotted familiar faces among the crowd, Dutch exiles who had returned with the queen—men and women who had fought in France, in Britain, in secret cells across Europe. Their eyes were hard but hopeful, and they looked at the queen with a reverence that made my heart ache. They had lost so much to the Germans, and yet here they were, back on Dutch soil, fighting not just for survival but for a future where we could rebuild.

As Wilhelmina made her way through the throngs, I couldn't help but feel the enormity of what was happening. It wasn't just her return. It was the symbol of a nation rising from the ashes.

Then came the announcement: the British troops, along with Dutch exiles, would secure the city, and we—those of us who had fought in the resistance, the ones who had been scattered in cells, in hiding, in silence—were being called into action once more. The Germans, in their retreat, were leaving behind chaos, but the fight was far from over. Amsterdam was a spark. The Netherlands was a blaze. And we had to keep it burning.

The queen's voice echoed through the streets, as she addressed the people for the first time in years. "We have waited for this day," she said, her voice steady, unyielding. "The time of occupation is over. The time of liberation has come. But this is only the beginning. We will rebuild. We will fight until the last of the invaders has been driven from our soil. And we will be free."

Her words rang out over the square, and the cheers only grew louder.

But even as the city erupted in celebration, I could feel the weight of what lay ahead. The Germans had been pushed back, but they were still strong. And they would not go quietly. There would be blood. There would be pain. But there would also be victory.

The British troops, their uniforms slightly worn from their own battles, formed a line around the queen, keeping order as the celebrations continued. I could see the gratitude in their eyes—this wasn't just about them. They knew how much this meant to us, to our nation. They had come to help us, but they were also here to stand alongside us, as allies, as brothers-in-arms. They understood what this moment meant.

A few hours passed in what felt like a blur. The streets of Amsterdam were alive with people—our people—who had been silenced for so long, now shouting in joy, in defiance, in the purest expression of freedom I had ever seen. The Dutch resistance had become something more than a shadow in the night. It was a force, a symbol of the will of the Dutch people.

The British forces moved through the streets, helping to secure key locations, their presence a promise that we would not fall again. Queen Wilhelmina's return wasn't just a victory in itself; it was a catalyst, a call to arms for all of us who had been waiting for the day when we could take back what was rightfully ours.

In the days that followed, the German occupation continued to crumble. Resistance fighters like me were no longer scattered in the shadows—we were now part of a larger movement, part of a greater alliance. The signing of the treaty of Yalta had marked the beginning of the end for Nazi Germany, but for us, it was just the beginning of a new chapter.

We had learned something in those long, brutal years. We had learned that no matter how far they pushed us down, no matter how much they tried to break us, we would never stop fighting. And with the queen back on our soil, with the British at our side, we knew now more than ever that we had a future worth fighting for.

On December 20, 1941, Amsterdam didn't just welcome its queen—it welcomed its own freedom back home.

January 28, 1942
Quirinal Palace
Rome, Italy
Private Audience Chamber of King Victor Emmanuel III

The marble walls of the chamber glowed pale in the winter light seeping through tall windows. Outside, the fountains of Piazza del Quirinale had frozen mid-motion, their icy silence mocking the storm brewing within. Inside, the silence wasn't frozen—it was forced. Dense. Tense.

King Victor Emmanuel III stood at the tall window, hands clasped behind his back, staring out as though trying to locate the distant thunder that had just shaken his crown. Behind him, three of his senior advisors—Marshal Badoglio, Foreign Minister Galeazzo Ciano, and Court Chamberlain Baron de Vecchi—waited with a discomfort bordering on dread. A telegram lay open on the polished oak table behind them, its message stamped with the kind of finality that leaves no room for consultation.

The King didn't turn as he spoke.

"So," he said quietly, "Benito has redrawn the world."

None of the advisors dared answer. The telegram had been brief but devastating. The Treaty of Yalta. A new axis of power. Italy and the Soviet Union, hand in hand like twin lions carving up the globe with claws soaked in blood and ink.

"He didn't even ask me," the King added. His voice was not angry. Not yet. But it trembled with a suppressed blend of disbelief and insult.

Badoglio cleared his throat. "Your Majesty, the Duce may have—felt the urgency of the moment. Events are moving quickly—"

"He's crowned himself Caesar without a Senate," the King snapped, whirling around. His eyes, usually tired and watery, now burned with something dangerously close to life. "He's treated my monarchy like an antique chair in a palace he's already half-razed."

Ciano raised his hands slightly, palms forward in placation. "Majesty, I have seen the documents. The map is... audacious. But there is method to his vision. The colonies, the Rhineland, Greater Austria—all folded under the crown. Technically."

"Technically?" the King hissed. "Do you believe I care for technicalities? I am the King of Italy, not a stamp on Mussolini's postwar stationery."

He walked to the table, picked up the map, and stared at it. Red and green ink slashed across continents like battle wounds.

"The Kingdom of Israel," he murmured, almost to himself. "A puppet monarchy under our protection. Greater Austria, another facade. And the Balkans—our dogs on leashes." He looked up at them, incredulous. "He offers the world a charade of crowns and flags while he rules like an emperor without a throne."

Baron de Vecchi, ever the monarchist, stepped forward. "Majesty, with respect, this... arrangement may stabilize the monarchy's position in the long term. The people cheer victory. The army is loyal. The Church is untouched. Mussolini has not abolished the crown—on the contrary, he drapes it over his conquests like a velvet cloth."

Victor Emmanuel dropped the map on the table.

"And when he no longer needs the cloth?" he said bitterly. "When the Caesar grows tired of the old King?"

The room was silent again.

"I am not blind," the King said, quieter now. "I see what he has become. What we have allowed him to become. And I see what he's made of me." His eyes glinted. "A relic. A museum piece. I wear the crown, but he carries the sword."

Badoglio stepped forward. "What would Your Majesty have us do?"

Victor Emmanuel studied him, then glanced back at the window. Snow had begun to fall in Rome. A rare thing. The city looked almost holy in its stillness.

"Nothing," the King said finally. "Nothing yet. The people cheer. The Allies recoil. The Nazis die. The communists celebrate. The Pope remains silent. For now, Mussolini has his triumph."

He turned back to them, his expression hardening like frost.

"But mark my words," he said. "No man builds an empire beside Stalin and expects to sleep well at night. That Russian drinks poison like others sip tea. One day, Mussolini will find his glass empty."

The King nodded, almost to himself.

"And on that day, the crown may still be waiting."

He left the room. The advisors stood in silence, staring at the map that promised a world—but whispered of storms.

-

January 30, 1942
Palazzo Quirinale
Rome, Italy

The King was tired. Older than his years, like parchment soaked in olive oil and stuffed into a Savoy uniform. He looked up from his tea—lukewarm, Earl Grey, with two sugars and not a single goddamn clue what was coming.

I stepped into the room like a ghost with a manifesto.

"Your Majesty," I said, half-smiling, half-scowling, like someone who had eaten the future and found it too salty.

He motioned for me to sit. I didn't. I stood there, basking in the silence, letting it stretch like skin over a drum. He finally broke it.

"Benito. What now?"

Now? Oh, that was the question, wasn't it?

I pulled a chair up anyway. Something heavy moved in my coat pocket. Not a gun. Not a knife. Just a piece of folded paper with the weight of a millennium.

"We're going to do something," I said, voice low, "that hasn't been done since Charlemagne put on the crown and pretended he wasn't terrified of God."

The King raised an eyebrow. Just one. Bastard had royal restraint, I'll give him that.

"When this war ends—and it will end, sooner than you think—we're not going to rebuild Italy."

Pause. Let the words sit.

"We're going to restore Rome."

He looked like I'd said we were going to resurrect Caesar using espresso and duct tape.

"I'm going to crown you Emperor."

I leaned in, dead serious, like a confessor in a Vegas booth.

"No more 'King of Italy.' That's done. That's opera. That's sadness in powdered wigs. No—Imperator Romanorum. You'll wear purple. You'll wear laurel. You'll be the successor not to Vittorio Emanuele I, but to Augustus."

He laughed, at first. Then he saw I wasn't laughing.

"And what about you?"

That was the best part.

I sat back, hands steepled like a priest with a flamethrower.

"Consul. For life. Not Emperor, no—I know my place. I'll be the steel under your throne, the ghost in the aqueduct. You'll have the crown, I'll have the engine. You'll wave from the balcony, I'll make sure the lights stay on."

He stared at me. Searching for the catch. The poison in the wine.

"I don't trust you," he said.

I smiled.

"Neither do I. But it's going to be beautiful."

I stood, already halfway out the door.

"Oh—and tell the tailor to start working on the imperial regalia. I want gold, I want velvet, I want it to look like Constantine ate Louis XIV and spit out something new, something Neo Roman."

He didn't stop me. He just sat there, tea forgotten, staring into the future I'd just poured into his lap.

Behind me, the hallway lights flickered.

Rome was waking up.

-

January 30, 1942 (Later That Night)
Private Theater
Palazzo Venezia
Rome, Italy

The room was dark. Velvet chairs soaked in cigarette smoke. The film projector clattered like a death rattle from an old god waking up under Cinecittà.

On screen: Leni Riefenstahl's "Triumph of the Will."

My jaw was clenched. My eyes wide. Mesmerized.

That opening shot—Hitler descending from the clouds like a demonic messiah, the plane slicing through the sky like a scalpel across Europe's throat. The angles. The music. The movement.

Goddamn.

I almost saluted. I almost did.

But then I remembered—the holocaust, he was done. Dying soon. Or hiding in some Bunker trying to cast spells with Eva Braun's lipstick.

Still, the imagery lingered. It was like watching a dream you hadn't had yet. It was power. Raw, unfiltered, weaponized beauty.

I leaned forward, hands steepled, whispering to no one. "This... this is not a film. It's a gospel."

Then the thought hit me. Like lightning wrapped in marble.

I stood up suddenly, knocking over the wine glass. Red soaked into the carpet like spilled prophecy.

"Get me Guidi." I said to one of my servants.

The doors slammed open a few minutes later. The head of the OVRA shuffled in like a guilty priest. Still in his overcoat. Probably hadn't even had dinner.

"Duce?" he said, breathless, like a man summoned to witness either a miracle or a firing squad.

"Find her."

He blinked. "Her?"

I pointed at the screen, where Riefenstahl's camera turned uniformed men into gods with perfectly timed boots.

"Leni Riefenstahl. Find her. Bring her to Rome."

"Alive?"

"Yes, alive, you bureaucratic mushroom. I'm not sending her to the Vatican—I'm making her mine."

He looked concerned. Good. That meant he understood.

"I want her directing our film. Not this... German Valhalla nonsense. I want her to shoot something real. Something eternal."

I began pacing now, arms gesturing like some cracked-out Michelangelo sketching the Sistine Chapel with gasoline.

"Victor Emmanuel's coronation. The Imperial Crown. The marble. The fire. The crowds. The smoke. The Empire reborn not from blood—but from vision."

The lights from the projector flickered against my face, turning me into something between a demon and a saint.

"She'll call it Rebirth. No—Rinascita. A Triumph of the Will, yes—but not the will of one man. The will of a people. Of Rome herself."

Guidi hesitated. I grabbed him by the lapel.

"Tell her she'll have everything. Troops. Planes. Statues. Fireworks. Orgies if she wants them—I don't care. Just get her."

He nodded, pale as the Pope in a snowstorm, and left without another word.

I turned back to the screen.

Hitler was raising his hand. The crowd roared. The music swelled.

I didn't salute.

But I whispered:
"You had the premiere, Adolf. I'll have the sequel."

And in my head, the opening credits began to roll:

RINASCITA
Directed by Leni Riefenstahl. Produced by the Roman Empire. Written by the last madman left in Europe. It would be glorious.

-

February 15, 1942
Munich, Germany
Agent Giuseppe Manzini, OVRA. Current Alias: Gunther Mentz

It was snowing when I found her. The kind of snow that made you feel like God had finally given up and was just dumping powdered sugar over a corpse. Germany smelled like wet paper and diesel fumes. Everything here looked burned or about to be.

She lived in a crumbling townhouse near the Isar, windows boarded, curtains closed. I'd been trailing her for days—Vienna, then Munich, always one step ahead of whoever else was sniffing around. The Allies were closing in. The SS had ghosted. The Party was eating itself. Everyone with brains was trying to disappear.

But Leni?

She was editing.

I knocked once. Then twice. Then I kicked the door. Gun drawn.

She opened it with a cigarette between her lips and a pair of scissors in her hand like she was about to cut me out of existence.

"Who are you?" she asked, eyes sharp as razors, hair grayer than her portraits, but still a face that could convince a nation to march.

"Giuseppe Manzini," I said, showing her the seal. "OVRA. I work for the Duce."

She didn't flinch. She didn't even blink.

"I didn't expect Il Duce to send his goons to kill me.."

I stepped inside without asking. The place smelled like vinegar, glue, and old film stock. Reels of celluloid were strewn like entrails across the floor. On the wall, a still of Hitler at Nuremberg stared down at me like a forgotten relic.

"I'm not here to kill you," I said.

She turned, slow. Like a cat. Like a knife being unsheathed.

"Then why the gun?"

"ignore that." I put it away and handed her an envelope from my coat. "he's offering you a job."

She paused. Lit another cigarette off the first.

"Go on."

I let the words hang like smoke in the air.

"Mussolini wants a film. Not just a film—a monument. Victor Emmanuel will be crowned Emperor of Rome the day the war in Europe ends. The Duce will be made Consul for life. You will film it."

She scoffed. "You people and your crowns. Didn't one of your own people kill the previous king the previous century?"

I ignored the jab. She hadn't said no.

"He saw Triumph of the Will. He said he almost wanted to salute. He wants you to make its second coming. A Roman Rinascita. You'll have full creative control. Troops. Temples. Whatever you want. All of Cinecittà under your command. He's even going to clear the Forum for the procession."

Now she was listening.

"I don't work for tyrants," she muttered, though it sounded more like a test than a principle.

"You worked for Hitler," I said flatly.

She stared at me. No denial. Just smoke and silence.

Then: "And Mussolini thinks he's different?"

I smiled. "No. He knows he isn't. But he's the only one left with the balls to say it out loud."

She laughed. Once. Bitter and sharp. Like metal on glass.

Then she walked over to the window, opened the curtain a sliver. Outside, Munich looked like a chalk sketch about to be erased.

"Tell him…" she paused, watching the snow fall.

"Tell him I want fire. I want columns of flame. I want elephants in the Colosseum and gods made of light. If I do this, it's not just a coronation. It's my Sistine Chapel."


I nodded.

"I'll escort you to rome. There's a car waiting."

She turned to me, eyes gleaming like wet knives.

"I'll drive. I want to feel the corpse of Europe under my wheels."

Fair enough.

I handed her the car keys.

She was coming to Rome.
And the Empire was about to have its muse.

An Excerpt From

Neutrality: Sweden's Journey in the Second World War

Sweden's position at the onset of World War II was one of delicate balance and uncertainty. Having emerged from the Winter War with Finland in 1940, Sweden was left in a precarious position: neutral but increasingly vulnerable to the shifting tides of European geopolitics. The end of the winter war had left deep scars on both the Finnish people and the Swedish military. A total of 100,000 Swedish soldiers had been deployed to the Finnish border in the northernmost reaches of the country, but by the time peace was negotiated, Sweden's defense strategy was in disarray. There were no plans to defend Norway or to counter any potential invasion from Germany across the Scandinavian Peninsula. The political and military landscape had changed dramatically, and Sweden's government had to swiftly adapt to these new realities.

On the morning of April 9, 1940, Germany launched Operation Weserübung, a campaign aimed at simultaneously occupying Denmark and Norway while ensuring Germany's access to Swedish resources, particularly the vital iron ore deposits in the north of the country. This campaign would have profound consequences for Sweden's neutrality, which was already precarious due to the close economic ties between Sweden and Germany.

The German invasion of Denmark and Norway on that fateful day severely strained Sweden's diplomatic neutrality. The Swedish government had long adhered to a policy of cautious diplomacy, balancing its interests with both the Axis powers and the Allies. However, with Germany moving ever closer to Sweden's borders, it became clear that the country could no longer remain completely aloof. Sweden was forced to accommodate the German demands for access to its resources, particularly in the form of iron ore shipments, which were essential to Germany's war machine. This economic reliance on Nazi Germany was not entirely voluntary; it was a matter of survival for Sweden, whose economy was deeply intertwined with German industry.

However, Sweden was not without leverage. The Swedish government, despite its vulnerability, retained an element of strategic flexibility. In the face of growing pressure from Berlin, Sweden managed to navigate the difficult diplomatic terrain with a degree of success, maintaining its independence while complying with many of Germany's requests. Still, Sweden found itself cut off from the Western world as Allied blockades and the German occupation of Norway closed off many of its trade routes.

One of the most significant challenges Sweden faced during this period was the logistical and military threat posed by the German occupation of Norway. As Germany moved through Scandinavia, Sweden was forced to reconsider its defense posture. With the Swedish military already partially demobilized following the end of the Winter War, the prospect of a German invasion was all too real. To prevent an outright collapse of its defenses, Sweden re-organized its military structure under a new framework known as The Organization (or Organisationen in Swedish), which allowed for the rapid mobilization of 320,000 troops. This was a near-full mobilization, albeit under the guise of personal orders sent by letter rather than an official proclamation of war.

Along with the mobilization, Sweden began constructing fortifications along its borders with Norway and Finland. These defenses were hastily built, but they played a crucial role in ensuring that Sweden remained secure from a direct German invasion. Swedish leaders understood that, with its proximity to Germany, neutrality was no longer a viable option in the long term. The construction of these fortifications represented a shift in Swedish policy from passive neutrality to active self-defense.

At the same time, the concept of permittenttrafik—the German policy allowing Swedish shipments of iron ore to Germany—became increasingly important. Sweden's willingness to supply resources, especially the vital iron ore, in exchange for German guarantees of non-aggression ensured that Sweden would remain neutral, at least for the time being. This delicate balance of cooperation and cautious defiance became a cornerstone of Swedish diplomacy throughout the war.

In the summer of 1940, Sweden achieved a remarkable intelligence breakthrough that would help ensure its survival during the war. Swedish mathematician Arne Beurling succeeded in deciphering the Geheimfernschreiber cipher machine, the tool used by Germany to encrypt its military communications. This breakthrough allowed Sweden to gain invaluable insight into Germany's military intentions, providing Sweden with advance warning of German movements and plans. Armed with this knowledge, Sweden was able to position its military forces more effectively and to avoid direct confrontation with Nazi Germany.

Despite the ongoing German campaign in Norway, Swedish leaders used the information gleaned from the decrypted messages to maintain a delicate balance in their dealings with both Germany and the Allies. Sweden's ability to read German communications gave it an edge in negotiations and ensured that Sweden remained a critical player in the broader Scandinavian theater. However, this advantage came at a cost. Sweden was forced to cooperate with Germany on a number of strategic initiatives, such as allowing German troop movements through Swedish territory, in order to maintain the delicate status quo.

The shockwaves of the papal crusade in December 1941 sent reverberations through Europe, with many governments, including Sweden's, forced to reevaluate their positions in light of the changing dynamics of the war. The Pope's call for a crusade against Nazi Germany, spurred by reports of the Holocaust and the deteriorating German war effort, was seen as a turning point in the conflict. Sweden, until then, had remained a neutral country, but the collapse of German power on the Eastern Front and the increasing success of the Allies on multiple fronts forced the Swedish government to reconsider its neutrality.

The signing of the Treaty of Yalta between Italy and the Soviet Union on January 26, 1942, marked another significant shift in the global balance of power. The treaty placed Sweden firmly within the Soviet sphere of influence, despite Sweden's strong desire to remain independent. The Soviet Union's growing presence in Eastern Europe, coupled with the sudden end of the war, left Sweden with few options but to reconsider its stance. Sweden had long been a proponent of neutrality, but the reality of a Soviet-dominated Sweden was anathema to its strategic interests.

In February 1942, Sweden made the momentous decision to break with its neutrality and align itself with the Allied powers. On February 5, 1942, Sweden officially signed an alliance with the United Kingdom and the United States, joining the nascent Atlantic Alliance in a bid to safeguard its sovereignty and independence. This shift in policy was not without controversy. There were significant factions within the Swedish government and military that advocated for a continued neutrality, but the reality of a world in which Germany had fallen and the Soviet Union loomed large was too much for the Swedish leadership to ignore.

Joining the Allies was not simply a matter of military alignment; it also had profound economic and political ramifications for Sweden. The country had long relied on trade with both Germany and the Allied nations, but now it had to navigate a new economic landscape. Sweden's iron ore exports, crucial to both the German and Allied war efforts, became a point of contention as the country found itself balancing the demands of its new allies with its need for continued access to vital resources.

The shift towards the Atlantic Alliance also meant that Sweden had to reconsider its internal politics. The once-unified stance of neutrality began to fracture, and Sweden's political landscape became increasingly polarized. The political left, traditionally sympathetic to the Soviet Union, opposed the new alliance, while the right and center saw it as a necessary step to safeguard Sweden's autonomy. This ideological division would have lasting consequences for Sweden's post-war political development.

As Sweden transitioned from neutrality to an active member of the Allied bloc, it also had to confront the broader questions of its post-war role. Would it become a satellite of the Soviet Union, or would it reclaim its position as an independent power in a post-war Europe? These questions would be answered in the years following the war, but for now, Sweden's decision to break its neutrality and join the Allies marked a defining moment in its journey through the Second World War.

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February 5, 1942
The Riksdag
Stockholm, Sweden

The heavy wooden doors of the parliament chamber creaked open, and the murmurs of the assembly quieted to a tense silence. A soft rustling of papers and the creak of chairs could be heard as the members of the Riksdag, Sweden's parliament, adjusted themselves in their seats. It was a momentous occasion, one that would forever alter the course of Swedish history.

At the front of the chamber stood Prime Minister Per Albin Hansson, his hands resting on the lectern as he surveyed the assembly. His face was solemn, etched with the weight of the decision that had led them to this moment. The events of the past few months, the rapid shifting of alliances, the growing threat from the Soviet Union, and the collapse of German power in the East, had all led to this precipice.

The Prime Minister cleared his throat, his voice carrying the quiet authority of someone who had long borne the responsibility of the nation's neutrality. Yet, today, his words would carry a different tone, a tone of decisiveness and conviction.

"Honorable members of the Riksdag," he began, his voice steady but not without an edge of tension, "we stand at a crossroads. For over 2 years, Sweden has navigated the treacherous waters of war as a neutral nation, steadfast in our belief that we could maintain our independence while avoiding the horrors that have engulfed much of the world around us. But today, the world has changed. The forces at play are no longer ones we can merely observe from the sidelines."

A murmur ran through the chamber. Some faces were filled with unease, others with curiosity. The left wing of the chamber, still holding out hope for continued neutrality, shifted uncomfortably in their seats.

"The collapse of the German Reich on the Eastern Front," Hansson continued, "and the increasing presence of Soviet influence in Europe have fundamentally altered the balance of power. Sweden's position, once so carefully maintained, has become untenable. We can no longer sit idly by, watching as the fate of Europe is decided without our input."

The Prime Minister paused, letting the gravity of his words sink in. He knew that this decision would be seen as a betrayal by some, a necessary step by others. But it was a decision that could not be avoided.

"Therefore, after careful deliberation and consultation with our friends in the United Kingdom and the United States, it is with a heavy heart but a firm resolve that I announce Sweden's intention to sign an Alliance with both countries. We will no longer remain neutral in the face of this new world order. Our place is with the nations that stand for freedom, democracy, and the sovereignty of all peoples."

At the back of the chamber, members of the far left clenched their fists, the tension palpable in the air. Hansson could feel their anger, their disbelief. But he had long known that this moment would come. The Soviet threat was growing ever closer thanks to Italy, and Sweden could not afford to be caught between the Soviets and the Allies.

"I understand the gravity of this decision," Hansson said, his voice growing stronger. "I know that many of you have concerns about the path we are taking. Some of you will ask if we have betrayed our ideals. But let me make it clear: we are not abandoning our principles. We are not embracing the war for the sake of conflict. We are aligning ourselves with the forces that will help us preserve our sovereignty, our freedom, and our future."

He took a deep breath, his gaze steady, meeting the eyes of those who opposed him. "We are doing this because it is the only way to ensure that Sweden remains an independent, free nation. The alternative—further subjugation to the whims of foreign powers, be they Nazi Germany, Italy or the Soviet Union—is unacceptable."

The chamber was silent now, the weight of his words settling over the room. On the left, some members remained unmoved, their skepticism unchanged. But on the right, a murmur of approval began to ripple through the room, gaining strength as more and more deputies nodded in agreement.

"The alliance with the United Kingdom and the United States is not one made lightly," Hansson concluded. "But it is a necessary step for the survival of Sweden and for the security of Europe as a whole. We will work together with our allies to safeguard the peace that remains and rebuild a post-war Europe that is based on justice, freedom, and cooperation. We will do so with the full knowledge that this war is not just a battle of arms, but a battle for the soul of Europe itself."

As he finished, Hansson gave a final, resolute nod, and stepped back from the lectern. The chamber erupted into a chorus of voices, some in agreement, others in bitter protest. But the decision had been made, and there was no turning back now.

Outside, the cold wind of Stockholm whipped through the streets, a harbinger of the new reality Sweden would face. But inside the Riksdag, the course of the nation had been irrevocably set. Sweden was no longer a neutral observer in the Second World War. It was now part of the Atlantic Alliance, standing against the forces that sought to reshape Europe in their own image. And though the path ahead was fraught with uncertainty, Sweden would face it with the resolve of a nation determined to preserve its independence at all costs.