Spirit of the Nation ★ Female America

5. The Zimmerman Telegram

February 24, 1917

Undisclosed Residence

Philadelphia, United States

It was a cold, snowy night. The fire on the hearth in my bedroom had lulled me into a deep sleep. Though living at the White House had many advantages, privacy was not one of them. Vacationing alone at my holiday home in Philadephia was a luxury that I indulged in annually.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

I jolted awake.

My room was dark save for the faint glow of moonlight and embers in the fireplace. The loud, persistent knocking downstairs made my heart pound. Only the highest of government officials knew my address, and they always telegrammed first.

I blindly searched my nightstand drawer until my fingers found the cold metal of my Colt 45. Drawing the slide back, I checked for the glint of a bullet in the chamber before letting it snap back into place. I pulled the hammer back with a click.

White light shined through the frosted glass on my front door. I approached with feather-light steps, praying that it was simply a drunken neighbor. I placed my left hand on the door and shouted, "Who's there?"

The knocking stopped.

"America?" a muffled voice replied.

My eyes widened in shock. A terrible emergency was the only explanation for such an outrageous breach of protocol by my staff. I flung the door open, letting in a blast of frigid air.

"England...?"

The brim of his hat and his shoulders were dusted with snow. In the driveway behind him were the blinding headlights of a British government vehicle, partially obscuring his face from view. I shivered as the wind cut through the thin material of my nightgown.

"H—How did you...? Wh—When...?" I sputtered in disbelief.

He wordlessly offered a brown folder stamped with the letters "SSB." I took it hesitantly, looking up with questions in my eyes. Silence was my only answer.

There were two papers inside. The first was a telegram sent to a German Embassy in Mexico City, dated January 19, 1917. The message was filled with a series of unintelligible numbers.

I scoffed in frustration. "I don't understand," I breathed, flipping to the next page. My eyes automatically began to read the words.

We intend to begin on the first of February unrestricted submarine warfare. We shall endeavor in spite of this to keep the United States of America neutral. In the event of this not succeeding, we make Mexico a proposal of alliance on the following basis: make war together, make peace together, generous financial support, and an understanding on our part that Mexico is to reconquer the lost territory in Texas, New Mexico, and Arizona. The settlement in detail is left to you.

BERNSTORFF

"You are the first American to lay eyes on this," he told me as I read it again. "British intelligence intercepted and decoded it."

My eyes returned again and again to Texas, New Mexico, and Arizona. The prospect of such an unholy alliance was beyond comprehension. The implication of it alone could lead to a full-blown war between the United States and Germany.

Which would be...convenient. My eyes snapped up to England.

He stepped forward a bit, revealing part of his determined expression.

"How was this obtained?"

"The transmission was intercepted," he hedged.

"Via?" I pressed. "Canada? Mexico?"

He seemed reluctant. "Via...Washington."

I drifted back in shock. My mouth suddenly went dry. "You're spying on us..."

He pressed on unabated. "This codex is used only by German high command," he said, anticipating my next objection.

I continued to shake my head in disbelief. I flipped the page over and saw the telltale strikes of a typewriter. "This is from...January. Why now?"

He released a long sigh that clouded in front of him. "Showing you this will come with a personal cost to me," he admitted reluctantly. "My advisors say the Americans will doubt its authenticity."

I laughed dryly.

Looking down at the telegram, I considered for a moment that it was real. A knot immediately formed in my stomach as I pictured an invasion. A bloody war. A concession of land. It was unthinkable.

"President Wilson must see this immediately," I murmured.

"I agree," he said triumphantly.

He swept the envelope out of my hands, revealing the pistol still clutched in my hand. Clearing my throat, I attempted unsuccessfully to conceal it in my nightgown. My arm went slack at my side, and I glared up at England's wide, wandering eyes. He looked away and cleared his throat.

"Pardon me," he rushed out, suddenly a gentleman. "I'll just...wait in the car."