Spirit of the Nation ★ Female America

9. Über Alles

August 1, 1936

Olympiastadion

Berlin, Germany

"Da, USA...I know Kanada."

I could tell by the look on Russia's face exactly what he thought of Canada. I recognized the apathetic expression from the handful of times we had met before I became a Great Power. His eyes closed briefly in annoyance as she chattered on about the unseasonable weather they were having in the Northwest Territories.

The grand stadium was crowded with a hundred thousand people and elaborately decorated in red, white, and black. The 1936 Olympics were the eleventh games of the modern age. I didn't often attend such international events, but a narrowly escaped scandal regarding Jewish athletes had drawn my interest. When an awkward lull in the conversation arose, I grasped for something to add.

"Russia, did you know that Canada is naturally bilingual?"

Russia's eyebrows raised by a millimeter. "Deystvitel'no?"

Canada gave a nervous, airy laugh. "Oh, no, I speak English...et français," she said with a flourish.

His face deadpanned.

I suddenly spotted France entering the ramp into the stadium, and I waved wildly to get his attention. He looked as handsome as ever in a burgundy vest and tan slacks, and he pointed to me as he leaned over to someone. I lowered my hand when I realized it was England. His gray suit jacket was slung over his shoulder, and his sleeves were rolled up halfway. He smirked at whatever France was saying.

"Amérique," he greeted happily, taking both my hands. "It has been too long, ma petite."

England greeted Canada with a friendly kiss on the cheek. "Hello, my dear."

"H—Hello, England," she said, smitten.

"Thank you so much for coming," I told France earnestly.

Since I had practically forced him to come, his smile became tolerant. "...Oui."

"France, you remember Canada."

She stepped forward and offered her hand shyly. "Bonjour, France."

He gave her a brief handshake. "Ravi de vous voir, Canada," he droned.

They both moved on to Russia. I grinned up at England, waiting for him to comment on my white slacks. I had prepared and rehearsed the perfect retort. He only smiled.

"Hello, America," he said, leaning down and placing a kiss on my cheek.

I froze like a statue.

He casually joined the others as they began to move along to find our seats. I subconsciously wiped my cheek with the back of my hand as I hurried to keep up with them.

A row of grandstand seats were reserved for the Great Powers. Italy seemed relieved as we joined him and Japan—her famously soft-spoken nature made conversation difficult. As England and France debated the best seating arrangement, a round of applause rose up behind us.

Dozens of Nations sat in the section behind ours, clapping and smiling at our arrival. I lifted my hand, and their cheers only grew louder. One positive thing about the Great War was the massive boost to my popularity. I took a moment to bask in the limelight. Noticing the unimpressed glances of my peers, I sank down to my seat.

I made a quick assessment of our row. France sat to my right with Italy, Russia, and Japan; England sat to my left with Canada. Both were paired off in conversation, leaving me to watch the athletes parade across the field far below. The American team hadn't yet made an appearance.

When a voice delivered an announcement over a loudspeaker, I nudged France's arm.

"What did he say? My German's rusty."

"You think me fluent?" he grumbled. "Ask Angleterre."

I sat back in my seat and stubbornly crossed my arms. I tried to ignore Canada and England's boring chat about winter sports and focus on the athletes. After a while, I sensed England leaning on my armrest.

"How is it that your German is always 'rusty'?" he murmured.

I spared him an impatient glance. "This is my first time in Germany, you know."

He hummed dryly. "By that logic, you should be fluent in French."

Whether or not he had been eavesdropping, France jumped in. "Who, Amérique?"

England pursed his lips in amusement. "Qui d'autre?" he said with a perfect accent.

"Oh, amazing," I praised sarcastically.

France chuckled. "I prefer it. It's so cute, the confused look on her face..." Realizing where he was going, I grabbed his leg with lightning speed. "When we are making love—"

"France," I growled.

He threw his head back and laughed, drawing everyone's attention. I pulled my hand back with my cheeks burning. When the crowd suddenly rose to the sound of patriotic music, I shot to my feet enthusiastically.

England partially blocked my view when he leaned over to lecture France on how to address a lady. Their bickering interrupted my attempt to listen to the words of the national anthem. Über alles in der Welt. The snippet shifted my focus to the throng of Germans filling the stadium.

They sang with a passion that surpassed even the largest of American crowds. Their hands were raised, palms down, all pointed in the same direction. I followed the invisible line over my left shoulder and then up. They were not saluting a flag, but a man. Germany himself, wearing a black uniform with a red armband, stood behind this man with his eyes fixed solemnly ahead.

My gaze fell, and I made eye contact with England.

His worried face said it all.

~

Deystvitel'no | Really?

Ravi de vous voir | Nice to see you.

Qui d'autre | Who else?

Über alles in der Welt | Above all in the world.