Spirit of the Nation ★ Female America

14. Potsdam

August 1, 1945

Cecilienhof Palace

Potsdam, Germany

Rain pattered on the windows of the ornate conference room. Russia and England sat at the heads of the table, and I sat with my back to the window, arms crossed. The atmosphere was dismal as we waited for Germany's wardens to deliver him to the room. Only three cups of water sat on the table.

Besides the rain, the only sound was the quiet rustling of paper as England parsed through the Potsdam Agreement again. Its many pages laid out the harsh new world for post-war Germany.

I hesitantly looked at Russia. His usually neutral expression was set into a grimace. England insisted that we should meet with Germany, because "it must be different this time—it must." But Russia had been reluctant. It didn't take a genius to figure out why.

Sensing my lingering gaze, his eyes moved to me. "Da, USA?" he rumbled.

I wet my lips, startled. "Russia..."

The door opened at that moment. A man in a plain black suit was ushered in by two British soldiers. Other than his usual paleness, Germany appeared maddeningly well. His eyes were downcast as he was escorted directly to the seat across from me.

"Thank you, both of you," England said dismissively. "Please, sit."

The soldiers saluted him and closed the door on their way out. Instantly, the tension in the room became palpable. As Germany sat, the creak of his wooden chair sounded like a scream.

I barely blinked. My searching eyes could not discern the expression on his face as he hung his blonde head, eyes fixed on the table. Then England spoke.

"This is the Potsdam Agreement."

He slid a copy across the table, and I urgently stood to help it along to its destination. Germany's gaze followed my hand as I pulled it back, and his blue eyes briefly flickered to my face. The hyperaware look in them, like a wild animal in a cage, chilled me to the bone. I sat down.

"It was drafted and signed by the Allies while you were in confinement," England continued, turning over the title page.

He took a breath before he began reading.

"'There shall be established a Council composed of the Foreign Ministers of the United Kingdom, the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, China, France, and the United States. The Council shall normally meet in London, which shall be the permanent seat of the Joint Secretariat which the Council will form. Each of the Foreign Ministers will be accompanied by a high-ranking Deputy, duly authorized to carry on the work of the Council in the absence of his Foreign Ministers, and by a small staff of technical advisers.'"

He briefly glanced at Russia and me. "Including us. The Nations of the Council."

I frowned at the thought of meeting with everyone so regularly.

"'In accordance with the Agreement on Control Machinery in Germany, supreme authority in Germany is exercised, on instructions from their respective Governments, by the Commanders-in-Chief of the armed forces of the United States of America, the United Kingdom, the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, and the French Republic, each in his own zone of occupation.'"

The dictation went on for hours, during which I watched Germany without interruption. He showed no outward sign of a reaction. He once cleared his throat during an unimportant sentence and twice shifted in his seat out of sheer physical need.

"And as for you," England said in conclusion, "you shall remain in confinement until the Control Council deems you fit for reconstruction efforts. This could be weeks, months, or years, at which time you will enter a probationary period restricting your travel and place of residence. This probation must be lifted by a unanimous vote of confidence undertaken by the Nations of the Council."

The room was abruptly plunged back into silence. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat and adjusted my skirt.

"Do you understand these terms?" England asked.

My eyes darted to Germany. His gaze remained fixed on the document before him.

"Do you understand these terms?" he repeated with an edge.

No answer.

England stood up. I jolted when he slammed his fist on the table, causing its entire contents to rattle. Even Germany's icy eyes darted to him for the first time.

"Over the course of my life, no Nation on Earth has ever allowed such horrifying atrocities to occur," he snapped, his voice cutting like a knife. "What have you to say for yourself?"

Germany's eyes were unyielding and stoic. Evidently, he had nothing at all to say for himself. As England slowly withdrew his hand like a coiling snake, Russia and I exchanged uneasy looks.

"Remain seated," England ordered, straightening his suit jacket.

I practically rushed to the door, feeling queasy. No such meeting had occurred after the Great War, and France had handled the occupation not so kindly. Things would certainly be different this time. And much more difficult.

I put my hand on the doorframe as England and Russia passed through. Glancing over my shoulder, I watched the back of his head and shoulders for a long moment. His posture was tense but unrevealing.

I swallowed thickly.

"Do you feel...anything?"

He did not turn around. He did not move at all. A few beats of silence went by, and I turned my head away, wondering why I had even bothered.

"...Yes," he rasped.

My fingers twitched on the doorframe.

I looked back to find his head partially turned, watching me out of the corner of his eye. His eyes had a haunting, emotionless look. He said nothing else, and I felt a firey anger stir within me.

In reality, he should've been overcome with emotion. He should've been stricken with regret and grief. He should've been kneeling at my feet, begging for mercy.

I suddenly realized that I wanted him to suffer. And suffer badly.

I turned to leave.

"Amerika—," I heard him say as I pulled the door shut.

Out in the hall, I felt like I could breathe again. England appeared by my side immediately, asking if I was alright, and I told him that everything was fine. He put a steadying hand on my shoulder, and I crossly repeated the same.

"America...you're shaking," he told me gently.

"...What?"

Looking down, I unclenched my fists to reveal deep red imprints in the palms of my hands.

~

A/N: Fun fact—this scene was originally going to be the first chapter of this story! What are your thoughts?