Her Name Is America

4. Geneva, Take One

July 18, 1955

Geneva, Switzerland

Palace of Nations

In July, I attended the first of many summits in Europe. The so-called Big Four—the US, the UK, France, and the USSR—met with the goal of improving military transparency and cultural exchange. Overshadowing the conference was the recently formed Warsaw Pact, Eastern Europe's response to NATO.

Russia's unexplained absence rendered our roles as Nations useless. Utterly useless.

"I wouldn't describe it as 'useless,'" England protested.

I gestured around the empty courtyard. The classic limestone architecture of the palace contrasted beautifully with the emerald foothills surrounding us. The snowy French Alps rose up on the horizon, perfectly visible and inviting on the cloudless Swiss day. The stone steps upon which we sat were perfectly smooth and pleasantly cool to the touch.

France took another drag of his cigarette. He was leaning on his elbow in a reclined position beside me, looking quite bored.

"I don't feel useful," I complained to England. "Wasn't the whole goal of this summit to extend an olive branch to Russia?"

"Yes," he replied with deliberate slowness, "which is precisely what we accomplished."

I gestured in the general direction of the conference hall. "What they accomplished. We have done nothing."

"I disagree," he said, glancing back at me. He sat several steps below me, the sun illuminating the hidden streaks of red in his hair. He looked annoyingly handsome. "In light of the Warsaw Pact, the three of us need to be more united than ever."

France snorted, and I gave England a weighted look. "Boring summits aren't going to accomplish that," I argued.

He pursed his lips before responding. "Well, you only bother crossing the pond for death and destruction on a massive scale, and 'boring summits.'"

"I've attended state dinners..." My eyes fell to my knees. "Once or twice."

"Mm, no, no," France interjected. "Just send her a phony telegram and, voilà, she will appear."

I stared at him indignantly.

England scoffed. "That telegram was not phony."

Smiling at the chaos he wrought, France stretched out his legs like a lazy cat in the sun. England began to carry on about this and that, but I was too preoccupied to hear anything he said.

"...America, tell him."

Out of everyone, France needed to understand the United States' dedication to Article Five the most. It wasn't just a piece of paper to make NATO seem more united to the outside world. It was a pledge, an oath that we intended to keep forever. Even at great cost.

"France, you know that's not true...," I murmured.

He glanced at me in surprise. I suddenly realized that I had taken his joke a bit too seriously. Even so, he reached for my hand and pulled it to his lips.

"I know, Amérique."

My face relaxed into a smile as he rested our hands on his leg. I stared at them before gently lacing our fingers together. In spite of our frequent lapses in loyalty, the wars had brought us closer than ever before.

My eyes went involuntarily to England. I could see the tense lines of his shoulders through his white dress shirt. While the situation in Germany no longer concerned me, it seemed to weigh heavily on him. If I reached my hand out, I could feel just how much stress his shoulders carried.

I balled my fist in my lap.

"Yes, the telegram was real," I murmured. "Germany confirmed it."

England turned his head halfway, revealing a smirk.

France was ready for a row. "'Germany'?" he repeated, mimicking my accent. "Oh, yes, Angleterra's new lapdog."

"You helped create that monster, you French bastard."

As they bickered, my mind returned to the present issue. Russia. Germany's divided border seemed like child's play compared to the Soviet Union's growing nuclear stockpile.

I began to fixate on the idea of visiting Russia myself.