August 15, 1961
The White House
Washington, D.C., United States
I don't know what the commies called it, but we called it the Berlin Wall.
The GDR began construction in August of 1961. Cutting through the heart of the city, the thick cement, barbed wire, and armed patrols invoked wartime memories for residents on both sides. According to the GDR, the purpose was to curtail the flow of emigration from East Germany to West Germany. Over three million had fled across the border before the wall went up.
I had no doubt that Russia was behind the scheme.
Recently, this thought crossed my mind at least once a day, particularly during the evening news broadcast. The new television set in my bedroom had nearly tripled my daily viewing time, for better or for worse. The new air conditioning unit humming on my windowsill also enhanced the experience. I was watching a British report out of West Berlin, sitting cross-legged on my bed as I brushed my hair for bed.
"Two nights ago, I watched workmen supervised by troops putting the finishing touches to this cement curtain, through which no East German can pass. It now divides neighbor from neighbor, brother from brother, and tragically, in some cases, parent from child. Just tonight, I witnessed border troops disperse a crowd of East Germans who were waving to family members here in West Berlin."
Setting my brush aside, I collected my hair over my shoulder to braid it. As I did so, my eyes fell on the rotary phone on my nightstand. I absentmindedly wondered if I had Germany's phone number. Since the situation with France had improved so dramatically, I didn't speak to him often.
A quick dive through my address book gave me the answer. I traced my finger down the page bearing his name and office number. It even had a couple of street addresses that seemed up to date. Oddly enough, letter writing seemed old-fashioned now.
My left hand froze halfway to the phone.
What will I say?
My eyes tracked sightlessly across the carpet.
What can I say?
After some mental debate, I closed the notebook and returned it to my nightstand drawer. I switched off the television, climbed under my down comforter, and closed my eyes. I'm sure he's fine.
YOU ARE READING
Spirit of the Nation ★ Female America
Historical Fiction''I shall never be as powerful as the likes of you.'' France gave a reproachful hum. ''𝘈𝘮𝑒́𝘳𝘪𝘲𝘶𝘦, you are but thirty years old. I am well over eight hundred. 𝘗𝘳𝘶𝘴𝘴𝘦...almost three hundred.'' My eyes drifted downward, where Prussia's ar...
