Spirit of the Nation ★ Female America

14. Clay und Cloy

November 22, 1975

Munich, West Germany

München Hauptbahnhof

"I know it seems like the Soviets are coming around, but it's all for show. The Stasi have eyes everywhere now, even in West Germany."

England's parting words replayed through my mind as I stepped off the train in Munich. There was an intangible tension in the air, almost as if the weight of the entire world was pressing down on Germany. My eyes scanned the vacant faces of each passing citizen, wondering who could be an informant for the secret police. Or even worse, a Russian agent.

A hand touched my arm, and I gasped.

"Excuse me, madam—er, M—Mary."

Straightening my coat, I gave the young Secret Service agent a scolding look. He had been trailing me so stealthily that I almost forgot he was there.

"Sorry," he apologized. "I know you're used to traveling alone."

"It's alright." My eyes scanned the busy station once more. "Let's get to the hotel."

Though Munich was far from West Berlin, the same political turmoil echoed throughout the city. Murals and graffiti, reminiscent of the Berlin Wall, littered the city. One piece in particular caught my eye. Seeing the slogan endure decades after the occupation, in the former American Zone no less, was nothing short of horrifying.

"Ami, go home."

That night, a concierge led me to a private room in the back of the hotel restaurant. I nervously smoothed my hand down the row of cloth-covered buttons on my expensive dress. I took a deep, steadying breath.

The elegant room was dimly lit. A solitary table sat by a set of windows showing the drizzling rain outside. Germany almost rose to greet me, but I urged him to remain seated. The wait staff served our appetizers and drinks in silence and then left.

He looked the same as he had at the G6 last week.

"I'm sorry to take you away from Berlin so last minute," I said, earning a brief nod from him. "They won't let me travel to West Berlin anymore."

"The Stasi?"

My salad fork froze near my mouth. "The Secret Service."

"Ah."

An awkward silence arose, during which I fiddled with my diamond earring. I sensed that my presence wasn't exactly welcome. I focused on the difficult task of chewing as I thought of a less serious topic to broach.

"This hotel is marvelous," I settled on.

He offered a small smile. "Thank you. Built in 1886."

I brightened immediately. "What a coincidence. My ranch in Texas was built the same year."

"A cowboy ranch?"

The childlike words made me hide a smile in my napkin. "Kind of," I mused. "More of a horse ranch."

"Mm."

As silence arose once more, I went back to my mental drawing board.

"I have a cabin in the Alps, near here," he suddenly said.

I made eye contact with him. At least we share one thing in common. "Sounds lovely."

The flavors of the main course were new and unpleasant to me, but I complimented it generously nonetheless. Germany mentioned that such a fine meal could only be found in West Germany.

This piece of information made me scrutinize him for a few long moments. His modest suit seemed to swallow his once-broad shoulders. His face was pale and gaunt, and he had dark rings under his eyes. When he noticed my relentless stare, his eyes fell back to his plate.

I dropped my fork with a clatter.

"You look terrible."

He froze like a statue.

"Germany, you're ill," I said with an exasperated gesture. "Have you looked in a mirror lately?"

His empty eyes lifted halfway. His jaw clenched as he stared at the empty space between us.

I covered my mouth with my fingers, regretting my outburst and knowing that more was coming. "I know how you feel," I said in a softer voice. "During the Civil War, I could barely move without pain."

He shook his head in silent denial.

"It's Russia," I spat. "He's draining the life out of you."

He opened his mouth to speak. I waited hawkishly, expecting some diplomatic statement or soft words for his communist overlord.

"I deserve it."

I blinked in shock. I stared at him, but he didn't look at me. The only change in him was his fist clenched knuckle-white on the tablecloth.

"I deserve it," he repeated in a barely-there voice.

Potsdam arose like a forgotten nightmare. The guilt and suffering that I wished on him then sat before me now. It made me realize just how much my feelings toward him had changed.

"Not anymore," I said gently. "Just look at how blessed the West has been."

He closed his eyes and inhaled a shaky breath. "If God does exist, he does not care about Deutschland," he said bitterly.

"Germany..."

Moved by compassion, I reached across the table and covered his hand with mine. He quickly pulled it away as if my touch disgusted him. My eyes widened as I slowly recoiled, rejection burning my skin like a bee sting.

When I could finally speak, my vulnerable voice was foreign to my own ears.

"Why do you hate me?"

His eyes snapped to mine.

I held his gaze. "Why? After everything I've done for you..."

After a moment, he returned his hand to the table. "I am grateful, Amerika. I will always be," he said lowly. "But...I know you can commiserate with the desire to be an independent, sovereign nation."

I bristled at my own words from so long ago. "We gave West Germany its independence twenty years ago," I countered. "And we've given so much more ever since."

His eyes remained trained on me in silence.

Silence that made me question...everything.

I picked up my utensils to quickly finish eating. The rest of the meal was as quiet as a funeral. Perhaps the US was somewhat overbearing, but there was a good chance that West Germany would cease to exist without this fact. If any nation was a threat to his sovereignty, it was the Soviet goddamn Union.

We didn't speak again until we were shaking hands in farewell.

"I will see you in Moscow."

"Nope," I said, straightening my shoulders. "We're boycotting the Olympics. We'll find a reason when the time comes."

Genuine surprise showed on his face.

"West Germany should too," I said with reckless abandon.

"That's...unlikely," he hedged.

"Why?"

He carefully cleared his throat. "To keep the peace, of course."

I sniffed incredulously. "The only 'peace' that Russia cares about is a piece of artillery. What good is peace under threat of war?"

"For Germans..." He swallowed thickly. "It is everything."

~

A/N: Should Ami just go home already?