Spirit of the Nation ★ Female America

1. Aftermath

October 22, 1946

The American Zone

Frankfurt, Germany

In the distance, the foothills of the Bavarian Alps rose up on the misty morning horizon. I peered out the car window as my driver navigated the precarious road ahead. A tall building suddenly obscured my view—a gray, burned-out husk of its former self. Thousands just like it littered the American Zone of occupied Germany.

Frankfurt, once called the "heart of Europe," was now a monochromatic landscape of stone and dust. An old, mostly untouched university building was chosen as our main base of operations, where a temporary sign covering the marque read, "Headquarters, Armed Forces of Europe." Seeing the American flags flying above it gave me a sense of relief, and rolling through the gate made me feel even safer.

General Eisenhower greeted me in the foyer. "Madam, we're honored to have you," he said with sincerity. "I'll inform the Embassy in Berlin that you've arrived."

"Please, don't."

"Pardon me?"

I glanced away. The last thing I wanted was to see Germany. It had been almost two months to the day since the vote to reinstate his rights, including the right to travel. My eyes became fixed on the ruined city out the window.

"I just wanted to see the zone for myself," I explained.

The general gave me a confused smile. "As you wish."

A neglected library became my office for the day—many bookcases stood empty, as only a Nazi-curated selection of books remained. A paper brief had been prepared for me, as well as a cup of black coffee. Since the locals drank it, coffee wasn't as scarce of a resource as it was during the war. I reviewed expense reports on various projects and seemingly endless requests for more funds.

Repairing the physical damage was a costly endeavor, but maintaining law and order among the poor, hungry locals was where the real difficulty lay. Building a rapport seemed neigh impossible. Recently, a slogan had begun popping up at local protests: "Ami, go home."

That evening, an aide sought me out. My hope for a dinner call was immediately dashed.

"Ma'am, a German to see you. 'Hans Brand.' Er...'Brandt.'"

Recognition slowly registered in my tired brain. I practically glowered with disappointment. "You may send him in."

As expected, it was Germany. The traveling suit that I wore, pencil skirt and pumps excluded, was much sharper than his own. He looked well, other than the puffy bags under his eyes. His expression was vacant, with an underlying hawkishness that always seemed to accompany him.

"Amerika." His tone was cold and he stood at a distance. "Willkommen."

He didn't offer a handshake, and neither did I.

"Germany," I greeted likewise. "Who told you I was here?"

"England. He contacted me by phone this morning."

I deadpanned. Spying as always.

"Well," I breathed. "My visit will be brief."

"I understand," he said with a guarded expression. "There isn't much to be done, other than manual labor."

If I hadn't been watching his face, I would've missed the brief slip of his mask that revealed a hint of malice. My mind returned to the German workers I had seen on the road, clearing the rubble one wheelbarrow at a time, supervised by American soldiers.

"Right," I hedged.

Of course we hate each other. After all, it was the US Air Force that had reduced this city and many others like it to ruins. Somehow, a year later, everything we did still seemed justified.

An uncomfortable beat of silence arose. I considered telling him about the plan brewing in Washington to infuse a large sum of money into the reconstruction of Western Europe—particularly Western Germany. In the end, I chose not to give him such a pleasure.

"General Eisenhower is requesting more funds," I said, gesturing to the cluttered table that served as my desk. "Congress will send it, I trust."

He reluctantly bowed his head. "Thank you."

At that moment, a grandfather clock softly chimed nearby. It sounded just like the German-made one at the White House, which the Reichstag had gifted us in times gone by. I clenched my teeth in bitterness.

"I won't take any more of your time," he said at length. "Guten Tag."

I couldn't bring myself to look at him until his back was turned. "Good day," I replied in English firmly.

~

A/N: Don't forget to vote!

Willkommen | Welcome.

Guten Tag | Good day.