"A Fireside Chat by Jack Nimersheim" - читать интересную книгу автора (Nimersheim Jack)
by Jack Nimersheim
_(First appeared in "Alternate Presidents" - Tor Books)_
A chill permeated the room. Its only source of heat was a single fireplace set against the north wall. Within this brick proscenium flames danced wildly, performing daring pirouettes and _grand jetes_ above the makeshift stage of a cast-iron grate. But the warmth generated by the four logs orchestrating that fiery ballet withered long before it reached a small alcove on the opposite side of the room. There, a tall man sat in a straight-backed chair, staring out the window, his hands folded delicately across his lap. A thin shawl was draped with equal delicacy across the man's broad, powerful shoulders, shoulders slumped only slightly forward. The long days of arduous travel leading up to this cool September night had fatigued him much more than they should have, much more than they would have just a few years earlier.
Sitting there alone, fireplace ballerinas casting Sleeping Beauty shadows on the walls around him, the man gazed out across the Rhone River at the city's old quarter. What was the rhythm of life, he mused, over there? Was a kindly old lamplighter making his rounds, gently brushing back the evening shadows with the warm kiss of flame to wick? Were men and women passing through the open porticoes of cafes and coffee houses, pausing as they came and went, exchanging warm greetings with friends and neighbors they had known and trusted all their lives? Did horses still canter down the narrow, winding cobblestone streets?
This imaginary journey beyond the opposite bank recalled the distant shores of his own youth -- a New York childhood nurtured in the elegance and affluence afforded by old money. There were other images as well. The memories of long-ago Autumn evenings spent running beside the cool, clear waters of the Hudson. And of the endless hours he'd sit quietly on that river's edge, looking below its slowly rolling surface, confidently plumbing the depths of a young man's hopes, his dreams, his aspirations.
Both he and the world had changed since then.
Over here, north of the Rhone, in that city within a city the natives called St. Gervais but the rest of the world referred to as "new Geneva," businessmen and bureaucrats, the deal makers and diplomats, plied their trades. Over here, the evening shadows were shoved aside by the harsh glare of electric lights. Over here, the streets were all straight and wide and evenly spaced, their intersections surveyed to a perfect 90-degrees. Over here, the nearest thing to neighborhood was a daily crowding together of strangers in the newly built stores, hotels, embassies, and office buildings that clawed their way up from the wide roads. Roads, not streets. Roads cast in solid, unyielding concrete. Roads lined with sidewalks filled with people walking -- no, running -- no, _scurrying_ -- to keep their next appointment. The buildings threatened to choke the sky. The strangers worked together every day and did not even know each other's names. And they rarely if ever said hello.
Pulling off his glasses, he closed his eyes and gently massaged the bridge of his nose, rubbing it slowly, up and down, between thumb and forefinger. Would the new world reflected in St. Gervais be able to reclaim the virtues of old Geneva, he wondered? And could it do so in time to survive the challenges which lay ahead?
Leaning forward and reaching down to his legs, the tall man with the powerful shoulders and tired eyes twisted a pair of metal rings, one encircling each knee, until they locked into place with a reassuring _clang_. Pushing himself unsteadily to his feet, he grabbed the two metal crutches leaning against the chair and slowly made his way to the window, three steps that seemed to take an eternity. Pausing briefly, he closed the red velvet drapes, drawing an opaque veil across his memories and the darker thoughts that accompanied them.
It was better this way, he thought: detached, isolated, separated from the serenity of Autumn evenings that lay an ocean to the west and a lifetime in the past. Here and now, on this particular September night, he could not afford to let his attentions wander. Rather, he needed to concentrate completely on the difficult and distasteful task that lay ahead.
It did not surprise the little man with the stern countenance, passing judgment as he passed quickly through the hotel lobby, that his American counterpart had arranged to meet in such conspicuous surroundings. After all, the Atlantic Ocean had effectively insulated that country from the full horror of the recently ended World War, a misnomer if ever there was one. For while this land, _his_ land, still bore the ugly scars etched into its hillsides by four years of bitter conflict, a large part of the world, including the so-called United States, had emerged from that conflict virtually unblemished. Consequently, Americans visiting Europe expected to encounter the quaint beauty and old-world ambience historically associated with life on "the Continent." Lamentably, there was no shortage of individuals and institutions (most of them Jews or under Jewish control, no doubt) willing to cater to these fantasies.
He bitterly remembered how, almost the day the killing stopped, the rebuilding began. But this renaissance was not directed toward to a renewal of European resolve and spirit, as would have been the case in a logical world. Rather, it represented a vain attempt to gloss over the physical damage inflicted upon the so-called "cultural" centers of Europe -- in truth, the breeding grounds of commerce and capitalism. All the recent reconstruction amounted to nothing more than an economic face lift, cosmetic surgery on a continental scale, designed primarily to keep a steady stream of foreign currency pouring into numbered accounts and national treasuries. But was this not to be expected? Did it not reflect the Jewish credo? Was wealth not the ultimate god of the Hebrew heathens into whose pool of resources this blood money eventually flowed?
A quick slap of his palm on the gold-plated bell sitting atop a solid oak desk produced a sharp, solitary, resonant _ding_. The concierge, a dark-haired man with a prominent nose and probing eyes, turned and smiled.
"Yes, sir. How may I help you?"
"Another _verdamdt_ Jew," the small man observed. "Probably thinks accommodating me will line his pockets with an extra mark or two. How sweetly they all smile when the scent of money is in the air."
"Please inform President Roosevelt that Reichschancellor Hitler has arrived," was all he said. Though numerous low-level meetings had preceded this one, each leader, for his own reasons, had wanted to face his counterpart with no bureaucratic underlings around.
"And how was your trip, Herr Roosevelt? Not too tiring, I trust. Long sea voyages are never enjoyable, and the journey from America to Europe has been known to tax even the strongest of men."
"To the contrary, Chancellor, I found it to be quite pleasant. Invigorating, actually," Roosevelt felt no obligation to reveal the extent of his fatigue, especially in light of the subtle implication in Hitler's remark that he was somehow less capable of withstanding the rigors of travel than another man might be. "The accommodations available on today's modern steamships have all but eliminated the discomfort previously associated with a trans-Atlantic crossing."
To a proverbial fly on the wall, this exchange would have seemed like nothing more than two men sitting before a fire, indulging in small talk -- the kind of polite but inconsequential discourse people pull out of a closet marked "Courtesy" whenever they have little of real import to discuss. As Roosevelt's minor deception implied, however, the conversation was mere camouflage. Beneath the surface, beyond the words, each man was probing the other. A thrust here to uncover whatever weaknesses he might possess. A parry there to discover his strengths. This verbal fencing match had been going on for several minutes.
"That being the case, maybe I should plan to visit your country someday, eh?"
"It's a beautiful land, Chancellor, one I'm sure you would enjoy."
"Oh, I'm certain I would. Yes. I'm _quite_ certain I would." Hitler nodded, raising one eyebrow as he did so. His eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly before he continued. "Speaking of America, I understand that you were raised in a part of that country referred to as the Hudson Valley. It that correct?"
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