Turning point

The President faced the window and exhaled, watching smoke flatten and spread like a palm against the glass.

A door clicked open and Mason entered.

“Mr President?”

“Ribbentrop,” he said, flatly.

“He’s here. Wanted me to tell you how urgent…”

“Asshole.” He turned to the younger man. “Give him a mirror to look in – guy’s fonder of his own face than a damned budgerigar.”

“Sir, under the circumstances…”

“Circumstances shit”. He sighed, stubbing his cigar. “Sorry kid. But fluitis again…you never saw it.”

Mason felt irrationally guilty. “No Sir.”

“Don’t feel bad kid.” His tone softened. “I’d have paid not to be there. What the germ started, the poison steam finished. Jesus.”

“I read about it. But Sir…”

“Yes?” The President glanced up.

“Didn’t they claim responsibility?”

He barked a mirthless laugh. “Sure they did. Secret weapon against non-Aryans – as if only Jews lived over here. Until it started killing them. Still, it was true enough.”


“It did win them the war,” he muttered.

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