"A Fireside Chat by Jack Nimersheim" - читать интересную книгу автора (Nimersheim Jack)

"Yes, it is. My family lived in Hyde Park, a small city located in the southern portion of the state we call New York."

"Hyde Park. New York. Those names also are of English origin, are they not?"

"Why, yes. I suppose they are. That's not surprising, though, given the close ties that have traditionally existed between America and its British allies."

For a moment, Roosevelt had the impression that the German Chancellor was debating whether he should pursue this topic further, perhaps to make discreet inquiries as to the current status of American/English relationships. Instead, Hitler directed the conversation back to the topic of childhood.

"Tell me, Herr Roosevelt, were you happy as a child?"

Several seconds separated query and response. Images of the sun- baked New England countryside replaced the dark and shadowy room in which they sat. For a brief moment, Roosevelt was once again young and strong and madly racing alongside the Hudson, challenging currents he knew could never be captured. Not that this had ever discouraged him. Back then, the chase itself was all that mattered.

"If you had posed that question at the time, Chancellor, I'm quite certain I could not have given you an answer," Roosevelt replied, stepping back into the present. "To a child, after all, childhood is neither happy nor unhappy. It simply exists. He feels no compulsion to pass judgment upon it at the time. Only later, after that child has passed into adulthood and possesses the experience required to put the patterns of his life into perspective, can he make such an evaluation. Today, upon reflection, I would have to admit that, yes, I had a very happy childhood."

Within the fireplace, the flames flared momentarily as the bottom log, weakened by heat, collapsed beneath the weight of those above it. Sparks danced up, down, back, out, hurling themselves against chamber and screen before floating gently down to join the growing pile of spent embers and ash gathering on the hearth. The German leader, watching this fiery display, sighed and leaned back slightly in his chair. It was the first time Roosevelt had sensed weariness in his guest.

"Would that all adults could feel that way about their lives," was all Hitler said.

Charles Warner had been right, Roosevelt mused, politics does indeed make strange bedfellows. An American aristocrat and an Austrian peasant. How strange for the two of us to be sitting here discussing our youth, now that each steers the course of his respective nation. Almost as strange, he reflected, as the chain of events that had brought him to this place, at this time.





Only the most dedicated Democrats gave James Cox a snowball's chance in Hell of winning the 1920 Presidential election. After all, the political wisdom of the time maintained, it had taken Cox an almost unprecedented 44 ballots to secure his own party's nomination, hardly a mandate designed to instill confidence in the American electorate. Roosevelt agreed to share the ticket primarily for the exposure campaigning at the national level, even in a losing effort, would provide -- exposure he believed ultimately could be used to advance his own political ambitions.

Roosevelt's personal vision of the future collided with reality two months into the campaign. That's when Cox's opponent, fellow Ohioan Warren G. Harding, died suddenly of a stroke. Most Americans accepted the official report that Harding had succumbed to the rigors of an overly ambitious campaign. As was always the case in such circumstances, however, other voices hinted at other, more mysterious, possibilities. Probable causes notwithstanding, the effects of Harding's death were no mystery. With the Republican ticket in disarray, Cox and Roosevelt emerged triumphant in the November election.

Five weeks later, the victory celebration ended as unexpectedly as it had begun. That's when Cox himself fell victim to a madman's perception of how _true_ Americans made their political opinions known. _"Join the legion of the dead, not the League of Nations,"_ the crazed assailant had screamed -- a reference to one of the more emotional issues in the recently ended campaign -- just before he plunged a dagger into the President-elect's chest and proceeded to carve the heart out of democracy.

So it came to pass that, on Thursday, January 20, 1921, Franklin Delano Roosevelt became the 29th man to assume his nation's highest elected office. No one appreciated more than the new President the irony of his situation, given the _lack_ of choice the American public had exercised in elevating him to that august position. It was not the most auspicious of beginnings for an administration faced with the unenviable task of reuniting a country so recently and deeply divided by political turmoil, personal tragedy, and the polarizing effects of a war that, although its military outcome had been decided almost three years ago, carried with it political ramifications that were only now starting to reveal themselves.

Always the pragmatist, Roosevelt realized he had to parlay the cards destiny had dealt him into a winning hand. He succeeded brilliantly. The new President quickly converted an American tendency to canonize its fallen leaders into widespread support for the League of Nations, one of his former running mate's favorite causes. Under increasing pressure from its constituents, Congress reversed its previous stance and voted to support U.S. participation in that international organization, thus ending forever the isolationism that, in the opinion of some, had delegated America to the role of second- rate world power for too many decades.

For a while, the new and surprisingly popular President played his hand brilliantly, drawing kings and aces seemingly from nowhere to trump any political or personal opposition he faced. Unknown to Roosevelt, however, Fate had shuffled an extra wild card to the bottom of the deck, one it turned over in the summer of his first year in office.





"Does it cause you much pain?"

Roosevelt was rubbing the upper thigh of his left leg. Reacting to the warning signs of an approaching muscle spasm had become so intuitive that he did not even realize he was doing this.

"The polio itself? No. Not any more. After three years, any discomfort associated with its initial onslaught, thankfully, is behind me." His honesty surprised him. "Every so often, however, I have to remind those muscles I possess that do still function just who rules the Roosevelt roost."

Hitler smiled, in spite of himself. His advisors had informed him of the American President's penchant for self-deprecating humor.

"Were you aware that it was a German physician, Dr. Wickman, who first confirmed the infectious nature of your illness."