Chapter II: Dublin
January 9, 1936
The Dublin Stadium
The famous Dublin stadium had never been so packed. Diplomats, reporters, and bodyguards. It even seemed that every member of the Irish government had crammed itself between the the Japanese ambassador and several Turkestani scholars.
And the highlight of the meeting was what was happening in the center of the stadium. The grass had been ripped up, and a temporary floor put in. Standing in that floor were representatives from each of the major power blocs of the world. Germany, Lithuania, and Scandinavia all wore the blue-cross pins of the Holy Roman Empire. The Union of Rome and the Democratic People's Republic of France wore red pins with the hammer and sickle emblazoned on them. Iberia, Russia, Mazula, and Great Britain wore pins with the white star symbol of the League of Democracies. The Indian, Irish, and American ambassadors wore no pins.
Attendants pulled up chairs at a twenty-foot long table. The men sat down at their prearranged places. They stared at each other, ad the waves of malevolence coming off them were thick enough to almost be solid. Nevertheless, the mediating Irish ambassador smiled and tried to be friendly. "Well, gentlemen?" he said amiably, "Let's begin." The Irishman brought out a meeting list. “First order of business is the Italian question.”
At this, the expressions of the German and Roman representatives hardened. And if Guiseppe Tittoni III of the Lombard league was here, a melee brawl would have ensued. Instead, the German foreign minister, Franz von Papen, forced out, “Gentlemen, despite the Union's unrightful claim to all of Italy, Guiseppe Tittoni has the real claim to the throne of Italy.” At this, the Union's firebrand representative yelled, “Italy is an integral part of Rome!” he roared. “It does not deserve the oppressive wrath of the fascist monarchs!” Franz von Papen shot to his feet. “How dare--”
“Gentlemen!” The Irish ambassador growled. “This is not the time for arguments and fighting. We are trying to end hostilities, not start new ones!” Von Papen slowly sat down, glaring at the Union's representatives. “Very well.” He shuffled some notes. “As I was saying, Italy is still ruled by the Tittoni league. However, the Comintern is unlawfully occupying innocent soil!”
Catcalls and booing erupted from the Comintern's area of the stadium as von Papen continued his long, impassioned speech.. Even the Union representative sitting at the table hissed and booed. The French representative shrieked, “Germany makes accusations against our Union comrades for bringing the true freedom to Italy, yet they continue to oppress and exploit the poor, helpless people of Alsace-Lorraine! A land that rightfully belongs to France!”
Von Papen laughed, a short, sardonic, bark. “Monseiur Meursault, your country makes that claim every time a peasant there scrapes his ankle! We all know you want Alsace-Lorraine from us, and by know you must know that you will never get it from us! Now can we move on to more important things? Like what o eat in Ireland?” He turned jokingly to the Irish minister. “Potatoes are well and good, but what I wouldn't give for some meat...” The audience tittered slightly, but the joke had done little to lighten the hostile air of the stadium. Von Papen pinched his nose. It was going to be a long three days...
January 9th, 1936
Camp Camus, near Ches Ral, Democratic People's Republic of France
Bernard Jaspiax knelt on the dirty concrete floor of the prison, blood spilling from a gash on his lip. Another pair of boots hit hi in the head, the torso, and the legs. He crumpled to the floor in agony, yet he still held onto the apple he had found rolled inside the barbed wire. The boots retreated, and a face replaced them. The cold, unsympathetic face of Warden Makerou. “Was that tasty?” he said coldly. “Yes...” Jaspiax coughed out. Better play it safe. “Really?” asked the warden in a dangerous voice. “Is it worth death and pain?”
“No...”
Turning to the guards, Makerou ordered, “Take him to the the hole.” Jaspaix paled; the hole was the worst place in the camp. No food or water for a day, with nails sticking from the walls. He had been in twice already, all thanks to Makerou, and of course, the great Secretary-General, Maurice Thorez. Silently, Jaspaix cursed Thorez as the guards dragged him away.