The law school was located in Hendrie Hall. It was large and elegant, though nothing like the White House. President Taft’s office was on the second floor of the building.
Finn had been so busy silently enumerating Delia’s flaws during the ride here that he forgot to be nervous about meeting the former president. He blotted his damp hair with his scarf, straightened his collar, and mentally kicked himself for arguing with Delia whenaccess to the Port of Rotterdam was on the line. Mathilde and her family were dependent upon his success today.
President Taft opened the door, a cigar smoldering between his fingers. He was an enormous man: portly, broad, and even taller than Finn. The president stepped back to usher them into his surprisingly cluttered office with a genial wave. Stacks of papers and piles of books filled the large mahogany desktop. Leather-bound law texts lined the bookshelves, with slatted-wood blinds filtering the weak light coming into the jumbled space.
“So you’re the pilot everyone is talking about,” President Taft said as he shook Finn’s hand firmly.
“Yes, sir. Lieutenant Finn Delaney, sir. And this is Miss Byrne, the woman who keeps me in line.”
“Can I offer you a cigar?”
Who could have imagined a kid who grew up canning fish was about to smoke a cigar with a president of the United States! It would annoy Delia, but he wasn’t going to pass this up.
“Thank you, sir.”
President Taft retrieved a cigar from a humidor and clipped the end with a silver cutter. Finn clamped the cigar in his teeth, gently puffing as President Taft held a lit match to it.
“Now,” President Taft said as he shook the match out, “tell me how I can help with CRB business.”
Finn drew on his carefully prepared speech. “As a man who subsisted on CRB rations while trapped in Belgium, I have a personal interest in making sure the Port of Rotterdam remains open to the CRB.” He proceeded to outline the reasons for their concern, as well as their hope that the president would agree to lean on Diederik Jensen, Taft’s friend from college who was the prime minister of the Netherlands.
“I haven’t spoken with Diederik Jensen in decades,” President Taft said. “Frankly, I’m not sure I wish to spend my dwindling political capital to support Belgium. It’s a shame the country has found itself so reliant on foreign aid.”
Delia spoke up. “They don’t have adequate farmland, as they’re the most industrialized country in Europe. How could they have foreseen becoming a captive nation by Germany?”
President Taft remained unconvinced. “In light of that, they ought to have established better reserves to withstand such possibilities rather than have their hand permanently extended for aid from others.”
Finn set his cigar down in defense of the people who had saved him. “Don’t think of the Belgians as poor, downtrodden people. They’re fighters, sir, and while I was trapped there, I saw the best of them. The Belgians are not looking for a handout. They’re bankers and weavers and chocolate makers. In fact, it was Belgian engineers who designed and built the railways that crisscross Europe. They also designed the hydraulic systems used to manage canals for trade and industry.”
Taft nodded. “I seem to have pricked a sensitive spot, and I’m sorry for that.”
Finn looked away. He wasn’t going to rescue Belgium by insulting President Taft, but he had to find some way to change the president’s opinion.
“The Belgians are fighters,” he repeated. “The lady who gave me shelter risks her life every week to distribute a newspaper calledLa Libre Belgiquethat reports on ways to resist the occupation. The newspaper gave peoplehope. Late at night, when all was silent, neighbors came to her house to talk about what they’d read in the forbidden paper. My French could barely keep up with what they said, but I could read their expressions. They were eager to fight and to resist the enemy. They leaned on each other and laughed together. The comradery in that room could power the sun, and it was a privilege to be among them.”
A wave of painful nostalgia rose in his chest. They offered Finn shelter for six weeks, and he saw the best of humanity in them—in their generosity, in their sacrifice for each other and for their nation,and in their shared commitment. His lower lip started to wobble, but he fought it back so he could keep talking.
“One night a handful of resistance fighters gathered at the house, and they sang the Belgian national anthem. They sang softly because singing their anthem is illegal. They practically whispered the tune, but it hit me like a blast of trumpets. I don’t think I’ve ever heard a more heartfelt song than that whispered anthem behind closed doors.” Finn would remember the sacredness of that night until his dying day...
His heart started to race, his palms to sweat. A strange, unwieldy ache bloomed in his chest, and he drew a ragged breath, hoping it would ease. Without warning, his breath choked off and a sob escaped. Then another.
What was happening? He turned his face to the corner of the room, so that President Taft and Delia wouldn’t see the tears welling in his eyes. He couldn’t control his breathing. Tears spilled over, and he quickly swiped them away, but then a flood of blubbering sobs broke free, surging from deep inside him.
“Finn?” Delia’s voice sounded as if it came from far away. “Finn, what’s wrong?”
He couldn’t answer her because he didn’t know what was wrong. He was both hot and cold. He was twitching. He wanted to run from the room, but he couldn’t leave without convincing Taft to contact his old friend, the prime minister, regarding the port in the Netherlands. Finn clutched a handkerchief over his face, holding it there so they couldn’t see him weeping like an idiot.
Why was he crying? He knew plenty of men who’d been killed in the war, and he hadn’t broken down like this. Mathilde and her family were fine.Hewas fine. He was one of the lucky ones, wounded but still alive to fight another day, and yet these blubbering sobs wouldn’t stop. Delia hovered nearby, no doubt horrified by what was happening.
He had to stop sniveling and convince President Taft to use his influence on behalf of Belgium and the CRB. He needed to forgetabout the past and focus on the present. He had a mission to accomplish, and that meant getting ahold of himself.
Finn pressed the handkerchief hard against his face, willing himself to control the ragged gasps. Finally, his breathing calmed into a few broken, uneven breaths. Trembling and feeling embarrassed, he stuffed the damp cloth into his pocket, squared his shoulders, and turned to face the president.
“I apologize,” he said, his voice a little watery. “If things had gone differently, you would still be sitting in the White House and helping direct the course of this war. But you still have influence. You can help keep the Port of Rotterdam open. Doing so will allow a couple million people to stay alive until this lousy war is over.”
President Taft looked distinctly uneasy after witnessing Finn’s breakdown, and he struggled to provide a semi-jovial reply. “I never said I wouldn’t contact the prime minister. I will send a note to Jensen and let him know that America expects him and the Netherlands to do the right thing regarding their neighbor to the south. Consider it done.”
Finn was exhausted as he walked beside Delia on the way back to the carriage. Hoisting himself onto the single step and collapsing on the bench drained the last of his energy. Delia clambered in next, and he briefly thought of offering her a hand, but the bone-deep exhaustion made him too lethargic to move a muscle.
