The Information Trickles In
Lekoche Maimai 2
“So, Moses, how have you been?” I asked, “It’s been a few months since I saw you last. Is the family all right?”
“Yes, everyone’s just fine,” he replied hurriedly, “but I must insist that we start planning our defenses.”
“Nonsense!” I said. “Rommel has just spent a full year in the desert, watching his boys die, fighting the protectors of Europe in their last colonial enclaves. He finally has them where he wants them- held up in Libreville, dying of malaria and awaiting their end at the hands of the evil German Empire. It might be another full year until he comes! Come on, relax.”
Just then the doorbell rang. I excused myself and went out into the foyer. I opened the door and was greeted by one of the most recognizable faces in all of Uganda- Itxaso Xaparrate, the expatriate better known as
Basque Jaques. He stood six- foot- three, and always wore a blood- red beret atop his head. He is a national celebrity, being one of the few Catholics in the country, and having moved here as a general escaping the Spanish Civil War. He’s also a Basque, from
Bilbao, which is not something you see every day in this neck of the woods. He is our Head of the Army (logistical head- he’s the one supplying and deploying troops, Moses Smith leads them into battle).
“Good afternoon, Jaques! What a pleasant surprise! Why don’t we go join Ms. Ferraro and Mr. Smith in the living room? I’ve already got the tea made up.”
“Sir,” Jaques whispered as he closed the door behind him, “didn’t those two tell you about the war?”
“Yes, in fact, they did!” Jaques appeared to cringe with the volume of my voice. “Now, I must insist that we go into the living room.”
The doorbell rang. “I’ll get it, but I must insist that you go and talk with those two. It’s the third door on your left.” Jaques gave me a 'What are you, crazy?' look, but he obediently entered into the living room. I could here the cries of Jaques! as he entered the room and I turned to the door.
I opened the large oaken doors, and two men, both in full military brass, greeted me. It wasn’t a civil greeting. It sounded like I had opened the door and had discovered a couple of large apes howling at each other.
They were two more of my ministers, Vladimir Brovsky (my Head of the Navy) and Jomo Kenyatta (of the Air Force). Brovsky is a short, stocky Russian Jew (if you’ve ever seen Seinfeld, think George with a moustache). Kenyatta is a native from Kenya- a very tall, thin man. Both of them together give a great contrast, and it’s quite a sight to see the two screaming their lungs out at each other.
Brovsky was the first one to address me specifically. “Mr. Maimai, the Germans are coming! We must trade out for some more advanced blueprints for ships!” His thick Russian accent and gruff voice scraped its way to my ears.
Kenyatta countered his claim. “Ships will be useless against the Germans, they’re all inland! We can bomb their troops before they know what hits them!” His voice is much louder, and very low, with a mild accent.
“That’s ridiculous! What about the Luftwaffe?”
“They can bomb your ships. If we invest in an air force, we can build interceptors to shoot them down!”
“Our planes would be shot to pieces! The Kreigsmarine is miles away.” Brovsky raised a fist, so I decided I had to put an end to this.
“Shut up!” They two ministers stopped talking and stared at me. “We should go into the living room. We can talk. A few people are already here.” There was a sharp rap on the doorframe.
“Am I late for the party?” A head, covered in a disheveled lock of gray hair, poked through the opened door.
“Albert!” I motioned for the other two to go into the living room. “How are you, my old friend?
I think that everyone knows who
Albert Einstein is, and what he looks like. He came to Uganda when the Nazis took power in Germany in ’33. He immediately took a job at the largest center of higher learning in the nation-
Kempala University. I had also happened to work there at the time, teaching new recruits the ropes of military leadership. Einstein and I soon became close friends. In 1936, when I took power, I offered him a job as my armaments minister. With the promise of new funding for his eccentric endeavors, he signed on.
“Have you heard? There’s a war on.”
“Yes, Germany- a whole bunch of my ministers are already here. I don’t understand, they’re all so panicky. All they want to talk about is war.”
“What are they, kidding? He has just spent a full year in the desert, watching his boys die, fighting the protectors of Europe in their last colonial enclaves. He finally has them where he wants them- held up in Libreville, dying of malaria and awaiting their end at the hands of the German Empire. It might be another full year until he comes! Those worrywarts ought to relax.”
“That’s exactly what I said! Let’s go into the living room. I already have the tea ready.”
He entered the house, and I was just about to close the door when I spotted a car coming up the drive, finally parking in front.
“Go, Albert; you know where the living room is.” He nodded and headed towards the living room.
I walked out upon my stoop to greet the figures who came out of the car. Both were tall, large, imposing figures. Both were also
Hassidic Jews, with the long black beards, and the curly
peyes running down either sides of their neck.
One of the men was High
Rabbi Harold Felix. He is our head of state and spiritual leader. He’s over seventy, but he’s pretty spry for an old guy. The other man was Victor Williams, an American and our Chief of staff. A Harvard graduate, he is as sharp as a tack and well respected around the world.
“I would like to thank you for coming! Please, step inside. Mr. Williams, go talk to your staff in the living room. I need to have a chat with Mr. Felix.” Victor simply nodded and stepped into the palace. I pulled Harold inside and shut the door.
“Harold,” I said in a concerned tone, “Have you talked with the British and Americans?”
“Yes, in fact, that’s exactly why I’m here!” His thick
Yiddish accent and fairly weak, tired sounding voice made it nearly impossible to understand him, but I managed. “The Brits hate us.”
I waited for more. He stayed silent. I looked up, but Harold replied with a shrug. That was it.
“So… What does this mean for us? What about the Americans?”
“All it means is that we can’t be expecting help from either any time soon.”
“No alliance?”
“No, the Brits hate us. The Americans feel more obligated to fulfill British wishes than ours.”
I sighed. My hopes had been dashed. The only consolation left for me was that we had time on our side. I motioned to the door. We both entered the palace. I opened the third door on my left, only to be slapped in the face with a blast of sound.
It was total chaos. Everybody was arguing with everybody. Brovsky and Kenyatta appeared to have been the catalyst, but it was impossible to tell for sure. I couldn’t even hear what they were arguing about over the mishmash of random noise. What was for sure was that I had to put an end to it.
I simply sat down. I gave my advisors one of those steely, military looks. And with each laser glare I sent, the volume lessened. The room slowly silenced, and all eyes turned on me.
“Don’t get me wrong,” I said, “I love you all. But my living room is no place to talk of a future war. We have a war room for that, back in Nairobi. Right now, go to Nairobi. Calm down, don’t fret. We’ll be ready when the Germans come. My living room is no place for a cabinet meeting.” It wasn’t the majestic speech that I had wished to make, but everybody silently, solemnly stood and prepared to leave, saying their goodbyes.
The stagnant silence was broken by the slamming open of the front door. There were frantic, running steps in the foyer. All of my advisors suddenly stood alert. Jaques and Smith both ran their hands down to their belts and put their hands on the triggers of their revolvers.
A disheveled looking young Hassidim burst through the door into my living room. His black slacks and suit were dusty, almost to the point of having completely changed color. His beard and long, curly, black hair was also coated in dirt. His face was so coated, in fact that I couldn’t decipher his identity. His heavy breathing dominated the room’s frightened silence. He stood there for a second in a daze, surveying the room halfheartedly before making eye contact with me. His entire face lit up, and he spoke in a ragged, panicked voice.
“Sir, Mr. Maimai, the Germans will be here in two weeks. Perhaps a month; if we’re lucky.” I recognized the voice. It was impossible for me not to recognize his voice, even through the heavy breathing. Its unique fusion of British and Russian accents belied the man behind it. It was Dimitri Affa, our enigmatic Head of Intelligence.
We were out of time, out of luck. “Everybody, sit down.” I took two deep, shaking breaths. I stopped the panic welling inside me, as I had done for many years.
“But I thought that you said your living room was no place for a meeting?” Sheri Ferraro said.
“Nonsense! Do you see this table, this one in front of you? It’s round, It’s high, and It’s got plenty of chairs. My living room is a perfect place for a cabinet meeting!”