Chapter 1011: Staunch Support

On the wide, bright street, people were enjoying the warm feeling of the June sun. A newsboy was waving a newspaper in his hand, shouting the headlines at the top of his lungs. For him, this was a job to earn money. His family was waiting for the spare change from selling papers to buy a mouthful of food in this era of scarce resources.

“Extra! Extra! Our army has won a great victory against the Axis in the Middle East!” the little boy yelled, his voice raw. The contents of the newspaper were indeed shocking enough: “Allied forces annihilate 30,000 of Turkey’s elite at Batman! 10,000 German soldiers captured in the Battle of Siirt!”

“A paper, kid!” A middle-aged man in a very respectable suit handed a banknote to the little boy, snatched the paper from his hand, and was immediately drawn in by the massive photograph.

In a patch of yellow sand in some indiscernible location, a large cache of German small arms was laid out in front of a group of American soldiers. The photo was blurry, and there were no recognizable landmarks.

This was not a genuine battlefield photo from Turkey. This wasn’t the 21st century, where photos could be transmitted across the ocean in a few seconds via the internet. This was 1939. For a photograph to get from the Middle East to the United States could take ten days, or even a month.

But the Allies had no leisure to wait that long just for a single propaganda photo. Since the victory was real, and the results were real, the rest of the propaganda could be handled with the technology they had on hand.

To be precise, this was a staged photo. There were plenty of places in the American West with terrain similar to Turkey’s. All they had to do was find such a place, lay out some German arms, arrange a few handsome, photogenic American soldiers, and they could “manufacture” a batch of fake photos that were difficult to tell from the real thing. This was not comparable to the “PS” technology of later generations; as a photograph, it was truly seamless.

Of course, as an American businessman, this middle-aged man reading the paper had no ability to authenticate the photo. He naturally assumed the photo was from the distant Turkey, from that remote and smoke-filled real battlefield.

The United States had won a great victory in Turkey. This news could be judged as accurate. After all, at a time like this, to spread a lie about a victory in a distant place would have no inspirational effect on the populace. If the United States lacked a victory, it would be easier to open up a new situation on the Japanese front.

And so, this middle-aged man said nothing. He silently got into the car that was waiting for him nearby and closed the door. It had to be said that the quality of everything in the war era seemed to have deteriorated. Hearing the light, flimsy sound of the car door closing, he couldn’t help but frown.

“Sir, are we still going to D. Faer Street?” the driver asked, turning his head to look at his boss.

“Why refuse? Let’s go, my old friend.” The middle-aged man closed his eyes and waved his hand, signaling his driver to drive. The car soon began to rattle, and drove all the way to a street that was not well-known in Washington, D. Faer Street.

This street was not very famous in the United States. Few people even knew of it. But those who were familiar with it knew that this was a street that connected many networks of influence. It was even more important than Wall Street, carrying many of America’s behind-the-scenes stories.

The middle-aged man in the car looked like just an ordinary businessman, but who could have known that he controlled a large part of America’s railway transport? Like the ancient Morgan family, he was a great tycoon who had made his fortune in America through the railroads. He had once boasted in jest that he himself did not know how much money he had.

The car, swaying from side to side with the slight potholes in the road, stopped in front of an imposing building on D. Faer Street. The middle-aged man pushed open the car door and got out. Under the guidance of the butler who was waiting at the door, he pushed open the door and walked into this private building.

In the living room, there were already several very high-status, important businessmen sitting. Regardless of their build, they were all wearing respectable, tailor-made suits. Some even wore heavy gold rings on their fingers. Cigars were clamped in the mouths of several of them, and the entire room was filled with a choking smoke.

Everyone present knew the man at the head of the room. This respectable gathering place was, in fact, an industry under this man’s banner. If the railway tycoon who had just walked into the room could be considered fabulously wealthy, then in front of this host, he could only be considered a barely passing small-time merchant.

The owner of the house was named Baurman. He was the chairman of the entire American Jewish Chamber of Commerce, and could be considered the actual helmsman chosen by the American Jewish businessmen. Like Enrique in Germany, they were super-tycoons in the Jewish circle whose words carried immense weight.

As the standard-bearer of the American Jews, Baurman had once reached an agreement with Roosevelt on the founding of a Jewish state. Like Germany, the Americans had also agreed to this proposal, in order to counteract the advantage in Jewish resources that the Germans had obtained.

“It is a pity that I have had to ask you all to come here,” Baurman said, taking a sip of the coffee on the coffee table, his voice slightly hoarse. He had recently received a telegram from across the ocean. The content was very simple: the Germans had begun to fulfill their promise to the Jewish people.

This telegram from Germany had made him unable to sleep at night. He had not had a good night’s rest for two consecutive days. After all, he, Baurman, and Enrique were competitors in this matter of founding a Jewish state. Now he had received news that his rival had taken a clear lead, which was absolutely unbearable for him.

“We have received reliable news from the German side. Enrique and his group have already begun to operate on the matter of the Jewish state,” Baurman said, resignedly revealing the intelligence he had received.

His intelligence immediately caused a panic. Everyone exploded, huddling together in discussion. After all, this was a huge matter for every Jew. They had been without their own country for too, too long, so long that they had forgotten how to face their own nation.

“My God… the Germans have really fulfilled their promise,” a merchant, a cigar still between his fingers, exclaimed in shock. “If this is the case, we have absolutely no reason to continue to be an enemy of Germany.”

Another Jewish businessman nodded in agreement with his friend. “I’ve said it all along: they are not our enemies, they are our allies! Remember that Nazi Party in Germany? It was finished off by the Greater German Party. The German Führer is very friendly to the Jews. I also admire that domineering man!”

“This is a newspaper I bought this morning on my way here. Perhaps you will be interested in this,” the middle-aged businessman who had been the last to enter, the American railway tycoon, said, placing the newspaper in his hand on the coffee table in the middle of the room. “I feel that the Germans’ situation is not as good as we all think.”

“Hmm?” Baurman frowned, then picked up the newspaper from the coffee table. As soon as he opened it, he saw the striking headline on the front page. The photo of the smiling American GIs caught his eye, as if it had brought him a ray of light.

“Is this true? It should be true…” Baurman stared at the newspaper for a long time and finally answered his own question. He knew this might be his last chance. If he played his cards right, he might be able to delay the founding of the Jewish state for a while.

“At the very least, if we all believe it’s true, then it is true!” the middle-aged railway tycoon said, forcing a smile. “We need time. If we let Enrique and his group establish a state in the Middle East first, then we will forever be just supporting actors.”

A merchant, who had just been advocating for siding with Germany, took the newspaper from Baurman’s hand before he had a chance to read it. After a few glances, he drew in a sharp breath. “Hiss… this news is really a timely rain. We have just received the news that the Germans are starting to launch their plan for a Jewish state, and they have just started this battle in Turkey.”

To say that there was no deliberate orchestration in this would be to insult the intelligence of these financial tycoons. They, of course, knew that this was the American high command’s way of using a battle to win them over. And they also, of course, knew that this battle would prolong the chaos in the Middle East.

“Sometimes, I really don’t know how to choose. Because of our struggle and our unwillingness, we have already postponed the re-establishment of our own country…” the big merchant who had just been praising Akado said with some resignation. “How will history record us? Or rather, how will the history of the Jewish people record us?”

“To ensure the founding of a Jewish state, we must bet on both sides! This is the price we have to pay!” another man said. “Even our other compatriots will understand our difficult choice! It is still too early to waver! If the Germans fail, then we will be the last saviors of the Jewish people! Won’t we?”

“You are always so reasonable!” Baurman laughed, and the bad mood of the past few days had half-dissipated. He knew that this gamble of his was far from being over, and for him, this was the best news. “I will call President Roosevelt! To state our position—the Jewish people will continue to support him in winning this war!”

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