"Hmph! What the hell are the Americans going to do? Are they our allies, or our enemies?"
By the end of the first day, French President Raymond Poincaré was so infuriated that he hurled a paperweight across his office.
In contrast to the president's impatience, Prime Minister Georges Clemenceau remained calm.
"There are no eternal friendships between nations," Clemenceau reminded himself, "only eternal interests." This phrase—popular in London, where the British Empire claimed the sun never set on its dominions—was painfully accurate in the world of international politics.
The reason the United States refused to approve France's latest proposal was simple: it served only French interests and ignored those of America.
If Britain and France carved up Germany's colonies and mainland, the United States would walk away empty-handed. Washington would not allow itself to fight and bleed, only to be rewarded with nothing. To expect otherwise was absurd. President Woodrow Wilson's opposition was therefore inevitable.
Clemenceau understood this. He resolved that tomorrow he would personally meet with Wilson, to negotiate privately. If he could not win the American president's support, then at the very least he needed to discover America's bottom line before the next round of talks.
---
While Paris fretted, an unexpected visitor arrived at Wilson's quarters in Paris.
"Mr. President," a secretary reported, "a man claiming to be a German major is requesting an audience."
Woodrow Wilson, born of modest means but carrying himself with dignity and conviction, was an idealist to his core. Under his leadership, America's industrial growth had accelerated, its population expanded, and its wealth accumulated so quickly that the United States had already surpassed the aging British Empire as the world's foremost power in raw capacity.
Yet, despite its strength, America's voice in global affairs remained weak, dominated by Britain, France, and the traditional European powers. Wilson understood that unless Britain's and France's grip on global order was loosened, the United States would never achieve its rightful place.
Thus he had come to Paris for two purposes: to claim America's share in the spoils of war, and to present his vision of a League of Nations.
To Wilson, the League would reshape world order. America would abandon isolationism, assume the mantle of global leadership, and finally command the respect that matched its strength. If successful, Wilson's name would be enshrined alongside George Washington and Abraham Lincoln in the pantheon of American heroes.
The thought stirred his heart. Far from retreating before French complaints, Wilson was already planning to rally support from smaller European nations—Belgium, the Netherlands, Luxembourg, and Italy—countries weary of British and French arrogance.
It was in this moment that the German visitor was announced.
Wilson's sharp mind immediately leapt to possibilities. A German officer, here, seeking an audience with him? Interesting. Very interesting.
"Let him in," Wilson ordered.
Moments later, Major Mainz von Lewinsky, escorted under heavy guard, entered the president's chamber. The Americans were visibly tense. Though Mainz was alone, they treated him as if he were a potential assassin.
The memory of war was still raw. The United States had entered the conflict late but had sacrificed over 500,000 casualties crossing the Atlantic to fight in Europe. And after all this bloodshed, Britain and France had little interest in sharing the fruits of victory with Washington. Resentment smoldered among the Americans.
Wilson, however, doubted this young German meant him harm. Germany, broken and humiliated, was desperate for allies. The last thing Berlin would do was send an assassin.
"What is your name?" Wilson asked coolly, keeping his bodyguards close. Confidence was one thing; recklessness was another.
"Mainz," the officer replied firmly. "Mainz von Lewinsky. I bring greetings to His Excellency the President on behalf of the German people."
Wilson raised an eyebrow. "Greetings? You do realize that our nations are still technically hostile?" His words were sharp, his gaze piercing, meant to unbalance the young man.
But Mainz did not flinch. His face remained calm, almost serene.
"The war is over. Hostility is over. And I do not believe Germany and the United States will remain enemies for long."
Wilson leaned forward, intrigued. "Oh? And why is that?"
"Because our interests do not conflict," Mainz said evenly. "In fact, they may even align."
For a moment, the room seemed to still. Wilson's eyes lit up.
This German was young—barely in his twenties, by the look of him—but his composure, courage, and sharpness were unmistakable. To come alone before the President of the United States, and to speak so boldly yet without arrogance, marked him as a man of unusual character.
As Wilson studied the young major, Mainz in turn observed the sixty-something American president: a scholar, a philosopher, a leader who would later be ranked among America's greatest.
If Mainz's gamble succeeded, his plan might yet bear fruit.
---