This Storm

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I remain spellbound. That then-to-now fever still consumes me. I am very old and the sole living witness. The Maestro willed me his piano and the score we smuggled from Russia. I retain faultless vision and memory. Long bouts of practice keep my hands strong.

I compose at the keyboard. Improvisation spawns recollection. Words and music sustain me and forge my repudiation of death.

The war.

The rain.

The gold.

Los Angeles and Mexico, the Fifth Column.

I will not die as long as I live this story.

Good evening and bienvenidos, a belated Feliz Navidad, and let’s not forget próspero año y felicidad — which means “Happy New Year” in English and serves to introduce the Mexico-at-war theme of tonight’s broadcast. And at war we are, my fellow American listeners — even though we sure as shooting didn’t want to be in the first place.

Let’s talk turkey here. Es la verdad, as our Mex cousins say. We’ve been in this Jew-inspired boondoggle a mere twenty-three days, and we’ve been forced to stand with the rape-happy Russian Reds against the more sincerely simpatico Nazis. That’s a shattering shame, but our Jew-pawn president, Franklin “Double-Cross” Rosenfeld, has deliriously decreed that we must fight der Führer, so fight that heroic jefe we regretfully must. It’s a ways off, though — because we’ve got our hands full with the Japs right now.

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