Then there was George’s son with Verena: Jack, a lawyer, age twenty-eight, with his wife and their pretty five-year-old daughter, Marga.

They were watching TV. The broadcast was coming from a park in Chicago where two hundred forty thousand ecstatically happy people had gathered.

Onstage was an African American family: a handsome father, a beautiful mother, and two sweet little girls. It was election night, and Barack Obama had won.

Michelle Obama and the girls left the stage, and the president-elect went to the microphone and said: “Hello, Chicago.”

Jacky, the matriarch of the Jakes family, said: “Hush, now, everybody. Listen up.” She turned up the volume.

Obama wore a dark-gray suit and a burgundy tie. Behind him, rippling in a gentle breeze, were more American flags than Maria could count.

Speaking slowly, pausing after each phrase, Obama said: “If there is anyone out there who still doubts that America is a place where all things are possible, who still wonders if the dream of our founders is alive in our time, who still questions the power of our democracy—tonight is your answer.”

Little Marga came up to Maria where she sat on the couch. “Granny Maria,” she said.

Maria lifted the child onto her lap and said: “Hush, now, baby, everyone wants to listen to the new president.”

Obama said: “It’s the answer spoken by young and old, rich and poor, Democrat and Republican, black, white, Hispanic, Asian, Native American, gay, straight, disabled and not disabled—Americans who sent a message to the world that we have never been just a collection of individuals, or a collection of red states and blue states: we are, and always will be, the United States of America.”

“Granny Maria,” Marga whispered again. “Look at Granddad.”

Maria looked at her husband, George. He was watching the television, but his lined brown face was streaming with tears. He was wiping them away with a big white handkerchief, but as soon as he dried his eyes the tears came again.

Marga said: “Why is Granddad crying?”

Maria knew why. He was crying for Bobby, and Martin, and Jack. For four Sunday school girls. For Medgar Evers. For all the freedom fighters, dead and alive.

“Why?” Marga said again.

“Honey,” said Maria, “it’s a long story.”

Time’s glory is to calm contending kings

To unmask falsehood and bring truth to light

To stamp the seal of time in aged things

To wake the morn and sentinel the night

To wrong the wronger till he render right

To ruinate proud buildings with thy hours

And smear with dust their glittering golden towers

—Shakespeare, The Rape of Lucrece

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

My principal history adviser for The Century Trilogy has been Richard Overy. Other academic historians who helped with this volume were Clayborne Carson, Mary Fulbrook, Claire McCallum, and Matthias Reiss.

Numerous people who lived through the events of the era also helped me, either by checking my first draft or giving me interviews, especially: Mimi Alford on the Kennedy White House; Peter Asher on being a pop star; Jay Coburn and Howard Stringer on Vietnam; Frank Gannon on the Nixon White House, along with his colleagues Jim Cavanaugh, Tod Hullin, and Geoff Shephard; Congressman John Lewis on civil rights; and Angela Spizig and Annemarie Behnke on life in Germany. As always, Dan Starer of Research for Writers in New York City helped me find my advisers.