The Prodigal Daughter

Prologue

‘President of the United States,” she replied.

‘I can think of more rewarding ways of bankrupting myself,” said her father as he removed the half-moon spectacles from the end of his nose and peered at his daughter over the top of his newspaper.

‘Don’t be frivolous, Papa. President Roosevelt proved to us that there can be no greater calling than public service.’

‘The only thing Roosevelt proved...,” began her father. Then he stopped and pretended to return to his paper, realizing that his daughter would consider the remark flippant.

The girl continued as if only too aware of what was going through her father’s mind. “I realize it would be pointless for me to pursue such an ambition without your support. My sex will be enough of a liability without adding the disadvantage of a Polish background.’

The newspaper barrier between father and daughter was abruptly removed. “Don’t ever speak disloyally of the Poles,” he said. “History has proved us to be an honorable race who never go back on our word. My father was a baron—’

‘Yes, I know. So was my grandfather, but he’s not around now to help me become President.’

‘More’s the pity,’ he said, sighing, “as he would undoubtedly have made a great leader of our people.’

‘Then why shouldn’t his granddaughter?’

‘No reason at all,’ he said as he stared into the steel gray eyes of his only child.

‘Well then Papa, will you help me? I can’t hope to succeed without your financial backing.’

Her father hesitated before replying, placing the glasses back on his nose and slowly folding his copy of the Chicago Tribune.

‘I’ll make a deal with you, my dear — after all, that’s what politics is about. If the result of the New Hampshire primary turns out to be satisfactory, I’ll back you to the hilt. If not, you must drop the whole idea.’

‘What’s your definition of satisfactory?’ came back the immediate reply.

Again the man hesitated, weighing his words. “If you win the primary or capture over thirty percent of the vote, I’ll go all the way to the convention floor with you, even if it means I end up destitute.’

The girl relaxed for the first time during the conversation. “Thank you, Papa. I couldn’t have asked for more.’

‘No, you certainly couldn’t,’ he replied. “Now, can I get back to figuring out just how the Cubs could possibly have lost the seventh game of the series to the Tigers?’

‘They were undoubtedly the weaker team, as the nine-three score indicates.’

‘Young lady, you may imagine you know a thing or two about politics, but I can assure you you know absolutely nothing about baseball,’ the man said as his wife entered the room. He turned his heavy frame toward her. “Our daughter wants to run for President of the United States. What do you think about that?’

The girl looked up at her, eagerly waiting for a reply.

‘I’ll tell you what I think,’ said the mother. “I think it’s well past her bedtime and I blame you for keeping her up so late.’

‘Yes, I suppose you’re right, Zaphia.’ He sighed. “Off you go to bed, little one.’

She came to her father’s side, kissed him on the cheek and whispered, “Thank you, Papa.’

The man’s eyes followed his eleven-year-old daughter as she left the room, and he noticed that the fingers of her right hand were clenched, making a small, tight fist, something she always did when she was angry or determined. He suspected she was both on this occasion, but he realized that it would be pointless to try to explain to his wife that their only child was no ordinary mortal. He had long ago abandoned any attempt to involve his wife in his own ambitions and was at least thankful that she was incapable of dampening their daughter’s.

He returned to the Chicago Cubs and their loss of the series and had to admit that his daughter’s judgment might even be right on that subject.

Florentyna Rosnovski never referred to the conversation again for twenty-two years, but when she did, she assumed that her father would keep his end of the bargain. After all, the Polish are an honorable race who never go back on their word.