by Warren Court
“You’re American?” he asked.
“I am. How can you tell?”
“I know many Americans. You have come to my country in droves, it appears, after the war.” The man wolfed down two crackers and continued speaking. A small dab of pâté bobbed at the corner of his mouth. He then opened a bottle of wine and procured two glasses. He filled them both and offered one across to Aubrey. She took it gratefully.
“You’re spoiling me, sir.”
“My name is Frederick. Frederick Oppenheim,” the man said, and with that name came a snort of derision from the other man, who ruffled his papers again. Frederick looked at the man and then at Aubrey and winked.
“Where did you learn English so well, Frederick?”
“In school, all German children are taught many languages. English is the most popular and probably the most useful for the years to come.”
“Why is that?”
“All part of the master plan, our dear leader’s plans for world conquest.” He tilted his head forward and winked again. Despite his attempts at whispering, the man across from him heard what was said and lowered his paper shield.
“You should learn to watch your mouth, young man.”
“We’re still in France: ‘Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité.’”
“Yes, you idiot, but if you haven’t noticed, we’re travelling eastward.” The newspaper went back up.
More pâté was offered, and this time Aubrey nodded at the dab on his mouth.
“My apologies,” he said, hastily applying his handkerchief to it. “I haven’t dined with a lady in a while.”
“Why were you in France?”
“I was attempting at getting a permit to travel to England. I have relatives there.”
“Oh, I see. No luck?”
“The permit has been filed. It will take them several weeks to reject it,” Frederick said, and laughed. “Such is life. I’m just glad I’ll be around to see our dear leader’s great plans for the Fatherland come true.” His voice rose as he said it, and he turned to the man with the papers. There was just a snort and more ruffling.
Despite Frederick’s optimism, the man with the newspapers was telling the truth. They were headed east, to the German border at Alsace. Even Aubrey, an outsider, felt uncomfortable about the young man’s politicized comments.
It was dawn when the train stopped on the French side of the border. A French administrative official boarded, accompanied by two unshaven soldiers with rifles over their shoulders. They went from car to car, compartment to compartment. They weren’t checking anything, not even tickets. It was unclear what they were looking for.
The door to their compartment slid open and the official stepped in; the two soldiers stood behind him in the doorway. Frederick had stowed what was left of his meal, and the half-empty wine bottle was tucked back into his jacket. He sat upright and forward on his seat and looked right at the French official with proud but pleading eyes. The official gave him the once-over, barely looked at Aubrey, and ignored the fellow with the newspapers. Seemingly satisfied, he turned and marched away down the corridor. One of the soldiers caught Aubrey’s eye and grinned, but there was a call for him to come and he scooted away, leaving the compartment door open.
After another ten-minute wait at the station, Aubrey finally saw the official and the two soldiers escorting someone off the train.
“What is happening there, Frederick?”
“An escaped convict? Maybe he was escaping from a trip to Devil’s Island.”
“The island off South America? I read about that. Does Germany have overseas prisons?”
“No, we’ve created several homegrown nightmares within our own borders. Maybe one day our dear leader will export this invention.”
“Let’s hope not.” Aubrey knew she shouldn’t respond to these provocative statements, but somehow, she couldn’t help it.
The train started up again and moved deeper into the Vosges Mountains just as dawn was breaking. Aubrey stared out the window and spontaneously, automatically, began plotting a course through the peaks—what altitude she would fly, how long it would take her. She wanted to keep her skills sharp.
Then they were on the other side and the Tricolour was replaced by flapping swastikas by the dozen. At least twenty of them for every French flag she’d seen. There was no denying it: she had crossed into the Reich.
“Ahh, home,” Frederick said. The news junkie chuckled, then tucked the paper away and produced his passport. Aubrey and Frederick did likewise, and with a start Aubrey saw that her generous young German friend had additional papers to carry. She saw the corner of a yellow six-pointed star at the top of one of them, tucked in his passport. She saw that the man next to her had noticed it too.
The train stopped and there were shouts outside, and then they heard the clomp of boots—heavy ones, that could only be military issue—come down the middle of the carriage. The banging open of compartment doors grew louder. Moments later, the door on their compartment was flung open. An official in a black uniform with a swastika armband stepped inside. Behind her she saw German soldiers: fresh faced, clean shaven and utterly terrifying. They had rifles too, but they were carried upright over their shoulders, whereas the French soldiers had carried theirs sloppily. The rifle straps were polished and pulled tight. The man with the armband seemed to gleam, too; everything that was black and leather shone like glass.
He did not yell, as Aubrey had half-expected, but rather asked for papers in a calm voice, a sinister smile at his mouth. Aubrey held hers up and he took it first.
“Ahh, American,” he said in English not half as good as Frederick’s.
“Yes, journalist. Here for the air exhibition.”
“I see. The Reich welcomes journalists. We just hope you’ll report what you’ve seen truthfully.”
Aubrey was about to question whether a border official could make such a statement, but bit her tongue.
The official wrote something in her passport and handed it back. His joviality vanished as he turned his attention to Frederick. The young man handed his credentials over; they were leafed through quickly.
“You must come with us.”
“Why’s that?” Aubrey said, and Frederick turned on her. His civility had vanished, but it was out of concern.
“Miss Aubrey, please, don’t.”
“He’s right, miss,” said the official. “Do not concern yourself with our affairs. You, up!” he shouted. Frederick grabbed his shabby suitcases off the rack and was led out. There was no time for him to turn and say goodbye. The two guards had their arms around him. In a second, he was gone.
“Why’d they do that? Was he in the wrong compartment?” she asked the man next to her after the soldiers had left.
“He is not permitted to ride first class in German trains whilst within the Reich’s borders.”
“And why’s that?”
“Because he’s a Jew, and it’s the law. Take your young friend’s advice, miss. Do not get involved. You can only get hurt and hurt those around you.”
“A lot of good you did, and you’re a fellow German.”
“Yes, and I’ve learned to keep my mouth shut. Your friend should have learned that as well. Maybe they will teach him. They have a place for people like him.” He gave an icy smile.
“One of those camps he mentioned?”
“Yes. It’s called Dachau.”
10
Aubrey checked into the Hotel Adlon on the Unter Den Linden. Her room had a commanding view of the Brandenburg Gates. She’d seen that famous portal once before, from the air, on her way across Europe in the 1934 air rally when she’d flown over the German capital. What had been lost on her from that first viewing, and which assaulted her eyes now, were the flags and bunting. The entire Pariser Platz seemed to be decorated in red, white and black swastikas. Large banners were strung from the roofs to street level on every building, including the hotel. She could hear them fluttering outside her room. T
he sight of all those twisted crosses, those wretched claws—no, she realized. Gears. That’s what they reminded her of: the swastikas looked like gears in a machine. Maybe that was intentional—the machine being the state, its gears turning ruthlessly, ready to maim anyone who opposed it.
She thought of poor Frederick, hauled from the train. Had he merely been kicked off for the offense of riding in first class, or had he been arrested? Was he on his way to Dachau this very moment? She shuddered. He’d seemed like an outspoken but harmless young man.
She reminded herself that she had a job to do. No, a mission: that’s what Hewitt Purnsley had called it. She wondered what the confident Englishman was up to at this moment. Perhaps sitting next to a wireless, waiting for radio reports of the apprehension of a female American spy? There was no way of contacting him. The plan was for her to depart Germany in three days, after the exhibition ended, and make her way to Paris. She had the return ticket and a room booked in the same Parisian hotel. She would have to wait for him to make contact.
Three days here… She wondered if she would go colour blind from all the black, red and white flags, or would she become accustomed to them? Would they cease to assault her senses? She couldn’t fathom that possibility.
Suddenly, she realized she was exhausted. Robbed of sleep on the train, she looked longingly at the single bed in her hotel room. But first things first. She dumped the contents of her bag out onto the bed. The black automatic pistol fell out last and she scooped it up, then tucked it back into the bag until she figured out what to do with it. Her clothes went into the dresser, and her more formal outfits went into a little alcove with hangers. John Walton’s girl had done a good job with shopping; the two outfits she’d purchased for Aubrey would do nicely. Certainly, the shops in Sacred never carried such haute couture. She only wished she’d had time in Paris to do some shopping herself.
There was a knock on the door. The open bag was still on her bed. One would have to deliberately look in it to spot the pistol, but…
Another knock.
“Fraulein Endeavours,” someone on the other side called in English.
“One moment, bitte,” she replied.
She pulled the pistol from the bag, lifted the mattress and shoved the pistol under it. That would do for now. She stepped over to the door and pulled it open.
Outside were two men dressed in the blue uniforms of the Luftwaffe. One was a corporal, the other a private. She sighed quietly with relief; she had half-expected Nazis in their evil black uniforms to be standing there, or men from the Gestapo in their raincoats and fedoras.
She greeted the men warmly and invited them in, but they declined. The corporal informed her that they were there to escort her to the exhibition. They’d been informed of her arrival.
Really? she thought. That was quick. Either the hotel had called it in, or perhaps they’d been waiting in a car and had seen her arrive. Very efficient. And disturbing. She begged five more minutes to freshen up, and then hurried down and met them in the lobby.
The men led her outside to a Ford Rheinlander, which was parked in front of the hotel. The two of them climbed in the front, which left the mohair-covered rear seat entirely to her. Aubrey sat back and watched the Berlin city centre, the Mitte district, whiz by. The airman drove; the corporal turned around to talk.
“We’re in the Luftwaffe,” he said.
“I gathered that from your uniforms. There are a lot of uniforms in Germany.”
“Oh, yes. More so every day. Military service is now compulsory. Thank you for coming, Fraulein Endeavours. That is an unusual name, by the way. Is it common in America?”
“No, I don’t think so. There was a Captain Endeavours in the Revolutionary War, but we could never establish the relation.”
“Your fight against the British—you were successful. We were not so fortunate,” the corporal said, and laughed.
“You guys seem more relaxed than the others I’ve met. One of them was dressed in black.”
The smiles fell away from both men’s faces.
“Schutzstaffel,” the corporal said. “The SS. They are dangerous, Miss Endeavours.”
“Call me Aubrey.”
“Aubrey—that is a nice name, too.”
“Why are they so crotchety?” Aubrey asked.
“The SS? I don’t know what ‘crotchety’ means, but I can guess. Why are they that way? Because they are in charge.”
Aubrey smiled grimly. “Where are you taking me?”
“Southwest of the city, to Adlershof Airfield. That is where the exhibition is being held. Germany is eager to export its latest aeronautical achievements to the rest of the world. There will be buyers there from all over: Japan, Greece, South America. And of course, journalists like yourself.”
“Why am I getting the special treatment, a personal car sent just for me?”
“Because, Miss Endeavours, you are a famous pilot from America. We are honoured to have you in Germany, and Hans and I are even more honoured to be driving you.”
“Why, thank you, gents. I think we’re going to get along just swell.”
“There will be plenty of sightseeing opportunities for the delegates and journalists. We want to show Germany off to the world. And next year, we have the Olympics.”
The car paused at the main entrance to the Adlershof airfield. There were more armed soldiers; none of them seemed as friendly as the corporal and Hans. Identification was checked and orders were barked. The two airmen brought the car over to a large tent just inside the main gate.
“This is the check-in, Aubrey. You have press credentials?”
“I do. What’s the deal?”
“You’ll get in that line and be processed; we’ll meet up with you on the other side.”
“See you then.”
There were thirty people in line, all men. A couple of them noticed a woman joining their ranks and turned curiously. Most had scowls on their faces. The man who got in line immediately behind her was the only one who offered a smile.
“Forgive my colleagues, miss,” he said. “They spend so much time hunched over a typewriter they rarely get to see a pretty face.”
“I don’t think that’s it. They don’t get to see a woman’s face, pretty or otherwise, in their line of work.”
“True.” He stuck out a hand. “I am Richard Fuchs. I am a journalist with the Berliner Morgenpost.”
She shook hands with him. “Aubrey Endeavours, freelance writer. Here to write a few articles for some magazines.”
“Time Magazine?”
“Gosh, no.”
“But they should put your pretty picture on the cover.”
Little did this fellow know that she’d already graced the cover of Time after the Pulitzer race. There was a roar overhead as seven aircraft in an inverted V flew over the aerodrome.
“Wow, fantastic!” Aubrey said.
The sound of the seven fighters roaring overhead, even at a thousand feet, was deafening. The formation banked to the east and was lost from sight. The check-in line moved forward. The men around her were jabbering in all manner of languages. She picked out the odd French phrase here and there, and some Italian. No English, though.
A desk in front of her became free and Aubrey stepped forward and put on her best smile. A pimply-faced corporal checked her papers and smiled back. He was about to stamp them when an officer wearing one of those dreaded black uniforms stepped behind him and grabbed her credentials out of his hand. He was young, somewhat handsome. She could see a wisp of blonde hair up under his cap—a cap adorned with the death’s head logo. He had lightning bolts on one side of his collar, and on his sleeve was a diamond patch with SD inside of it, indicating the Sicherheitsdienst—the Nazi intelligence agency.
“Your papers are not in order,” he said in stilted yet crisp English.
“How can that be? They were just issued.”
“These forms are no longer accepted.”
“I don’t understand.�
��
Richard Fuchs was all checked in and had his pass in his hand. He came over to assist.
“What seems to be the problem?”
“Are you colleagues?” the Nazi asked.
“Yes.”
“Do you work for the same organization?”
“No. I’m German. This is an American guest in our country Herr Hauptsturmführer—Captain.”
“That has no bearing. Our embassy in the United States made an error. They used the wrong form. We no longer accept this.”
“As of when?” Richard asked. Aubrey saw a fire start to burn in the SS officer’s eyes.