by Warren Court
“As of last week. New forms have been issued.”
“I was in the middle of the Atlantic last week,” Aubrey said. “How would I know?”
“It makes no difference, Miss Endeavours. You will have to return to your embassy here in Berlin. Perhaps they can assist you in obtaining the correct press credentials.”
“Endeavours?” a man in a dark suit said. He had been standing off to the right of the discussion, talking with some high-ranking Luftwaffe officers. Being that he was on the other side of the tables, Aubrey assumed he was involved in running the exhibition.
The SS officer turned and saw who’d shown an interest in the American’s dilemma. He became ramrod straight and clicked the heels of his shin-high leather boots together smartly.
“Count von Villiez. I had no idea you were there.”
The man ignored the SS officer and gazed at Aubrey. He had a head of glistening, slicked-back, black hair and piercing blue eyes. His jaw was square and strong, and his upper torso spread out wide and was covered by a very well-tailored suit. She noticed several gold rings and a gold-embossed badge on his lapel with the German cross on it.
“You are Aubrey Endeavours, the American pilot?”
“Yes.”
Finally, the count turned his attention to the SS man, who was still at attention. “This lady is my personal guest to the exhibition. If I do not find that she has been treated with the utmost respect and consideration, I will speak to Herr Reichsmarschall Goering personally. Perhaps even the Führer.”
“Yes, Herr—Count von Villiez,” the Nazi officer said, and again he clicked his heels.
Aubrey saw that Richard had passed through the turnstile into the exhibition after someone of obvious power had come to her defence. Good thing, too. The SS officer looked ready to explode.
Aubrey extended her hand to her new benefactor, expecting this handsome devil to shake it. He lifted it gently and kissed it.
“Oh my.” She felt her face grow hot.
“Miss Endeavours, I was delighted to learn you would be attending our exhibition. I trust the men I sent to fetch you from your hotel were courteous?”
“You sent them? Yes, they were. But how did you know where I was staying?”
A mischievous grin came across the count’s lips. “I have connections with the government. Your application for press credentials listed the hotel. Do you not remember putting that down?”
Of course she didn’t. She’d never filled them out. John Walton had had someone do it. They had been handed to her as she was boarding the steamer for France.
“Yes, of course. My apologies. I am just a little fatigued from the journey, I guess.”
“When did you land?”
“Three days ago,” Aubrey said. Great, kid, she thought. You just admitted you’ve been in Europe three days.
The count chuckled. “Long voyages affect people in different ways. Regardless, we are most eager to have you here. Your exploits are well known.” He turned back to the young man in the sinister black uniform. “The captain here has made a mistake, and we will overlook this slight incongruity in your paperwork. Isn’t that right, Herr Hauptsturmführer?”
“Ja wohl, Count von Villiez.”
The SS captain shouted at the corporal behind the desk, who in turn stamped the press credentials and handed Aubrey a cardboard placard on a lanyard.
The count shook his head. “You will not need to wear that ugly thing around your neck, Mademoiselle.” He turned to the captain once more. “This woman has my personal pass. Is that clear?” The men nodded almost as one. “Good. Please spread the word to your colleagues in the SS.”
Aubrey watched the young officer’s face; he had taken about as much humiliation as he could endure from this non-uniformed man, no matter how well-connected he might be. He was just regaining himself and straightening his tunic when the count took Aubrey’s arm and personally escorted her into the exhibition.
“I can’t tell you how excited I am to have you here. You’re working as a journalist?”
The way the count said it made her think maybe he was hinting that her job as a journalist was just a cover.
“Yes, just started. Freelance. Aviation articles.”
“A young girl like you with your skills, your bravery, should be up there amongst the clouds.”
“That’s the plan. But first I need to make some money writing articles and buy a plane.”
“Wonderful. Maybe you’ll buy a German plane?”
“Maybe a Bf 109.” She grinned at him.
“Why not? We will start exporting them eventually. I can think of no better ambassador in the United States than Aubrey Endeavours, world-famous aviatrix.”
“You are laying it on a bit thick, Count.”
“Please call me Helmut. Yes, I do tend to do that. In my line of work, I do not get to interact very much with pretty ladies. You are reaping the benefits.”
“And what line of work might that be? Forgive me for being rude, but I don’t know who you are.”
His laugh was a pleasant baritone. “Of course, I don’t expect you to know who I am.” He stopped, dropped her arm and bowed quickly. “I am Count Helmut von Villiez, the eighth baron of Upper Bavaria.”
“Royalty?”
He laughed again. “At one time I would have been called an aristocrat. I’m afraid royalty in my country now wears a black uniform.”
“You’re not in the military?”
“No, my family is in aviation. We make many of the components that go into German aircraft production.” He swept his arm around the exhibition. There were a dozen hangars, all of them with various planes poking their propellors out and hundreds of people gathered around all of them. “And as you can see, business is very good these days.”
“I see. You’re an industrialist.”
“An ugly word. I prefer inventor, or perhaps entrepreneur. That’s a French word. Do you know what that means?”
“I speak French.”
“Ahh, yes. I remember reading that.”
“What else have you read?”
“That you are fearless. That you flew and beat most of the men in your country at their own game. We Germans like a strong, resourceful woman. Listen, Miss Endeavours—”
“Please, it’s Aubrey. After what you did for me back there with the captain, we’re practically pals.”
“All right—Aubrey it is. Now, I have to attend to an important business meeting. You have the run of the place, see what you like, but promise me we can resume this conversation later today?”
“I don’t see why not. Where will I find you?”
“Don’t worry, I will find you. Enjoy yourself.”
She watched him walk off, then turned her attention to the exhibition. Richard Fuchs emerged from the crowd of journalists and convention-goers and sidled up to her. He gave her an odd look.
“Just who are you, exactly?”
“Time’s cover girl of the week, March 25th, 1929.” That stopped him in his tracks. She toddled off. He recovered himself and came up next to her again as she headed to a group of static display aircraft.
“No, seriously.”
“I did some flying back home, won some awards. Got some press. I flew in the air rally last year, the Challenge International. I was forced down. Engine trouble.”
“Oh, right—I think I remember that. Your picture was in my paper. I knew I had seen you somewhere before. I wish I had a copy of it; I would get your autograph.”
“Maybe some other time.”
“Look, there are some colleagues of mine clustered over there, pretending they know what they’re looking at. I should rejoin them. Do you mind if we meet up later?”
“The count beat you to it, I’m afraid. But maybe you could come along too?”
“Doubtful,” he said, looking crestfallen. “The count won’t have time for a mid-level journalist like me. Plus, three wheels makes a tipsy cart.”
“Is that ‘three’
s a crowd’ in German?”
“Precisely. What hotel are you staying at?”
“You move fast.”
Richard Fuchs grinned. “No time like the present—isn’t that what you Americans say?”
“Sure. I’m at the Adlon.”
Fuchs gave her a last dazzling smile, then crossed the tarmac and was greeted heartily by some men in long trench coats and thick spectacles.
Aubrey looked around her, not sure where to start. The scope and scale of the air base were daunting. She couldn’t remember any airfield back home being this big. They were mostly just grass airstrips with rather frazzled-looking wind direction balloons hanging from poles. Despite the size of the airfield, she knew she was home: it had the same sounds and smells she loved so much. Engines revving up, getting ready for takeoff or feathering down to a landing. The smell of grease and aviation fuel drifted past her nose.
She shielded her eyes and watched as, one by one, the fighters from that impressive inverted wing formation started to come in. The hangar nearest to her held one of them on static display. Smooth, rivet-less sides. Menacing machine guns poking out all over the place. She wandered over to it. A man in a Luftwaffe uniform was talking to a crowd of a dozen men, most of them in uniforms themselves, the flags of their countries on their shoulders: Italy, Poland, some she didn’t recognize. She joined the back of the crowd and pretended to listen, but instead she studied the plane. Its configuration was familiar… Then it hit her. This was one of the buggers that had tried to stitch her up over the German countryside.
It was an impressive plane, the last of the biplanes. A Heinkel 51, the placard in front of it said. The officer stopped talking and the crowd of onlookers and prospective buyers dispersed around the aircraft or moved off to others. Aubrey went up to the machine, grabbed hold of one of the struts supporting the wings and pulled on it.
“Very solid,” she said.
The men around her either didn’t notice her or didn’t care. A Japanese man with a camera seemed annoyed that he couldn’t get a clear shot without her in it. He bowed several times and then made a sweeping motion with his hand.
“Thing of beauty, isn’t it?” she said. “Deadly beauty.” The Japanese man started clicking his camera and ignored her. “Well, pardon me all over the place.”
Aubrey busied herself for the rest of the day checking out the planes. There were sales presentations by pilots, technical personnel and representatives from the manufacturers, all extolling the virtues of German aeronautics.
Several of the attendees asked specific questions about ceiling limits, stall rates, fuel consumption. For the older planes this information was given up freely. It was only when she attended a presentation on the Bf 109 that she heard the word ‘classified.’ It was always said with the proverbial wink and grin, and the asker of the question always went away satisfied.
The one example of the Bf 109 on static display was kept well back from the crowds. It was cordoned off with thick velvet rope befitting the king of the air. Aubrey found the aircraft beautiful and menacing. There were a half dozen soldiers standing between the gawkers and the plane. It was brand new, one of the first prototypes; the others were at high-security bases, she knew, undergoing trials. Messerschmitt, the manufacturer of the plane, had representatives there to answer questions. They were hopeful the new plane would be selected as the primary fighter of the Luftwaffe.
Aubrey studied the graceful hunter from thirty feet away and could find no faults. It was perfection in stressed aluminum, with its framed glass canopy and inverted twelve cylinders. Its lines reminded her of a shark. The black muzzles of weaponry protruded from its snout, and the exhaust pipes vented back along the fuselage.
She was staring at the future of aviation, and despite this being the weapon of a belligerent nation, the Third Reich, she found it thrilling.
“A marvellous achievement, isn’t it?” said a voice at her side. It was the count; he had come up behind her, and she felt a giddy sensation in her stomach akin to putting an airplane into a steep dive. That burring sensation in her gut she’d come to love so much.
“She looks fast.”
“She is. And deadly. Twin standard 7.62 machine guns. They want to put a twenty-millimetre cannon on it.”
“Should you be telling me this?”
“We have not hidden this. We are showing this plane to the world. We already have orders coming in from countries that want to purchase it—Spain, Finland. Perhaps even you Americans would be interested in purchasing it. I know that your air force is seriously behind in preparations.”
“Preparations for what?”
“For the future,” the count said, and smiled.
Aubrey knew what he meant. Her uncle had mentioned the inevitable war that was looming on the horizon. Nazi Germany was indeed belligerent. Hitler certainly was, and with a man like that in total control of a nation, war was a foregone conclusion.
“This is a two-seat model?” Aubrey asked.
“Yes, it’s a trainer. Would you like to go up in it?”
Her eyes widened. “Very much so.”
“I can arrange it. I can take you up personally.”
“What a thrill!”
“Aubrey, there is a reception tonight at my home. A small gathering. I would very much like you to attend.”
“Oh… I don’t know.”
“Say yes. It may be your only chance to meet Herr Reichsmarschall Goering. He is honouring me with his presence, and I know he would very much like to meet you.”
“I wouldn’t know how to talk or act at an event like that,” she said, flustered. “I’m just a country bumpkin. I’d end up embarrassing you, ruining your event. Probably not a good idea.”
“You are a famous aviatrix from America. He would love to bore you with his war stories. Please come to my home. It is not far from here. We can leave from the exhibition.”
“I’m not dressed.”
“Nonsense. You are perfect. I have some business to attend to, so please enjoy the rest of the exhibition and I will collect you closer to three. It’s a short drive to my home in Wannsee.”
Aubrey remembered the writing on the back of the picture: Lydia Frick, Wannsee.
“If you insist,” she said.
“I do,” the count said, and smiled.
When Aubrey went to the front gate at three, she spied the count talking to the two young airmen who had driven her to the exhibition. They were ramrod straight and threw up salutes, but the count ignored them. He spotted her emerging from the airfield and waved her over.
Richard Fuchs was there too, with a gaggle of journalists.
“You finished for the day?” she asked him.
“We are. Would you let me show you some of the sights of Berlin? We’re headed to a bar.”
“Not tonight. I have a date, remember?”
Richard saw who she was talking about. He turned his back on the count. “I cannot compete with that.”
“Don’t say that. I hardly know him. I hardly know you, for that matter.”
“Another time, perhaps. You’ll be here tomorrow?”
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
“Who was that?” the count asked when she joined him.
“A reporter friend of mine. German. Works for one of your newspapers.”
“I’ve never seen him. But then again, reporters buzz around me all day; I don’t take the time to get to know them any more than I would a house fly.”
“You don’t like reporters much, do you?”
“A necessary evil.”
“I’m a reporter.”
“You’re the exception, my dear. I took the liberty of discharging your minders.”
“I saw that. They seemed frightened of you.”
“Just being good German soldiers.”
“I see.”
“This way.” He led her over to a massive Mercedes Benz touring car. There were side pipes coming out of the engine as thick as those on a warplane
.
“Look at this beast,” Aubrey said, giving a low whistle.
“Two-ninety horsepower, top speed of one hundred and twenty miles. My driver got it up to that speed once on the new Autobahn. It was thrilling.”
“Almost as good as flying one of those 109s.”
“Almost.”
“You mentioned you would take me up in one.”