by David Nickle
“Don’t mock,” warned Kurtzweiller.
“Forgive me. I’m not mocking you. After everything I have seen . . . No. That’s a good name.”
“Herr Zimmermann was the one who sent along Jason’s letter,” Ruth interjected. “They were both in Bavaria. I think you—particularly you, Andrew—will find what Herr Zimmermann reports about that time to be of great interest.”
“Bavaria? I thought Jason was going to Africa,” said Andrew.
Zimmermann nodded. “So did I. That was the plan for both of us, so far as I understood.”
“Both of you?” asked Kurtzweiller.
“Yes. Jason Thorn . . . Jason Thistledown was my pilot. He and I had both been hired on as crew in a new airmail service, flying out of Algiers, through Africa. We were to be gone a year, maybe more if all worked out as planned.” Zimmermann shook his head again, and his smile returned. “I should best explain my role in this. It is not what I had hoped it would be, and as matters turned out, I am more than a little ashamed of it. I was a fool, twice over at the least.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Ruth. “Please, Albert. From the beginning, as you told me.”
“Ah yes,” said Zimmermann. “Your Boccaccio ritual.”
“Boccaccio?” asked Dominic. “The Decameron fellow?”
“That one,” said Andrew.
“They don’t call it that anymore,” said Ruth.
“We’re going to hear a story,” said Lewis to Dominic. “The same way you told us about Iceland. All in order.”
“From the beginning.” Dominic nodded, and Zimmermann did too.
“The beginning,” he said.
“I learned to fly in the war,” said Zimmermann. “A little later than Jason did. I flew for Die Luftstreitkräfte, and I survived my time, to be truthful, because it was so short. I surely would have been shot down, were I a year or two earlier to the game. . . .
“After the war . . . I continued to fly, but officially with the usual restrictions. Remember, the Versailles treaty dictated that Germany could have no air force. So I flew for Deutsche Luft Hansa, ferrying mail and passengers through Europe. And I taught—first in Germany, at small airfields with light and unarmed planes. But in more recent years—I frequently found myself in Russia. Do you know about Lipetsk?”
No one did. Zimmermann shrugged.
“It is a flight school . . . a place where many of my surviving Luftstreitkräfte comrades still teach young German men to fly and fight in the air—in proper fighting planes, in a place where Versailles does not reach. Outside of Germany, they are building a new Luftwaffe. Against the day that Germany has need of it, and Versailles . . . no longer applies.
“The Russians were amiable hosts—in no small part because they needed the skills we possessed—and we taught as many young Russian pilots as we did Germans. We were well-fed and well-paid, and we mingled. I taught there on rotation for five years. Happily, I might add. I might still be there now, were it not for the fact . . .”
Zimmermann took a deep drag from his pipe.
“Last spring, a man came to see me. A Russian. He said his name was Andrei, and would not tell me a surname. But he knew me very well, and my entire family. Including my great-grandfather on my mother’s side.
“‘Jocheved Calmsohn,’ Andrei said. ‘Of Salzburg.’
“‘If you say so,’ I replied—for the name meant nothing to me then.
“Andrei corrected that. Jocheved, he said, was a tailor by trade, of reasonable means . . . and considered by many to be a good man . . . ‘A pillar of his synagogue.’ I remember Andrei smirking as he said so.
“‘And so we learn, that Albert Zimmermann, hero of the Fatherland . . . is a Jew!’ said Andrei. ‘What a secret you have kept all these years.’
“It was no secret—not that I had kept. For I had no idea. I was—I am—a Catholic, by both parents. I knew that my mother’s family was in Salzburg. But she had never spoken of Jocheved, and he was long dead.
“When I protested, Andrei showed me documentation, which he had brought with him in a slim folio. ‘Your career,’ he said, ‘might well be over.’ And this was true. I knew of Jews who had flown in the Luftstreitkräfte, in the war. None flew, still. None—none that I knew of—taught at Lipetsk. You, Herr Kurtzweiller . . . you must have some idea how it is for the Jews in Germany.”
“Not good,” said Kurtzweiller. “But not so terrible.”
“That is a matter of perspective,” said Zimmermann. “In any event . . . Andrei offered me a bargain—which, he said, might both preserve my career and, he hinted, keep my family safe.
“‘Report to me,’ said Andrei, ‘and to my masters.’
“‘Report?’ I asked, and he spelled it out to me. I was to spy for him . . . for Soviet Russia.
“‘On Germany?’ I said. I was aghast. ‘That would be treason.’
“Andrei returned the documents to his folio, and shook his head no.
“‘No,’ he said. ‘For now . . . we have need of you elsewhere. Who knows? This work might take you far enough away that Germany will be of no consequence.’
“In the end, this persuaded me. Andrei’s interest was in a Frenchman. Emile Desrosiers. All I had to do, explained Andrei, was go work for him. He was starting a small airline in North Africa, and was need of experienced pilots for it. ‘Sign up,’ said Andrei. ‘Keep your eyes open. You will be contacted from time to time, and sometimes asked to obtain something. But nothing untidy . . .’”
Zimmermann paused a moment to draw from his pipe, and stared through the smoke as he exhaled.
“And that is how one becomes a spy for a foreign power, against what one might have thought was one’s will. The tiniest pressure applied in the correct place, and loyalties collapse and realign. It is an extraordinary thing. I resigned my position, gathered my effects and flew from Russia to Frankfurt—and then on a train to this place, to Paris. One of Andrei’s operatives here met me, then took me to meet another, and that one had prepared a meeting for myself and Desrosiers on a suitable pretext. That is how it works. And it works very well: just two days later, I signed on with La Rose, Desrosiers’ new airline.
“I met Desrosiers only three times. Once, in the lobby of a hotel—where I presume that he was staying. He was displeased to hear that I was Austrian, and that I had flown in the Luftstreitkräfte. He made sure I knew he had served as an officer for France—that we were old enemies, and he had not forgotten. ‘I suppose you think that Africa will wash all that away,’ he said to me. ‘The dark continent is a great leveller, yes? All men made the same!’ And more talk like that. Later I was called again to a dark suite of offices on the first floor of a building in Montparnasse—not far from here, in fact. There, I signed papers agreeing to a term of one year, and accepted a retainer—a generous retainer—in cash, along with a reservation at another hotel.
“‘Enjoy the hospitality of La Rose,’ said Desrosiers, ‘and the wonders of Paris.’
“The third time was in that hotel room. Two days before we were to leave. Late in the evening. Desrosiers arrived alone, with a bottle and two glasses. Of our three meetings, it was the only one unusual enough to report to my superiors in any detail.
“‘Tell me, Herr Zimmermann. Do you think you could fly a Latécoère-28?’
“‘Of course,’ I said. I had crewed on similar craft in Germany after the war.
“‘I don’t mean crew it,’ said Desrosiers. ‘I mean fly it. Alone.’
“‘I suppose,’ I said. ‘But you do understand, sir, that the aircraft is designed to be crewed by two men at least. Do I not have a co-pilot?’
“‘Oh, you do indeed,’ said Desrosiers. He chuckled as he poured us out glasses of wine. ‘You may even have met him.’
“‘Perhaps. What is his name?’ I asked, and Desrosiers laughed again.
“‘Oh, I am certain you haven’t been introduced. But you may well have met—over France. You will be flying with an old enemy. Jason Thorn.
’
“He said it as though I should have known the name immediately, and as he related the details, my memory was pricked. A Canadian ace in the RAF, who flew two very distinguished tours—one in the midst of the war, and another at the very end. Fifty-two kills in as many weeks. ‘No, we did not meet,’ I finally said. ‘Given his record, I think if we had I would not be here.’
“Desrosiers laughed aloud at that. ‘Quite so!’ he said, then leaned forward and became very serious.
“‘I must take you into confidence,’ he said. ‘When the Latécoère takes flight two mornings from now, it is likely that you will have to fly it on your own. I hope this is not so. . . .’
“‘Do you believe that Thorn will not honour his contract?’ I asked.
“‘Oh,’ said Desrosiers, ‘I am sure he will be there. M. Thorn has fallen on hard times. No. It is this. You will not be flying directly to Algiers, you see.’
“‘I’m afraid that I don’t,’ I said.
“‘You will be making a stop,’ said Desrosiers.
“‘Where, may I ask?’
“‘I am not sure of that myself right now,’ said Desrosiers. ‘La Rose has . . . passengers on this flight. They will provide charts and instructions. I have been assured it is well within the range of the Latécoère.’
“‘Will Thorn not be joining us on this detour then?’ I asked.
“‘He will,’ said Desrosiers. ‘But maybe not in the cockpit.’
“Before I could ask another question, Desrosiers reached into his coat and produced an envelope. It contained a stack of notes—at least twice as thick as the retainer he had given me. And unlike the retainer, which was in francs, these were American dollars. He placed it on the side table, and pushed it toward me. Under other circumstances, I like to think that I would refuse rather than participate in what seemed like a kidnapping, and would certainly be a betrayal. But of course I was not working for Desrosiers. I was working for men who were much worse. So I took the envelope, and told Desrosiers that there would be no trouble from me. I could fly a Latécoère alone as needed. I was, I lied, his man.
“Desrosiers left me the bottle to finish. I poured it in the sink, and sat down to write out my report. It wasn’t a very good report: just a page, written, as per their instructions, in German, longhand, to a correspondent named Helmut—a bit of diversion that would implicate me as a spy for Germany and not Russia, should I be found out. I dropped it at the desk of another nearby hotel at just past two in the morning. One of my handlers—a woman I knew as Jean—met me the next afternoon during a walk along the Seine. She made it very clear that it wasn’t a very good report and I would have to do better. I needed to learn the destination before we left, and preferably the names of the passengers. The unknown destination complicated matters, Jean explained, because her superiors had gone to some lengths to establish a network of contacts in Algiers—and they worried about losing contact. She reminded me, although she needn’t have, that I could find no safety or solace in desertion. I might not be found, but my family would suffer.
“If it truly was a short detour, and I did land in Algiers, I would be contacted. If not—she dictated to me a postal address in Vienna, to which I should post a letter to Helmut, making my whereabouts clear. In the meantime, Jean said that her superiors were curious about Jason Thorn. Not because they knew anything exceptional of him—but because Desrosiers’ mysterious passengers might. Jean handed me one piece of equipment that I was to put to use: a tiny camera. I have it still!”
Zimmermann dug into the pocket of his coat and removed what appeared to be a thick silver pocket watch. He handed it to Lewis, who passed it to Kurtzweiller who in turn showed it to Andrew. Sure enough, a tiny lens stood out where the wind-up knob should be. Andrew showed it to Dominic, who waved it away, so Andrew set it on the table.
“Ingenious, yes? It is a novelty item from the World’s Fair in St. Louis in the United States. My masters did not waste resources. ‘Take pictures,’ Jean said to me. ‘Of the passengers. Of Jason Thorn. Of your destination. When you are finished, turn the camera over in Algiers. Or mail it to Vienna.’”
“I take it you never arrived in Algiers,” said Lewis. “Or found a post box.”
“Jason,” said Andrew. “We were talking about Jason.”
Dominic handed the camera across the table, and Zimmermann slipped it back into his pocket. “Yes. I met him for the first time very early on the morning of the flight. I still had no idea about the nature of the passengers, or our destination. He seemed very—on the edge, I suppose you might say. I don’t think he slept much the night before. I thought about asking him—did he know more than I? But of course I have seen men like your friend Jason before. A lot of them I flew alongside, in the war. They had seen men fall screaming from the sky, trapped in flaming cockpits. They had sometimes come very close to such ends themselves. Shell shock, they call it. As I looked at my co-pilot, fumbling cigarettes in the back of a truck, I thought it would have been wise to prepare for flying solo in any event. Your friend was in no shape.
“We met the passengers at the little airport at Orly at dawn. There were four of them. Three of them were Germans, and one was a Belgian. That one was in charge. His name was Hector Aguillard and he said he was a physician. Desrosiers made it clear: he was the one whose instructions I should follow. Jason, for his part, had no clue. As he inspected the aircraft, Aguillard and I spoke.
“‘M. Desrosiers has spoken with you,’ he said. ‘You understand about the detour.’
“‘I do,’ I said, ‘but only that much. Where are we going?’
“‘Of course.’ He reached into his valise and handed me a thick envelope. ‘The chart in there is marked. We will be landing in Bavaria, as it happens.’
“‘What is in Bavaria?’ I asked, but that was one question too many and he changed the subject.
“‘The landing strip is rough.’ said Aguillard. ‘A farmer’s field. You are prepared?’
“‘Yes,’ I said, and he said, ‘Good,’ and that was the last he and I spoke alone before we landed.”
“Where,” said Andrew, “did you land?”
“As he said. In Bavaria. Near—but not too near—the town of Wallgau, south of Munich. We landed at a farm, near mountains. I did not spend the flight in Jason’s company. When he learned of the change in plans, he became angry, and Aguillard and his men subdued him in the passenger compartment. One—a young Austrian named Gustav—joined me in the cockpit. Also a veteran of the war, but not a pilot. He had, he told me, survived the trenches, and that was something. It was during this conversation that I learned the other important thing about our destination. It was a project of Adolph Hitler’s Nazi Party. Indeed, said Gustav, it was a project that might assure the future of the German people.
“Well. As you might imagine, this gave me little comfort. You know as well as I, Herr Hitler’s views on the Jews. And here was I, not only a Jew, but a spy, for Russians. A Jew and a traitor, newborn.
“Jason would not speak with me when left the plane, other than to curse me. I couldn’t fault him. Who knows what he might have done were we alone? But we weren’t. We were greeted by a squad of Hitler’s S.A. men, and Jason was taken off with them, to the great house, to learn what it was that required his presence.
“I was alone with the plane for only a few minutes before Gustav returned—alone as well. ‘We will be having a short layover here,’ he announced.
“This surprised me but I remained circumspect. The chart identified a town nearby, Wallgau. I asked about it. Gustav told me that it was barely a hamlet. There was a tavern, he understood, with some rooms, but although it was frequented by some of the S.A. men, he hadn’t been there yet.
“‘Perhaps we can travel there today,’ he said, for it wasn’t far, and he thought we both could stand for a strong drink.
“I had hoped to do so—where there was a tavern, I reasoned, there must also be a postmaster. But as it happened, we were
not able to leave the farm for three more days, and I was kept under close watch at the farmhouse.
“For all that, however, I made use of those days. The house was much grander than one would think, more a mansion than a farmhouse . . . so I did not immediately learn what Jason’s fate was—at least not first hand. I was set up with a bunk in a long dinner hall, converted to a barracks. Jason, I would later learn, had been placed in his own room on the second floor.
“I was able to wander the ground floor, and the kitchen, and step outside onto the porch, and to the privy, but forbidden anywhere else. Unless I devised some pretext to return to the plane, the men on duty would prevent me from wandering very far.
“It was not that I was made to feel as though I were a prisoner. Far from it: word had spread that I was a veteran of the war, same as many of the S.A., and all were courteous and respectful. Indeed, most of what I learned about the farm was talking with some of those fellows. It was the family property of the Visler family, in Munich . . . who had leased it—for a nominal sum—to the Nazi party . . . which in turn, had handed it over to the Hitler-Jugend . . . the Hitler Youth.
“‘Where then are the youth?’ I asked. ‘Certainly not among the likes of you or I.’
“The S.A. man I asked this smiled at my joke in an uncomfortable way but instead of answering, pointed to the range of mountains, to the south. I had flown over that mountain before landing, and it wasn’t very high—trees to the summit. Were they hiking?
“‘Who knows?’ he said.
“His watch-mate explained that there was another settlement, in a deep valley beyond those peaks, and that there had been some trouble there some months earlier. He wasn’t there when it happened, and was sorry for it.
“‘It was a nudist colony,’ he said. ‘Hundreds of naked, rosy-cheeked girls. Frolicking in the pines. Not bad, hey?’
“There is a small chateau there too, once the property of the Seckendorff family, but repurposed, just before the War, as a nudist colony and also a wellness spa . . . a place to allow the perfectible youth of Germany to flourish and mingle. The men I talked to thought it might have been overseen by the Germanenorden.”