"Not out of my hand, but speaking of hands Beneš did agree that matters down south were getting out of hand. He couldn't come himself for now -- that's what he gets for running his own foreign policy while being President. Papen slipped off to Prague last week and met with them.
"It's not only that 'aid' to Spain; Mussolini is far too involved in Yugoslavia and Albania. And after all the antics in France I understand the Czechs are concerned that they may have been basing their alliances on a weak reed. So they want a deal with us. I guess we are a democracy now, or still.
"Oh, and that arms order from Skoda didn't hurt. Noske was annoyed about having to go out of the country but he wanted to teach Krupp a lesson. The Czechs were pleased. We should have the nonaggression pact this fall, and then the next fellow can work for an alliance."
Bolko listened to the affairs of state unmoved; Skoda was French-controlled after all. His news was more personal and he told his brother, "Speaking of buying overseas I got that horse. Omaha. You know, the one that won those races in America. They sent him to England to race and then retired him to stud. And that horse we saw in America. After he does his part we can breed from him too. The stables should have a good year. Won't have good jumpers from him by Tokyo, but when's the Olympics after that? Whenever.
"Mother took my boys and went off to the house in Bavaria. Berlin is a nightmare and she figured, she said, that some clean mountain air was best for little ones. We'll go there ourselves when the Games are over."
"I wish I could join you," Manfred sighed. "Whatever are they putting in these canapes?"
"We didn't get much of a chance to talk at my own reception, Baron."
Ambassador Dodd stood there, a drink in his hand, having taken a post behind some potted plants. It was true -- they had all been laughing at the brothers, who were doing a variation on the hotel-registration scene from their old movie -- and he wanted to make it up.
"We may not get much of a chance to talk here and now, since Sir Eric seems to have half the country here," Manfred said.
"But not the man I want to talk about; Colonel Lindbergh."
Manfred knew why Slim wasn't there, and the reason he wanted people to think he had for not being there (not by any means the same). He said, "The Putnams said he wanted to go out in the country and rest. They can use some comfort and ease. I was hoping that he would see his son's death as settled now.
"I understand his problem with admirers. Every one wants just a little piece, but there are so many of them. That house in New Jersey -- well, I have been told he has found a place in France. An island, safe in the Atlantic. That should be good enough."
And far enough from both here and America, he thought.
"It's so unfortunate," Dodd said and sighed. "Our hero . . . driven from his country. I wish he had some anchor, the way you do."
"Thank you. I believe Sl-- the Lindberghs will be back for the closing ceremonies, in a week. Please do come yourself. And your daughter, bring her too."
"You are a shit. An absolute, total, unmitigated shit. And a blind shit, too."
Sir Robert Vansittart was having it out with a journalist, one from his own country, however. "Randolph, you're drunk," he said.
Randolph was drunk. But not enough to be unable to issue the rejoinder of, "And tomorrow I'll be sober, but you'll still be a stupid shit."
Manfred had approached them during the opening phases of the quarrel but now, like everyone else, he listened.
"I don't need -- " the British diplomat began to say.
"You bloody well do!" Randolph shouted. "You throw all the Germans into one pot and call them black. It's shits like you that give the Nazis appeal. You are so bloody blind that you can't tell the difference between Nazis and anti-Nazis. You call all the Germans Nazis and they might as well all become Nazis.
"If more shits like you were in the Government Mosley would be making hay while the Sun shone. You'd be driving people into joining his gang of thugs at home the way you want to drive people into joining Hitler's gang of thugs here. You couldn't tell the difference between a Nazi and a patriot to save your sorry arse, and if you make patriotism Nazi then the country, all our countries, are done for."
"You're in the Chancellor's pocket," Vansittart said, trying to get away.
"The Hell I am, but it's better than being in someone's arse."
Manfred decided it was time to intervene. He stepped up and put a hand on Randolph's arm. "Randolph, can you take my niece home? She has to go to church in the morning and she really needs a trustworthy escort."
Randolph had glared at him when he touched his arm, but seemed to calm down at the word "niece" and departed unsteadily. Manfred turned again, "Now Sir Robert . . ."
But Vansittart was gone.
He himself left, diplomatically, about midnight. There would be a Cabinet meeting Monday morning, again, to discuss what they could do for or perhaps to or even with Czechoslovakia. Beneš had finally managed to come to Germany, now that it looked as if Italy wouldn't try for a triple carom in the Balkans as well; he would met with the Cabinet and discuss plans for a closer coordination between his country and the Reich. Manfred would have to gird his up loins, perhaps even spiritually, for this struggle.
The Olympic mythos had stressed how all Greece had been at peace during the Games; wars paused, the athletes of opposing cities passed through each others' lands not only unmolested but even honored, the tramp of marching armies came to a stop. Did civil strife stop? For now it was only Spain where such matters mattered, but when Wednesday came . . .
After a long and exhaustive investigation, requiring the interviewing of hundreds of people, the printing of thousands of pages of reports, and the expenditure of millions of Marks, Diels the chief of the Political Police, Levetzow the Berlin Police President, Severing the Prussian Police President, Moldenhauer the Reich Minister of the Interior, and Papen, and their subordinates, concluded that they could not establish what exactly had happened. Not that there wasn't any lack of speculation.
To the readers of Rote Fahne it was all so simple, as one of Münzenberg's ardent investigative journalists revealed in the pages of that respected journal. A sinister band of Nazis, using equipment given them by the government, kept till needed in the basement of the Reichstagspräsidentenpalais, set out in the middle of the night to burn down the Communist Party's national headquarters, the Karl Liebknecht House. Fortunately, a detachment of proletarian fighters, assembling to depart for Spain in the morning to further the fight for freedom, was tipped off by the typical drunken capitalist blunderings of the incendiaries, and valiantly defended themselves.
To the readers of Der Angriff it was all so simple, as one of Goebbels's devoted investigative journalists revealed in the pages of that respected journal. A sinister band of Bolsheviks, using equipment given them by the government, kept till needed in the basement of the Karl Liebknecht House, set out in the middle of the night to burn down the Reichstag. Fortunately, a detachment of Aryan warriors, assembling to depart for Spain in the morning to further the racial struggle, was tipped off by the usual Jewish blunderings of the incendiaries, and valiantly defended themselves.
More neutral publications, such as Hugenberg's Lokalanzeiger and the Social Democratic Vorwärts, recounted a tale of two gangs of rioters having the ill fortune to blunder into each other. "Shots were fired," they reported, thus sparing themselves the political onus of fixing blame, saying who had pulled the trigger first. (Hugenberg still had visions of allying with the more patriotic, less radical elements among the Nazis; the Social Democratic Central Committee thought that the Bolsheviks would soon enough realize that a Popular Front like in France would be their way to participate in democracy and governance.)
It was before dawn; the crackle of gunfire was a dire wake-up call for Berliners more interested in going out to the Stadium. Those who remembered seventeen years ago, when Butcher Noske threw the Freikorps against the Bolsheviks and saved the Reich, retreated i
nto their basements and trembled, prayed, or both.
Had things been normal, fencing and boxing would have continued, swimming and this new sport water polo would be featured, this American game of "baseball" would be tried out, but he track and field events were over. "Yesseh Ohvens" the crowd's favorite, had indeed been photographed shaking the Kaiser's hand during the Imperial Audience Sunday afternoon, and Owens had thanked him for the kind reception, saying to the gratification of his young escort, "Your little Miss Beyer has been most helpful, sir -- Your Majesty."
And, much to his relief, the Völkischer Beobachter did not blazon a distorted drawing of Owens, or even a photo of him, across their front page, though the article about "Luz Long, Human Broad Jump Record-Holder" was bad enough. Probably embarrass Long, too, who had graciously admitted that even coming in second to such an able person as Owens was a honor.
Manfred had said to him, "If you are going to Paris, and you meet Eugene Bullard, could you tell him that he would always be welcome at my house? I would like to meet him, very much." The Negro he wanted most to shake hands with was the fierce Franco-American flyer.
"You German folks are sure friendly," Owens said in reply. "Miss Beyer, and all the rest of the people. I'm about crushed by people wanting autographs."
"I was just thinking about that," Manfred said, and produced one of his pictures from the war, inscribed, "To a fellow champion of sport, Jesse Owens." And he said, "I know what it is like to be squashed by autograph hounds -- is that what you call them -- autograph hounds?" Owens was very grateful, and no one there was looking for Jesse Owens's autograph at the moment.
The shooting woke Manfred up, and he lay there in his bed for a moment, caught in a dream of the War. The British breaking through the lines? He had to --
"Get up, Herr Reichskanzler!" the shout came. "Get up! There's a riot!"
He managed to get dressed in the basement. Tresckow came down about then, saluted, and said, "General von Fritsch is at the Bendlerstrasse, fortunately for us. The Berlin Garrison has been called out, and there will be a call on the radio asking all soldiers on leave to report to the police stations."
"All right, what's going on?"
"It's a shootout in Moabit and Mitte."
His varied guests, everyone from Earhart looking as cool and calm as ever and fully dressed (So was Putnam; interesting) to Woollcott, in a ghastly yellow bathrobe and a grotesquely annoyed look on his face, were joined by the staff. After a few moments someone said, "What a time for a gas attack!"
That was all they needed. Fortunately, it was only a fear. After about half an hour it was clear that no rioters were going to penetrate into the Government Block, and so everyone was allowed to go back upstairs. Manfred had something else in mind.
There was a Heinkel Kadett trainer set aside in a special hangar at Tempelhof. The airplane was painted red, which to aviation cognoscenti clearly indicated who it was reserved for the use of. When they got tested the new liason and utility plane that the Fiesler Werke was developing, he would probably have one -- by then, of course, he would have to buy it for himself, but they had shown him how it could take off on a pocket-handkerchief and he was impressed. (Assuming he could get Lothar or Carmen to let him use it; children these days!) But for now, if he wanted to do some local flying it was the trainer.
Which he happened to need just now. He had to see the fighting, to impress people that he wasn't going to be deterred by their violence. To which he was told that no, it wouldn't be a good idea for him to go see the riot, it wouldn't do if he got shot. To which he said, "Yes, if I walked up to the fighting. Would I?"
In any case Papen was on the telephone to the diplomats, reassuring them that this was only a minor incident. Most of the rest of the cabinet were or would be at the games. Noske was at home in Hamburg, taking a rest after having to endure a day with the Naval Staff and the Navy League at the Yachting competition. He himself had flown up to Kiel to see the great white wings of the sailboats compete (in the Junkers transport, of course). The naval types pointed to the British ships there and said, "Our dignity is suffering, Herr Reichskanzler, Herr Reichswehrminister." Admiral Raeder, for example, had spent the whole day going from stem to stern of the British cruiser, HMS Neptune, his face a study in envy. Noske had complained, "I am getting old, I don't have the bounce-back I used to. I had better take a day off."
While the Reichswehrminister recovered his strength the Reichskanzler had to deal with this trial of strength. He needed to speak to Moldenhauer and Severing, and get some troops in hand. Braun was on vacation himself so Severing had signed a request to the Reich government for troops. "Before Herr Papen tries to take matters into his own hands," he said, sarcastically. The men on leave were ordered to muster at the local police stations, where they would be issued armbands and used to control the crowds. The regular garrison, the Wachtbatallion of the Garde Regiment zu Fuss, the Wachtbatallion of the Garde-Grenadier Regiment, the Wachtbatallion of the Garde Jägerregiment (Schutzen und Landwehr), and the Wachtpferdetruppen of the Garde du Corps Kavallerieregiment would lay aside their ceremonial uniforms for the ordinary feldgrau of ordinary Landsers, and be in closer support.
It was all getting to be too much. He had to see.
The little red plane lifted off and headed north for the action, passing over the rooftops of Berlin. Strafing . . . no, Manfred thought, that would be the business of younger men. And was it even right to use such force? There was a place for everything.
The Olympic city looked at peace, but that may have been because of the police in the streets. Men were heading for police stations, abruptly recalled from leave.
He circled the site. So that was what urban warfare looked like. How it must have been in 1919 . . . For the moment it was just the two mobs having it out with each other, but Severing and Admiral von Levetzow were evidently trying to contain the fighting before sending in men to break it up.
The plane shivered a little, and Manfred looked at the right wing. Was that a bullet hole? A fighter pilot, even the squadron leader, had to be under fire but that wasn't quite his assignment now, not any longer. He banked the plane away from the combat and flew west. Those cameramen in the Hindenburg had the best seats and he figured he might see what their perspective was. The dressage competition would be going on today.
"Germany has again shown itself unworthy of an Olympic Games. Even the Spanish rebels would not have so dared to violate the sanctity of the Olympics." Manfred read the English out loud and then repeated it in German. Then he scowled at the paper. "How did we get this?" he said.
Bodenschatz coughed. "Herr Vansittart dropped it off; it's going to be in the English papers tomorrow."
"His commentary? Or is he merely the bearer of bad news?"
"I don't know."
Manfred looked at his desk, snowed under with urgent reports on the riot. At least it had been local, though in Berlin it was bad enough.. Over two dozen killed, including some bystanders, property damage, the hospitals full of wounded Nazis and Bolsheviks, and innocent people too . . .The English papers, and the American ones too -- worse yet, the French -- would not like this.
The unbidden thought came that it could have been worse. Either of the adversaries could have decided to assault the Olympic housing and purge racial or class enemies. Or both of them . . .
The fire of the torch burned, unmarred by the bloodshed of Wednesday's fighting. But they were not at the stadium; the crowd today was at the Mayfield, viewing the equitation. The baseball game had been the first event after the riot had been suppressed, late Wednesday afternoon, and by some supreme doubling up the games were almost back on schedule, though the boxing, soccer, and diving finals would be Sunday morning against the Equestrian Three-Day Event finals.
"I would venture to say that twenty years ago you would have made quite the show," Prince Eitel-Friedrich said to Manfred as they sat in the Imperial Box at the Mayfield. "Father would have hung the Olympic Gold Medal around your
neck himself and said you were living proof of German superiority."
"And you would have lent me a horse," Manfred said, laughing. The War had put paid to Manfred's dream of representing the Reich at the Olympics; it had also brought him the acquaintance of the old Kaiser's second son, not at court, but in the field, where a Prince had graciously lent a horse to an airman whose plane had crashed while on a reconnaissance in Poland.
Woollcott sniffed, as usual. He didn't know that story, and Manfred and the Prince spent some time correcting his error. Then Manfred picked up on something. "Tell me, Woollcott, you were in the War, as a correspondent. What would you have done with the story of a colonel who took a drum -- not a weapon, a drum -- and rallied his troops who had failed to assault, well, an enemy strongpoint, then lead them to capture the place? What would you have said?"
"That certainly would have gone over well in the papers," Woollcott said. "There was Sergeant York, and the Lost Battalion, so something of the sort -- certainly not you, Richthofen."
"No, him."
The fussy little gaze was turned on the royal presence. "Indeed."
Eitel-Friedrich shook his head. "Herr von Richthofen is too kind. I was only doing what any responsible commander would have done."
"For which he earned the medal for bravery, the Pour le Mérite," Manfred said. "Didn't your Colonel, what was his name, of your Lost Battalion win your Medal of Honor for his leadership?"
"Whittlesey? Yes, he did. And killed himself later, poor fellow."
The Prince sighed, "Ach, what war does to us all."
"But Your Royal Highness has been too kind yourself in praising my small efforts," Manfred said. "At riding, that is. Let's just watch the riding. I like our Freiherr von Wangenheim."
"Would you care to be interviewed, Your Royal Highness?" he heard Woollcott say as he looked at the riders coming out on the track. Perhaps that would be for the best, they needed some positive news to counterbalance the riot and the developments from Spain. Woollcott's audience might well contain many veterans of the "war against the Hun" but they liked a good story as much as anyone.
A Man and a Plane: An Alternate Germany Page 36