A Man and a Plane: An Alternate Germany

by Joseph T Major

"It's a bloody haunt of leftists is what it is," Randolph said. He had disembarked behind Manfred, and was scanning the area for a hint of bars. This Mines Field probably had one, but it would be haunted by pilots.

  "Randolph! You're beautiful! Are they still grinding out quota quickies over there!? Carmen! I can get you a test shoot with Metro! They'll grab you in a moment! Oh."

  Young Manfred had insisted on descending the stair by himself. The flight had gone through some turbulence and he was in some pain; slowly he took the stairs, step by step, gripping the rails with his hands. His face was pale and drawn, which made the fair hair and bright blue eyes that were his paternal inheritance stand out all the more. He trembled, and all three of his flightmates started back to help him.

  "NEIN!" he called out. "Father, I can do it myself."

  "He used to say that when he was a boy," Manfred said, a sad, familiar tone in his voice.

  They watched as the heir of the Richthofens continued his slow descent. When he got to the foot of the steps he realized a problem. "My cane," he said, slowly, painfully.

  "Let me," Randolph said, and he slid by young Manfred and dashed up the steps.

  Udet looked the wounded hero over and said, "What you need is to sit by a pool and have adoring starlets fawn over you. War hero, those looks -- you'll have to beat them off with that stick, and the attention will do you a world of good."

  Then he turned to the father. "Rittmeister, I have my Cadillac here. If they can load your baggage into the trunk, we can be off to the Garden of Allah. I have a cottage there and took a couple more for you folks. If the boy here likes, I can make a few calls and, heh heh."

  Young Manfred essayed a smile. "Maybe later. Aren't we supposed to see Harpo tomorrow?"

  They were now on the way to the Marx menage. After several more scrapes the Udet vehicle came to a stop in front of Arthur's house. Manfred, from his precarious position in the front seat, looked the place over and said, "Ernst, it's just as well you don't have a driver's license, because they'd take it away from you!"

  "He has no license? Won't we be in trouble?" young Manfred said.

  "Diplomatic plates!" Udet said, cheerily, opening the door. "And a diplomatic passport! Special assistant air attaché and someday I may do some work! Come along!"

  Carmen and Randolph opened the back doors and got out, to be faced by a remarkable sight. A man in a decrepit tan raincoat had burst out of the front door of the house. He dashed down to the car, tootling on a cab horn, brass with a big red rubber bulb that matched his curly red hair, protruding from beneath a battered top hat. He stopped near the front of the car, pointed at the air aces, and silently laughed, doubling over in comic recognition.

  "Hello, Arthur," Manfred said.

  "Hello, Harpo!" Udet and Carmen and even Randolph said.

  Arthur then made one of his grotesque faces, shaking his head at the absurdity of it all. Then he saw Randolph helping young Manfred out of the car and stopped dead, all the absurdity gone from his face and mien in a moment. He beckoned towards the house, and dashed there himself, beating them through the door by some time.

  By the time they all got to the front door, the owner had come out. The man who greeted them at the door was balding, round-faced, and voluble, dressed in that leisurely American outfit of slacks and open-necked shirt. "Welcome to my home," he said, his voice harsh and yet friendly. "I didn't know your son was so badly hurt, Manfred. Do you want a firm seat or a soft one? Carmen, you look beautiful, and that's not just Hollywood talk. Do you really do all that flying? Randolph, take a seat and I'll fix you something to drink, if you can stand my drinks. And do I call you 'Field Marshal' or just plain 'Udet'?"

  Udet spoke first. "You call me 'Ernst' and I call you 'Harpo'."

  Arthur turned to enter the house. "Susan and the kids will be back shortly. She took them to the temple for something. After lunch I'll play for you," he said, leading them on in.

  Manfred thought, irrelevantly, that Albert Ball used to play the violin. And once he himself had been at one of the ex-Kronprinz's violin concerts. For some people, music was an extra part of their life. Arthur sat in the great bay window of his mansion with his head propped against the great triangular frame of his harp, lost in the joy of playing. They watched as he gave himself up to his relaxation and satisfaction.

  Susan Marx had been pleased to greet her husband's friends and their friends. The children had been awed to see the Red Baron and his Right-Hand Man Udet visit their very own house, and autographed pictures of the serious young man with the Pour le Mérite had been distributed appropriately, along with publicity stills of the daring young Pilot Udet who had rescued the lovely Miss Riefenstahl from The White Hell of Pitz Pilu.

  The master of the house got a special present. After remembering what Maria von Trapp had said, and knowing Arthur, Manfred gave him a copy of that picture with his face in the nun's coif. Arthur looked at it, made one of his grotesque faces, and said, "Wait till you see those shots from college of Aleck in a dress." That bothered him; was Woollcott one of those people?

  Rather than think about that, he sat and listened to the harp music. It was hard to tell which was the real Arthur; this player consumed by his art, the silly fool with the horn, or the sportsman who had greeted them at the door. Perhaps they all were, just as there were many Richthofens.

  Arthur finished his piece, lifted the harp from his shoulder and smiled shyly at the audience. "Bravo!" Randolph impulsively cried, and young Manfred said, "Thank you, Harpo."

  Udet had been listening with only half an ear. He said now, "Rittmeister, would you like to go to Canada this summer?"

  "What's in Canada?" Manfred said.

  "Mike Curtiz is shooting a movie about bush pilots for Warner! He's got Jimmy Cagney as the star, and more in our line, Billy Bishop has agreed to show up when they shoot the scene with the graduation of the air cadets! Paul Mantz is doing the air stunts and he offered me a seat, and screen time too! If you join in, that'll make it a hit for sure! Curtiz will love it! 'Bishop, Udet, and Richthofen'! We'll get billing!" Udet seemed almost ecstatic at the thought.

  Arthur had been listening in to this professional talk, now he shook his head. "Ernst, Ernst, why do you get tied in with these nothings? Nat Perrin told me about that picture Paul has you lined up for, with Abbott and Costello. Really now."

  "Well, I have to keep up my contacts," Udet said. "If you folks don't want to go to the premiere, how about going down to Metro on Monday? Rest up this weekend, then tour the studios! Yes, of course!"

  "I think I'll take a pass," Randolph said. "Mr Hearst has invited me to San Simeon."

  Arthur began laughing. "Just don't do the bit with the fur coats! Charlie Lederer and I . . ." and his voice trailed off in hysterical laughter.

  "Would you care to see it, Carmen? Richthofen, you can tell your mother and her mother that the place is larger than most hotels and we can maintain a more than adequate chaperonage."

  "That would be nice, Randolph. I bet I can take off a Storch from his lawn," Carmen said.

  "Carmen, you can take off a Storch in the dining hall!"

  "Yah," Arthur added. "I remember what the Zeppelin hangar in Jersey is like, and Hearst's dining hall is even bigger!"

  Manfred sighed. "Very well. Provided you are properly chaperoned, Carmen, I consent. Ernst, will you escort us to this 'Metro' -- what is it, a subway?"

  Arthur got up, approached him, and began his silent laughter, pointing to the dull old pilot. "Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer," Udet said, watching the show. "They did the boys' last few movies -- A Night at the Opera, A Day at the Races, The Producers, and Go West. The ones they did with Hugenberg, remember? It'll be great. We can see Mike Curtiz, too. And some other people; Selznick, maybe Sam Goldwyn himself. We're off to see the wizard."

  Why did Arthur's family find that comment so funny?

  Manfred thought that MGM seemed a bit less stuffy than UFA. Certainly, Herr Selznick was no Hugenberg. (Herr Goldwyn, h
e had learned, was now an independent producer.) As long as no deal-makers were hiding behind a cloud or whatever, he felt safe.

  Udet had picked them up in the morning. This -- resort, he saw it, though it was considered a hotel here -- had a restful atmosphere. Young Manfred spent Saturday by the pool, and while the promised women did not materialize, he did express an entirely unseemly desire to go meet them.

  The traffic had been a bit thicker that morning, and so Udet drove in a manner less appropriate to taking a D.VIII -- or now, it would be an Emil, a Bf-109E -- through bumpy air. They arrived in the middle of the morning. At the studio, the gate guard said, "Oh, General Udet! Come on in!" and lifted the barrier. Udet honked the horn and grinned back at him.

  Young Manfred disdained any aid from his father or the driver and managed to get out of the car without too much trouble. His father trailed behind, watching cautiously, as they walked slowly across the vast, asphalted grounds. It did rather seem like some gigantic air base; most of the people they saw looked normal. Which was rather like the UFA studios, come to think of it.

  "We'll have to be quiet, of course," Udet said, pushing open the door to one of the large buildings. "You do what the locals do. Just like on an airbase."

  "What are they shooting here?" Manfred asked as they entered.

  Udet stopped and the three of them formed a knot in the hall as he thought. "I think it's that movie about Father --"

  Someone about their size came rushing down the hall. He bowled over Udet, knocked out young Manfred's cane and let him fall, and sent Manfred sprawling. From the unseemly position on the floor, Manfred lifted his head and looked down the hall, but saw only the door to the outside swinging shut.

  There was a sound of racing feet behind them as Manfred got to his, then began helping his son to do likewise. Someone said, "Field Marshal von Udet! I'm so sorry! Let me get Mr. Taurog! Are you all right?"

  On his feet now, Udet dusted off his suit. "And that, Rittmeister, was the famous Mickey Rooney," he said casually, then looked at the hurrying aides. "Please tell Mr. Taurog -- Oh, Norman, there you are! How's the filming going!"

  The director seemed a welcome contrast to the heedless and rapid star. He seemed a trifle concerned as he said, "Ernst! You should have told us! Is this the Red Baron? I'm sorry! You understand, Mickey is also doing another Andy Hardy movie and . . ."

  Afterwards, they did tour the lot, and for a change, he got instead of gave autographs. Half the rising young actresses seemed to want to be photographed with them, and Udet was being very helpful. How helpful Manfred didn't want to think about.

  That night, as he sat in his room writing a letter to the boys in China, he heard the sounds of the party. Manfred got up and went to the door, then, hearing the gleeful cries and splashes, went back to his chair and picked up where he left off. Let them have their fun. " . . . and we have been invited to the palace of the Herr Hearst, who has more papers than the Ullsteins, Hugenberg, and Münzenberg all put together, not that they ever would. He seems to want to show off his place, or perhaps I should call it palace. I have been used to being used in my time but curiosity drives me."

  A convoy of automobiles came up the road to San Simeon. The deal-maker was back in Hollywood, squiring rising young starlets around town, getting written up by those scandalous columnists Hedda Hopper and Louella Parsons ("Who was seen at the Brown Derby last night but the Ace of Hearts and the hottest young femme in town . . ." Fill in a different woman's name every week.). Udet had done his duty to the Reich, and his retirement was far more pleasant than that of so many of their fliers. "Ask no further -- they are all dead." Had they lived, most of them would have been overjoyed to be doing what Udet was doing now. Let him enjoy himself.

  Or so ran the tenor of Manfred's thoughts. Now he was on the road to this feudal castle, wherein his niece and her client . . . or was it more? He wondered. Or, sometimes, hoped. Winston had almost despaired for his son. And now there they were in this great castle, which Götz von Berlichingen would have been proud of.

  For Hearst, it was a visit from a head of state. An entire convoy of automobiles had been dispatched to transport them. Even an ambulance. His son had been almost embarrassed. "Whatever has Carmen been saying about me?" he had said. "I am not helpless!"

  He had a limousine to himself, his son another, then there was the luggage, the porters, the liveried flunkies of every sort. They were halfway to this Hearstberg when Manfred realized where he had seen it all before. Louis-Ferdinand kept a less grand state these days, in keeping with his own life and the tenor of the times. But his grandfather had been far more, well, grand. Or grandiose. And not just the retenue but his palaces, for example.

  Now he himself had never been to this grand palace Göring had built as mausoleum for his dead wife Karin, but there once had been this huge spread in the Lokalanzeiger on "Our War Hero's and Political Wizard's Palace". Mother had looked at it, sniffed, and said, "What an upstart." This Hearstberg was even grander, he had heard.

  The car turned a corner and there it was. He blinked. It wasn't the style he was used to. Now he wouldn't live in Sanssouci, but if he had had to hold receptions like a Kaiser, it would have been suited to such drama. This was . . . Spanish? How would they say it, "castillo"? Better say "Hearst Castle". It was on a ridge, white amid the green, and substantial; a large building and there seemed to be several other palaces around.

  The chatelaine of the palace was not to be talked about. He understood that Hearst had a wife, but this woman was his protege and also, it seemed, mistress. Udet had been almost brutal. "Everyone knows about it but no one wants to say it." Like with Prince Eitel-Friedrich and his staff . . .

  This was a beautiful stretch of country, far away from the close air of Hollywood, the crowded streets. The sea view was inspiring, and no doubt the beach would be too. Nothing of the chill beaches of the North Sea, to be sure!

  He leaned over and looked up and out of the window. Oh to be flying . . .

  "You needn't worry about your niece," Randolph said. "More to the point, your mother needn't worry about her grandchild."

  He occupied a chair in the sitting room of the guest house where Manfred had been ensconced, this "Casa del Mar". It was about the size of the house in Schweidnitz! Whatever would Mother have said? He could have put the entire Jagdgeshwader headquarters here. He imagined Schwerin von Krosigk throwing up his hands in dismay at the drain on the budget, had this been one of the Kaiser's palaces. Even Meissner would have been troubled.

  "How so?" was all he said.

  "She's in the bloody main fortress. I have been relegated to that bloody 'Casa del Monte'. Practically in bloody Coventry!"

  It was the inactivity that concerned Manfred. Without articles to write, notables to shock, or the like, Randolph tended to indulge in whisky. As with everything else, there was certainly an abundance of that commodity here. His color did look high, as if he had had a drink or five. Did Herr Hearst keep a stables? They ought to be riding.

  "If you're missing my niece's company, perhaps we should join her and Mr. Hearst for dinner."

  "Prince von Richthofen, you have contained the threat of Red Russia for the moment."

  Hearst stalked up and down the floor of his library, while his guests sat and contemplated the books. For all that the baronial dining hall -- baronial? It would have been too grand for the old Kaiser! -- had had fine dining, it had been the louche touch of napkin and condiment holders straight from an American roadside diner squatting on the long wooden tables that had influenced Manfred's feeling about the place. Hearst had presided over one long table, with the Guest of Honor on one side and a rather fluffy woman on the other, the one he had been told Was Not To Be Talked About. (Udet had said, "He spends money like water putting her in movies she's not suited for.")

  Manfred quit turning his head back and forth after about the tenth pass, instead he looked at Randolph, who was fuming over being separated from Carmen, his notepad, or the bott
le. Mother would be satisfied that her granddaughter was safe and secure, she had been packed off to the upper reaches of the grand chateau after the meal (going with the Woman Not To Be Talked About to discuss dresses, which only occasionally interested her). Hearst had indicated that this was not a working holiday and if he wanted publicity he'd handle it himself, so Randolph couldn't write. As for the other . . .

  "It wasn't me. I was only the -- how to say it -- man at the throttle. The Reichswehr, our people in general, the Poles, the fighting men of England and France and the lesser allies, they were the ones who pushed back the Bolsheviks. The Poles had seen the prospect of conquest once already, in 1920, and they understandably did not want a repetition."

  Hearst then launched into a long diatribe about being maligned. "You know full well how these movies showing evil Hun pilots bombing orphanages are popular amid the Red cinema. Don't you feel that your honor has been insulted? We don't have to put up with that sort of insult here . . ."

  No, Manfred thought, he could close the gates and shut out everything except his editorials. The more he saw newspaper owners the more he found the idea oppressive. All Hearst wanted was control -- and for all the separation of language, of country, of indeed politics, there was not much to choose between, say, Hearst and Hugenberg. At least when Hugenberg had begun lecturing him he could say, "Time, Herr Vizekanzler."

  These newspapers did publish race results. There was a race he wanted to see next month.

  CHAPTER 44

  Churchill Downs, Louisville, Kentucky, USA, Saturday, May 3, 1941

  Someone had given him the Lexington newspaper and he looked with some dismay at the photo spread: "Two Fathers -- Two Sons" it was blazoned. The track was filling up for the big day, and already two races had been run. The honored guests sat in the Governor's box; not the Governor Chandler who had tried to ingratiate himself with Bolko, but someone with the odd Christian name of "Keen". Governor Johnson was a veteran of the War, and had been quite willing to be reconciled.