Papen had arranged the deal, but he was too controversial to hold any post with authority. We needed to have the SPD supporting us and they didn't (don't) like him. But I needed someone who knew the ins and outs of government and it may surprise some people but Papen in spite of all his intrigues is dedicated to a stable government. MvR
"Yes, it certainly is surprising," Putnam said. He held up the slip of paper with Manfred's note, chuckled at the thought of the radical socialist having to ask other leaders for permission the way he had asked the President, then put it back between the pages.
Further along there was an interesting comment:
Lanny ran up a large telephone bill calling his friends in Berlin . . . Johannes passed along some of the more sparkling rumors that were floating around: "Everyone says that the Old Gent caved in under pressure from the Sozis. Brandt, Schmidt, and Schröder made the deal, and the Sozis picked the Flyboy as their front-man. All the important posts went to them."
Who are these people? The SPD leaders were afraid of crossing up Noske, who was my supporter, and who had been right about the folly of their turning down the deal that Schleicher had offered the unions. Besides, some of Papen's ministers were still in office. It was a choice between people who knew how to run things but had no support or people who had support but didn't know how to run things. MvR
"Well, it is fiction," Putnam said, half to himself. "Only fiction." He read on through the descriptions of the era when Germany had held its breath waiting for the explosion, and when it came.
The Sturm Abteilung would break the heads of the Reds, and of anyone else who opposed them. Hitler would turn them loose on the governnment, and on the hated Jews, and when they had created chaos, when they had discredited all the alternatives, he would present himself as the only guarantor of power.
Some people are too enamoured of Vast Secret Conspiracies, people who openly oppose each other secretly working together. One of Mr. Campbell's writers, a Mr. van Vogt, for example. Herr Röhm was indeed at odds with the other Nazis, there were personal issues as well as political ones. He was not acting as a secret icebreaker for a Nazi triumph, he wanted power for himself. MvR
The editor scribbled a note to himself to meet with this John Campbell and see about publishing some of his writers. If they could drop this spaceship stuff and write about serious matters, he thought, they could do very well. Given how Sinclair's books were doing, a work about political intrigue would go over wonderfully. Sinclair -- there was that Sinclair Lewis book a few years back. And there was already a series of kiddie books about Slim Lindbergh with the serial numbers filed off. Yes, a book about a plot against the country, a scheme to make someone Remarkably Like Slim, but not really, President . . . Putnam quit woolgathering and went back to reading. A few pages later Lanny Budd was himself in Germany, entertaining a Nazi friend:
Up in the room they had coffee, also brandy in large but very thin goblets. Heinrich never felt better in his life, and he talked for a couple of hours about the N.S.D.A.P. and the wonders it had achieved and was going to achieve. Lanny listened intently, and explained his own position in a frank way. . . . Heinrich said, "This is all artificial, in any case. The flier is nothing but a puppet of the Jews, and this unnatural alliance will come apart soon. The Führer has prepared himself for twelve years, as you well know, and already half Germany recognizes him as the rightful ruler of the nation. The current government has been put in power by an intrigue, and is already coming apart."
I understand Mr Sinclair is somewhat to the left, though against the Bolsheviks. The Nazis then were still very important. The coalition's coming apart was still possible -- we couldn't even agree on what to call it! Fortunately half the members were afraid of the Nazis, half the members were afraid of the Bolsheviks, and most of them were afraid of my wrath. There are times when I get tired of being the focus of everyone's admiration, but sometimes it has its uses. MvR
Putnam shook his head ruefully at that comment. There were people who couldn't understand about things between him and Amelia. But especially after the time she had crashed in the Pacific -- he turned away from thoughts of being without her.
He turned a few more pages and came to another note. Lanny Budd was meeting with the speaker of the Reichstag, Hermann Göring, about an art deal:
. . . Lanny had seen so many pictures of him that he knew what to expect: a mountain of a man, having a broad sullen face with heavy jowls, pinched-in lips, and bags of fat under eyes. He was just forty, but had acquired a great expanse of chest and belly, now covered by a finely-tailored light-gray suit. Suspended around his neck with two white ribbons was a golden star having four double points.
Göring put on a lot of weight after he was wounded in the putsch attempt in '23 and he has let himself go since then. Who's to tell him to stop? I understand he still takes drugs for the pain. Yes, he does wear his PLM with civilian clothes sometimes. I can understand that Göring needs to remind himself that he is a hero. Someone needs to tell Mr. Sinclair what the medal actually looks like. Don't they edit books any more? MvR
Putnam read for a while, as Lanny Budd chatted with various of his European friends, deploring the instability in Germany and the Nazi Threat. Manfred had a note on that, too: "The Bolsheviks are just as much a threat, but he doesn't say anything about them; Münzenberg still publishes several newspapers, and it wasn't Italy that attacked our neighbour. MvR"
But then he came to the scene where Lanny Budd finally met the German chancellor.
. . . Looking at him, Lanny thought once more that here was the world's greatest mystery. Once upon a time every girl in Germany had held a picture of this man next to her heart; every boy had worshiped his image. He was smaller than his guests, and as he was now in a plain business suit with a white collar and a black tie, he might have been a junior clerk in some great business enterprise. He lived sparingly, and the exertions of his flying kept up his youthful form. The exponents of Aryan purity might well have enshrined his fair hair and cold blue eyes, fair skin and upright pose, as the realization of their ideal.
Flatterer. MvR
Lanny Budd presented a picture of his mother in her wartime nursing uniform to the Chancellor, they discussed some problems, and then he implored the Great Man to release his friend the violinist.
"Freddi Robin is, I have been told, a Communist."
Lanny struggled in thought trying to formulate an answer. As he himself once had done, Freddi had flirted with the Communist doctrine. No one seriously believed that they were all Red Revolutionaries scheming to blow up the world and plant the Red Flag on the ruins! Freddi was no different from thousands of youths, trying desperately to comprehend the wrongs of the world.
He thinks the Bolsheviks in Germany are misunderstood social democrats, evidently. Perhaps he should have a talk with Noske, who was more accustomed to giving the Bolsheviks some of their own terror back. If this character had been accused of planting bombs, trying to burn down the Reichstag building, or something of the sort on behalf of the Bolsheviks, he would have had the right to a trial. I think Mr. Sinclair attributes to me too much of a concern for the fine arts, and too much knowledge of every little detail of the government's doings. Lanny Budd giving me a picture of a nurse? The last time I was pictured with a nurse, everyone in the country thought we were getting married! MvR
In the end the Chancellor was persuaded by Lanny Budd's superior virtue and reasoning, and released his innocent friend. From there the ubiquitous art dealer got himself into a plan to rescue a Jewish family from being lynched by the Storm Troopers, and the book ended with them all safe across the border in France.
Good Lord, where had the day gone? It was near sundown, the darkness was rising from the ground (the association with fliers -- sometimes very intimate indeed -- had stamped their perspective into his soul) and Amelia would be returning from her flight. Putnam put the pile of galleys in the box on his desk, then stooped and retrieved one of Manfred's notes that had fallen out.
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Spirit-mediums! An American admirer gave me a translation of the Frenchman Nostradumus's work and singled out the verses that predicted our defeat in the War and then my rise to command. During the War Mother had been given a translation that had predicted we would win it. How do these psychics reconcile the difference? Now that man in Virginia -- but he never was so grandiose. MvR
Lanny Budd often consulted mediums, as did his creator. Putnam made a note to inquire about the "man in Virginia" . . . "I see you're reading that Sinclair book."
Amelia had been standing in the door and seen the title. After she commented on her observation, she crossed the room and kissed him on the top of the head. "Do you think he can put us in his next one?" she said.
CHAPTER 45
Richthofen Castle, 7020 E. 12th Avenue, Denver, Colorado, USA, Wednesday, July 2, 1941
The house, or mansion, or castle, whatever you wished to call it, was shut off from the vulgar mob by an iron fence. The visitors stood by the gate, Stan May the president and chief representative of April, May and June Realtors (his sister and her best friend, the secretaries, that was) and the two men wanting to buy the place. May said in enthusiastic description of Denver's Richthofen Castle, "Sure enough, built by the Red Baron's own uncle Walter. Mr. Smith and Mr. Smith, we can go on in now!"
The realtor found the right key, opened the gate, and let the two Smith brothers in. He had already made a joke about cough drops, but these two fellows were nothing like the bearded brothers on the medicine box, but clean-shaven, right proper Americans like, with a funny sort of accent. Maybe they were Limeys?
Anyhow, this Mr. Charles Smith said he might be able to swing a deal to buy the Richthofen Castle, but his brother Mr. Fred Smith would have to approve the deal, they being partners and all that. So here they were, trying to get in the viewing before Independence Day. It might be too late; Thursday would be sort of dead as everyone prepared for the big day.
They kept pretty quiet as he showed them through the place. Not a good idea to mention that murder . . ."Thirty-five rooms, and a big museum of all the Aviators from the War! Were you over there?"
"You might say that," Fred said.
"I was in school," Charles said, and they both smiled.
The realtor now led them down to the big room with all the aviation stuff. "Goes with the furniture. It's a bargain! History . . . you look like you know something about this."
"I do a little flying," Fred said. Then he pointed at a picture across the room. "That for instance?"
Charles said, "Oh not that again!?"
Fred went over across the room as the realtor said, "Yes, that's the old Red Baron himself! I understand he commissioned it his own self!"
Fred looked at the picture, then stood beside the portrait showing the air ace in full flying gear, flying valiantly against America's flyboys. "I've seen this picture before. Some of my friends say it looks like me."
The realtor compared life and depiction. "Well, Mr. Smith, if you really want to know, I suppose you favor the old boy a little."
"I suppose."
"Shall we go up and sign the papers?" the other brother said. He had smiled cryptically at the comment.
Upstairs in the main hall, the realtor opened his briefcase and said, "Now this is just the memorandum of agreement. We'll go through the closing once the title search is complete. But you can move in tonight if you like!"
"Not quite," Charles said. "My wife is coming in from Los Angeles for the weekend, and my brother here has some other business. You sign first." He held the letter out to his brother.
"Oh no," Fred said, raising his hands. "It's your idea, you are more likely to be here, you sign first." They went back and forth in an after-you-Alphonse-after-you-Gaston routine, but finally Charles signed. He handed the pen and paper to his brother, who repeated the procedure.
Then Fred handed the letter to the realtor, clicked his heels and bowed, saying, "It has been a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. May."
And there they were:
/s/ Karl-Bolko Graf von Richthofen
/s/ Manfred Albrecht Fürst von Richthofen
"Ha ha ha!" young Manfred said. "I wish I could have seen his face! Did he really faint!?"
"No," Bolko said. They had been recounting, with barely suppressed glee, the story of how they had pulled a fast one on the realtor. "Though I wouldn't have bet on his being able to get very far. I didn't think you could pull off that trick again! It was the same picture, wasn't it, the Reusing from the Berlin dealers'?"
"No. I think it was some cover art from one of those magazines, perhaps G-8 and His Battle Aces. They do other aviation stories, you know. And Upton Sinclair isn't the only writer using me as a character. Someday Captain Johns and this Robert Hogan are going to get together and then I'll open the covers of a magazine and find myself having dinner with Biggles and G-8, swapping stories.
"It's probably a good thing I'm not always like the man in the pictures. How much would the price have gone up if he had known our real names?"
"Quite a bit, I'd say," Bolko said as he looked around the suite. Why had his brother taken a hotel so far out of the way? It wasn't a bad one, he understood, but still . . . He addressed his nephew, "Manfred, you will have to see the place. It looks like that castle in Silesia, but all tarted up. Mr. Patterson collected a lot of souvenirs from the War and I made sure the collection went with the house."
"After I toss out all the forgeries and put in some of my duplicates it should be adequate." the elder Manfred opined. "Maybe even some more covers from those magazines."
His son began to get to his feet. "Which reminds me, Father, the convention's guest of honor is having a reception in his suite. Would you care to come along?"
Manfred shook his head. "Not now. This is his weekend, let him have the big event, let him have his place. I'll come along in a bit and say hello, though. Be sure to tell him -- heh-heh -- tell him he can come by after the convention and have dinner in our castle. Let me know how surprised he is."
Cousin Walter had certainly had the spirit of the Junkers. The Prussian Land League members who got big loans from the Osthilfe, Manfred feared. But if he was going to be a prince, he supposed he should have a Schloss, and if it had to be in America, such was fortune. To be fair, a lot of the ornamentation had been added by Herr Patterson. Perhaps his wife had been an overenthusiastic advocate of the simple life. Far too grand for him, really, and he suspected he had picked one of the guest rooms to sleep in, but it was about what he felt comfortable with.
Bolko had spent the weekend hiring staff; for now just a butler, cook, and maid, but more to come. Manfred had been the honored guest at the Independence Day parade, and had spoken politely to the local veterans of the War afterwards. The next day he had told the readers a little more about what the rocket boys at Peenemunde were doing. He wasn't sure which audience appreciated their respective speech more.
Now Bolko had picked up Viktoria and gone out to look at some ranching property. Their children were with Mother, in Bavaria, so they could let go. In a month or so Manfred would go to Minnesota to hunt bear with Eddie, and again at the end of November for the moose. He would drop off his son at the Mayo Clinic and if the reports were good, young Manfred could join them.
Now Herr und Frau Heinlein, their stint as honored guests at the convention done, were formally invited to dine with the Fürst von Richthofen. He greeted them in that museum room; it somehow seemed appropriate. Herr Heinlein returned the favor, or the appropriateness, almost the first words out of his mouth were, "You know, I wanted to be a pilot, but my eyes -- I had to take another assignment. Then this tuberculosis, and here I was on the beach, out of the Navy for good. I had been on the Lexington with Admiral King, when he was her captain, and he asked for me when he got his shore assignment. Wish BuPers had been sensible."
Manfred looked up (what again) at the man. Very distinguished, but perhaps a bit too honored . . . tall, dark hair, a middle A
merican of Eddie's sort. "Mr. Heinlein, sometimes the general staff can be too set in its ways. I've seen it from both sides now, above and below, and the rear echelon types . . . Shall I show you around? I'm afraid I wasn't the one who collected this material, it came with the place, but I think I'm reasonably acquainted with the topic. This is a Sopwith Camel, like Billy Bishop and some of the other Canadians flew, and I suppose that's the pilot's dog sitting . . ."
After showing them around, he took them upstairs to the dining room, a grand place even if not up to the grandioseness of Herr Hearst's. By now they were "Robert", "Leslyn", and "Manfred"; Robert had talked about his brother, who was in the army, and about being in the "National Guard", what they called the Landwehr, after the War, before he became a naval officer. "And then the tuberculosis got me, and I fiddled around for a while before this writing thing took off."
"I was a little surprised to find out you had written that story about the Japanese conquering America," Manfred said.
"I had to fix up something John Campbell didn't sell. It wasn't much, even when I got through with it, but at least I got the cash. I had some thoughts about a more contemporary one, with radioactive dust, but they didn't go anywhere."
"Ach! Poison gas and now this. How terrible war can be. My comrades in my first flight class -- but enough of that. Lunch will be served, my guests, and my son will join us. Come along, this way."
He would have to put a copy of that picture here. Earhart had said it: "You ought to title it what you said about it: 'Ask no further -- they are all dead.'" Enough of that indeed, there was promise in the world perhaps now.
Young Manfred didn't feel up to navigating the stairs so much, so he was already sitting at the table when they came in. He struggled to his feet when he saw them enter. "Mr. Heinlein! Robert! So good you could come. And Mrs. Heinlein! Wasn't it fun at the con, Leslyn?"
A Man and a Plane: An Alternate Germany Page 66