Slowly, gently, the basket swayed upward. Peter had not expected it would feel like this — he could hardly tell they were moving at all. Doris and the kids watched the trees below get smaller.
Peter kept his eyes on the gas flame. He mustn’t let it touch the fabric, no matter what. He gripped the stovepipe to steady the flame in the center. It was as cold as ice! With a groan Peter remembered that he had left his work gloves lying on the ground. And beside them he had dropped the fire extinguisher!
The balloon kept rising in the darkness. Within minutes they had passed 3,000 feet, then 4,000, and still they soared higher. Peter guessed it would take them half an hour to reach West Germany. How much time had it been so far — 10, 20 minutes? Not long now, he told himself.
Suddenly Peter felt like he’d been drenched in a wet fog. They were in the clouds!
Don’t panic, he thought. But he knew the balloon would soak up the water in the clouds like a sponge. It would make them heavier. And slower.
The basket started spinning, buffeted by strong winds. They’d hit turbulence! Peter quickly turned down the gas, and they sank under the clouds.
No one noticed at first that they kept sinking. Peter was blinded by the burner’s hot flame. Why didn’t I bring goggles? he thought uselessly. But when the others looked over the side, they saw the lights below getting bigger.
Shouts filled the balloon as everyone realized at once — they were going down.
“We’re dropping!”
“Look out!”
There was no time to turn up the gas to lift them back up. Before Peter could react, he heard fabric tearing as the balloon sailed through the treetops. Pine branches gripped the balloon as it passed, slowing it down. Before they knew what was happening, they hit the ground.
“Everyone out!” Peter ordered. He didn’t know what might happen — the propane might explode, or the balloon might fall, trapping them.
One by one they hopped over the guardrail and ran into the woods. From a hiding spot they looked around, panting.
Where were they?
Peter’s mind raced. They’d been in the air for more than half an hour. Chances were, they’d made it.
“Stay here while I look around,” he said.
Peter walked alone out of the woods and spotted a fence up ahead. No, he thought. Two fences, high ones, with a strip between them. He tried to stay calm. Was it the border?
And which side were they on?
Peter returned to the woods. “Follow me,” he whispered to his family. “Slowly.”
They crept through the dark with the flashlight off, afraid its light would give them away. Peter stumbled on something. He lit the flashlight, shielding the beam with his hand and moved forward.
The light fell across something odd — wires spiraling across their path, about waist high.
Holding the others back, Peter swung his leg carefully over the wires. There were more ahead. He followed the length of one of the wires with the flashlight, and saw where it connected to a box.
Trip wires! Fear gripped Peter’s mind. Do the West Germans use trip wires on their side? He didn’t know. But they couldn’t go any further in the dark, not with these deadly traps threading all around them. The slightest brush against them would set off an alarm — or automatic bullets. They’d have to wait until dawn.
Frank stooped down and picked something up. It was a torn package. Peter aimed his flashlight at it, and as they read the print, their hearts sank: “People’s Owned Bakery, Wernigerode.”
They were still in East Germany, just short of the border fences. Without speaking, Peter clicked off the flashlight. The four of them huddled together, and waited for first light.
If only. Those words haunted Peter when they got back home. If only they hadn’t hit the clouds. If only he’d noticed sooner that they were sinking. He could have turned up the flame for the burst of speed they needed to carry them over the border. They were so close! The thought tortured him.
As the days passed, his hands stopped shaking, and he told himself that they had been lucky. A little further and they would have landed in the minefield.
Now something worse weighed on his mind — there was no going back to their old life. They’d left a balloon lying in the border zone. The police would search for the failed escapers. The newspaper had already carried a picture of the things they’d left in the abandoned balloon, asking people to come forward with information about the “crime.”
It was only a matter of time before some clue — the fabric they’d bought, a witness who’d seen them driving to the clearing — led the secret police to their door.
There was only one thing to do: build another balloon. Fast. But this time Peter knew they couldn’t do it alone.
Günter had pricked up his ears when he heard rumors of a torn balloon found near the border. Was it Peter’s? He hadn’t spoken to his friend since they’d agreed to go their separate ways.
When Peter knocked on his door, he had been surprised. He had listened eagerly to the details of the flight, the old excitement coming back. Peter described what had gone wrong.
“But you should have seen it, Günter! The takeoff and the flight were so smooth.” Günter’s eyes had grown brighter as he listened.
“If you had been there to navigate, Günter, we would have made it,” Peter added. “I know it.”
“I’ll have to think about it, Peter.”
But Günter had already known what his answer would be. Since they had backed out, he and Petra had regretted their decision more and more each day.
Now, standing beside Peter in the forest clearing, he couldn’t help a feeling of pride as the balloon — their third one — rose before his eyes.
The filled balloon strained against the lines that held it to the ground. The ropes wouldn’t hold for long.
“Hurry!” Günter called.
The two families scrambled inside. Frank and Günter reached down to slice the lines. But only two ropes were cut right through. Under the strain, the third peg flew out of the ground.
The basket tipped over, held by one line. Everyone tumbled to the side. Peter struggled to control the burner — at this angle it was grazing the balloon. To his horror, flames ran up the fabric. Günter aimed the fire extinguisher and with a steady burst put them out.
Then he dropped the extinguisher and frantically hacked at the last line with his knife. The basket tipped back and began to rise. They sailed up into the darkness. Peter held the burner, while Günter kept an eye on the altimeter. Doris and Petra made sure the kids were safe.
They were moving fast in a cloudless sky filled with stars. Suddenly Günter’s shout broke the silence. “Below! Spotlights!”
Beams of light from the border watchtowers swung across the sky, crisscrossing in midair. Peter frantically tried to remember — do they have anti-aircraft guns at the border? He didn’t think so. He told himself that their machine guns couldn’t fire this high.
He opened the burner valve. The flame streaked higher into the balloon, and they shot up above the lights.
Then, his heart sinking, Peter saw the flame sputter. Quickly he cranked open the valve as far as it could go. But he couldn’t get a steady flame.
“How high are we?” he asked Günter.
“About 6,500 feet, but we’re going down!”
The flame got smaller as Peter struggled with the burner. Then it dawned on him. We’re out of fuel! How could that be? We’ve been flying for 23 minutes, he thought. We should have enough for 35 minutes. But there was no denying it. His calculations must have been wrong.
The flame flickered and went out. He could feel the balloon sinking. Below, they could see traffic lights. No, not yet, Peter thought wildly. Günter grabbed the matches and tore out a handful. Striking them all at once, he held them to the burner. For a few seconds, a final flame streamed out.
The balloon soared upward briefly before the flame died. But was it enough?
Sudde
nly they were spinning, dropping, unable to steer. Peter strained to see through the darkness. Murky shapes were rushing toward them, getting larger as they fell earthward. Hills and trees, then farms.
They grabbed the posts and braced themselves for the crash. Branches brushed the basket’s sides as they hurtled forward. Helpless, Peter clung to his post. Then he felt the earth beneath them.
The basket skimmed the grass, slowed, and came to a stop. Before they had caught their breath, it started to tip. Peter looked up — the balloon had caught in a tree and was dragging the basket over. He rushed to steady the propane bottles, while Günter cut the lines, freeing them of the balloon.
Everyone shook as they climbed out. They had flown for 28 minutes, thought Peter. Not long enough!
“Peter and I will look around,” said Günter. “If it’s safe, I’ll light a flare. But if you don’t see it, stay put!” Doris, Petra, and the kids hid in the trees as the two men walked away.
Across a field they spotted a large barn, its door hanging open. Peter and Günter ventured inside and swung the flashlight around.
The sound of a car pulling to a stop outside made them jump. Peter and Günter ducked behind the wall and peeked out. The car’s headlights were aimed at the field. Peter could see two men in the front seats. Border police?
They must have tracked the balloon with the spotlights, then radar, thought Peter. They followed us straight to the crash site!
The two figures in the car got out and looked around.
Peter glanced desperately around for another way out of the barn. They’re going to spot us any second, he thought.
Günter stared at the car — it was an Audi. Not what the cops usually drive, he thought. On its side, the single word “POLICE” shone in the dark. He’d never seen a police car like that before. Then suddenly it occurred to him.
That was no East German police car.
The police officers jumped when they saw two men running toward them from the barn. Wild-eyed, one of them was calling breathlessly, “Are we in West Germany?”
The policemen were so startled they just nodded. Shouts and hoots of joy pierced their ears. Before they had time to ask the strangers any questions, they were nearly knocked over as the two men hugged them.
“We made it!” the men shouted, jumping up and down. Then one of them pulled a flare out of his pocket and lit it. The policemen looked at each other, mouths open. What was going on?
Now women and kids were running toward them across the field. Everyone was talking at once, but they managed to hear one thing clearly. These people claimed to have just landed in a hot-air balloon!
“Come on,” the policemen chided. “Where did you people really come from?”
Petra led one of the officers to the site of the crash. But once there, she appeared to remember something. She reached inside the basket and drew out a carefully bundled package. Taking it back to the others, she unwrapped it while they watched.
“Champagne!” she cried, and they all laughed as she showed them the bottle. Petra had heard that every balloon flight needed a bottle of champagne for good luck.
It wasn’t until four a.m. that the refugees popped the cork — in the town police station. Together they drank a toast to their amazing flight, and to the new life that lay ahead.
Reporters wanted to know why they had risked so much to escape to the West. Peter answered with the words he had carefully chosen to explain his actions. They wanted to live as free people, who could say what they thought and go where they wanted. And they wanted a good future for their children. The press called them heroes, but Peter disagreed.
“There’s nothing heroic about wanting to be free,” he said. “In any case, our desire for freedom far outweighed our fear.”
Slaves of the Sahara
North Atlantic Coast of Africa,
Off Cape Bajador, 1815
“TEN O’CLOCK!” CRIED THE MAN AT THE HELM. Through the fog, Captain Riley eyed the mainsail boom. It stretched far out to starboard, the ship running ahead of a strong breeze. The helmsman turned to port, and as the boom swung across the deck, Riley heard a roaring.
A squall? Startled, Riley glanced down the ship’s lee side. Through a hole in the mist, he glimpsed rough water foaming below. Breakers!
“All hands on deck!” he shouted.
Working fast, the men dropped anchor and hauled in the sails. The ocean roared around them as they struggled to slow the ship before it hit the rocks. Waves swept across the deck, knocking the sailors off their feet.
For days, fog had made it hard to fix their position, but until now Riley had no idea how off-course they were. The Commerce, an American brig loaded with cargo, was headed from Gibraltar to the Canary Islands. Now its young captain knew the worst — they had been blown up against the North African coast, where deadly breakers pounded the rocky shoreline.
Riley’s practical mind raced. The ship was beyond hope — pinned to the rocks and hammered by wave after wave. There was only one thing to do — save the crew before the vessel broke up and sank. The men worked quickly, knowing their lives depended on it. They grabbed all the water and provisions they could find, and threw overboard anything that would float. With luck some of it would wash ashore.
Riley fastened a sturdy rope to the ship’s side. He signaled to his first mate, Porter, and the two men climbed down into the ship’s small lifeboat, bringing the line with them. Waves broke over their bodies as they rowed desperately for the beach. A huge swell lifted their boat above the water, throwing them onto the sand. Riley scrambled for the line before it disappeared into the surf and tied it to a rock.
One by one the crew grasped the rope and lowered themselves out of the wreck, moving hand over hand along the line to shore. When the last exhausted sailor touched sand, they made a hasty camp on the beach. The ship’s longboat washed ashore, its side smashed. Then came trunks of coins from their cargo. The men quickly buried the money in the sand.
Stopping to catch his breath, Riley scanned the sand dunes for other human beings. He wasn’t in a hurry to see any. He knew that sailors shipwrecked on these shores were often captured and sold into slavery. Their best chance was to repair the leaky longboat and try their luck out at sea. The men set to work, until darkness forced them to quit for the night.
At first light, Riley’s fears were realized. Heads appeared over the dunes. Down the sandy hills sprinted a nimble gray-haired man, holding a spear. Younger men followed, armed with scimitars. Further off, Riley spotted more figures on camels approaching across the dunes. Soon they’d be surrounded!
Panicking, the sailors scrambled into the half-repaired longboat and rowed frantically back to the Commerce. From the wreck, Riley watched helplessly as the strangers plundered their camp. He gasped as one of them drove an axe into their casks, spilling the precious water onto the sand. Others dismounted from their camels and gathered the sea instruments and charts scattered across the beach. To Riley’s horror, they burned them in a pile. Around him the crew clung to the wreck, tightening their grips with each sweeping wave that threatened to wash them off.
Then, to Riley’s amazement, the men on the beach ran down to the water and put down their weapons at their feet. One of them held up a goatskin of water. Were they signaling peace?
The old man pointed to himself and then to the wreck. He wanted to come on board! He pointed to Riley and then to the beach. Riley understood: he was offering a trade — the captain for himself — to guarantee his safe return from the ship.
Riley quickly weighed their chances of getting out to sea through the pounding surf — slim indeed. They needed these people’s help to survive. On a sudden impulse, he grabbed the line and worked his way back to the beach. The old man took Riley’s place on the line and hauled himself toward the wreck. Once on board he looked around — for guns or money, Riley guessed.
Riley cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted to Porter: “Don’t let him come back until they le
t me go!”
Porter put his hand to his ear and shook his head — he couldn’t hear the captain over the roaring surf! Riley kept shouting, but his cries were lost in the din.
Finding nothing, the old man started back.
“Stop him!” Riley cried. He shot forward to the line. Strong hands grabbed his arms, as two men pulled him out of the water. Riley looked down at the scimitars they pointed at his chest, the metal blades glinting in the sun. He was their prisoner.
By now the old man had reached the sand, and the men started dragging Riley by the arms toward the dunes.
Riley thought fast. With frantic gestures, he signaled that a stash of coins was buried on the beach. The men stopped. One group headed for the spot he’d pointed out and began scraping at the sand. Two others sat Riley down with his face to the sea and pointed their scimitars at him — one to his chest, one to his head.
When they find the money, they’ll probably shout, Riley thought. And my guards might look away for an instant. He’d have only one chance. Slowly, he drew his legs under him.
An excited shout was heard from behind. Riley’s guards jerked their heads around. In a flash Riley sprung out from under their weapons and dove for the beach.
Riley knew he was running for his life. Sprinting to the water’s edge, he felt his pursuers close on his heels. He plunged headfirst into the waves and pushed his way underwater with desperate strokes. He didn’t dare come up for a breath! Finally, his lungs bursting, Riley broke through the surface and gasped for air.
He stole a quick look around. The old man was close behind, up to his chin in the rough water. His arm was raised, his spear aimed at Riley. As he pulled back to let it fly, a huge surf rolled over both of them, hurtling the old man onto the beach.
Riley turned and swam furiously toward the wreck. Wave after wave broke over him. Each time he surfaced he glimpsed the crew on board, shouting and urging him on. At last he threw his arm up along the side, but a heavy surf pushed him down. Then he felt the grip of his mates’ hands hauling him up.
Escapes! Page 11