‘I didn’t expect to see you today,’ Ingrid said. ‘I was surprised to get your message. I thought you’d gone home for the fortnight.’ ‘I couldn’t miss this day,’ he told her. ‘And my parents understood. My father still doesn’t approve, of course – he thinks I’m betraying my middle-class origins – but my mother recently joined the National Socialist Party, in secret, which I think is amusing.’
‘I don’t,’ Ingrid said. ‘A divided family isn’t amusing. Your beloved National Socialist Party, which has already divided the country, is now dividing individual families. Do you think that’s amusing?’
‘I didn’t mean it that way,’ Ernst said, feeling a little embarrassed. ‘No, I’m sure you didn’t,’ Ingrid retorted with soft sarcasm, and then, perhaps realizing how she sounded, gently changed the subject. ‘So, how’s your family, Ernst?’
At that moment, the waitress returned with their coffee and strudel. ‘They’re fine,’ Ernst said, pouring the coffee from the pot and thinking of his family home in Heidelberg, a grand house with fine gardens on the lower slopes of the majestic Odenwald. ‘Father’s sold his architectural firm and seems happy to have moved out of Mannheim – and Mother likes it as well.’
‘I’m glad,’ Ingrid said, ‘though I’m also glad I saw the old house in Mannheim before it was sold – the house you were brought up in. There aren’t too many like that these days.’
Ernst knew what she meant. His father had been one of the most successful architects in Germany – his work conservatively based on neo-Renaissance and the ‘safe’ classicism of Ludwig Hoffmann – and his house in Mannheim, where he had spent most of his life, was a spacious residence built around an elaborate courtyard and guarded by wrought-iron gates. Within that imposing home, Ernst had been brought up to treat as perfectly natural enormous neo-Gothic rooms, French furniture, Empire upholstery, fireplaces faced with valuable Delft tiles, glittering chandeliers, maids with white caps, black dresses, and white aprons, and even butlers in purple livery with gilt buttons. Certainly, as Ingrid had noted, there weren’t many houses like that these days – but the very opulence of the lifestyle is what had driven Ernst away from it and into the National Socialist Party, thus outraging his father as well as upsetting Ingrid.
He couldn't explain what attracted him to Hitler because he wasn’t too sure what the appeal was. He only knew for certain that he’d been swept up in a tide of enthusiasm generated by his fellow students, first at the Institute of Technology in Munich, then in the University of Berlin, where he had been studying rocket technology under Professor Karl Emil Becker.
If he’d had any doubts at all about National Socialism they’d been swept away when, during his final semester at the university, he had attended an address that Hitler had delivered, in the Hasenheide Beer Hall, to the students of Berlin University and the Institute of Technology. At first not impressed by the Charles Chaplin look-alike in a plain blue suit, who started speaking almost shyly in that dirty, gloomy beer hall, Ernst had soon been mesmerized by the rising passion of his rhetoric and was then astounded to find himself bawling and clapping with many other students in a spontaneous outburst of enthusiasm. A few days later, unable to forget that mesmeric performance, he had joined the NSDAP; then, a few months after that, he dropped out of the university to join the army as a commissioned officer with the Weapons Office. When recently offered a transfer to the élite SS, he had been thrilled beyond measure.
‘You’re looking very thoughtful,’ he said to Ingrid, who was staring steadily at him in her disconcerting manner.
‘I was thinking what a pity it is that you dropped out of university in order to look handsome in such a uniform. You wanted to be an engineer, Ernst, and now you’re a policeman.’
‘A soldier,’ he corrected her, perhaps too firmly. ‘The SS isn’t the Gestapo. Please bear that in mind. The Gestapo is the Secret Police organization, run by Goring. SS stands for Schatz Staffel, or Guard Detachment, and the SS, created by Himmler, is Hitler’s personal bodyguard – not a secret police force.’ Ingrid shrugged. ‘It’s still sad, Ernst. And I still don’ t understand why you did it, apart from naivety.’
He felt a flash of anger, but tried to conceal it. ‘As I told you before, I joined the army because I wanted to be a rocket engineer, and the army is the best place to do that.’
‘That much I understand.’ She brushed the blonde hair from her green eyes, gazed out at the busy corner of the Unter den Linden and Friedrichstrasse, then returned her quizzical gaze to him. ‘But I still don’t understand why you then had to join the SS, which, whether a police force or Hitler’s personal bodyguard, is not the place for a promising young engineer.’
‘Because,’ Ernst lied blatantly, ‘it’s the élite of the army and I only want to be in the best. It’s as simple as that!’
In fact, what he could not explain was the bitterness he had felt ever since being rejected by the German amateur rocket society, the VfR, whose members included not amateurs, as the title implied, but most of the leading rocket experts of the day. Also known as the Spaceship Travel Club, the VfR had come into being in 1927 when a group of brilliant space-travel enthusiasts had taken over an abandoned threehundred-acre arsenal, which they called their RaketesjfggIplataz, or Rocket Flight Place, in the Berlin suburb of Reindickerdorf, from where they actually shot some crude, liquid-fueled rockets skyward. Intrigued by the success of the VfR, which by 1930 included rocket experts Rudolf Nebel, Willy Ley, Hermann Oberth, and Klaus Riedel, the Ordnance Branch of the army's Ballistic and Weapons Office, headed by General Becker, had appointed Captain Walter Dornberger to create a rocket development project at the army’s firing range at Kummersdorf, about flfteen miles south of Berlin. It was now widely assumed by those involved with rocketry that as soon as Hitler came to power (which almost certainly he would today), the VfR would be disbanded by the Nazis and become part of the Kummersdorf program.
Ernst had desperately wanted to be part of the VfR, irrespective of who controlled it. After his rejection because of his lack of practical experience, his bitterness had been made more acute when Wernher von Braun, a fellow pupil at the university, had been accepted. Thus, when Ernst was persuaded by a friend that working with the SS technical intelligence group would at least give him the opportunity to keep in touch with the rocket program and perhaps, in time, even give him authority over it, he had not been able to resist asking for the transfer.
‘Listen,’ he said to Ingrid, covering his anger with a broad smile and taking hold of her hand again, ‘I can’t wait any longer. Let’s go and see what’s happening at the Chancellery. There’s bound to be a decision soon – and I want to be there when it’s announced.’
Ingrid’s smile, though still loving, was also slightly mocking. ‘You want to be a part of history, Ernst?’
‘Yes, Ingrid, I do.’
She acknowledged his enthusiasm with a defeated shrug of her shoulders. ‘Then let’s go!’
As they hurried along the snow-covered Unter den Linden, past its elegant shops and many pedestrians and the noisy flow of traffic, Ernst glanced frequently at Ingrid’s flushed face, its beauty now emphasized by the raised fur collar of her black overcoat and broad-brimmed hat. He loved her dearly, though they often disagreed, particularly when they talked about politics and general morality. They seemed opposites, then. She came from a good family in the wealthy Berlin suburb of Wannsee – but she didn’t believe, as he did, in the National Socialist Party. She was a liberal, like his father, believed in her own class, and could not be convinced that Hitler would create a new, better Germany. Even now, when they were supposed to be in love, she and Ernst fought a lot about the issue, and this wounded him deeply.
As they approached the corner of Berlin’s finest shopping street and heard the sudden roaring of the crowd that had filled the Wilhelmstrasse, Ernst knew that they had just missed the announcement he had wanted to hear. Nevertheless, he practically dragged Ingrid around the corner, into the W
ilhelmstrasse, where, between the Kaiserhof and the Chancellery, the great crowd was tramping the snow to slush while roaring approval.
Stopping by the Ministry of Justice, facing the Presidential Residence, Ernst received confirmation from a jubilant fellow citizen that Hindenburg had resigned and Adolf Hitler had just been sworn in as Chancellor of Germany.
Ernst whooped with joy, swept Ingrid up in his arms, and spun her around on the pavement.
‘Wunderbar! ’ he exclaimed.
Any doubts about love or compatibility were swept away in the fervour of the rest of that memorable day. Ernst had no sooner released Ingrid from his embrace than he saw Adolf Hitler standing upright in the back of his open-topped car as it crept slowly through the mass of cheering, waving people in the Wilhelmstrasse, taking him back to the Kaiserhof. Shouting himself hoarse like all the others, Ernst watched his hero being driven past, then embraced Ingrid again, kissed her passionately, and realized that the excitement was contagious and finally getting through to her.
Excited, they went for lunch, got drunk on beer and schnapps, then took a room in the Adlon Hotel, where their faces were known. They made drunken, passionate love, uninhibited by doubts, and Ernst thought that he would die in Ingrid's body, with its smooth, burning skin, perfect breasts, and sublime, enfolding legs. Eventually, they broke apart drenched in sweat, breathing harshly, exhausted, and he felt that he had died and been reborn and could never stop loving her.
‘You’re magnificent,’ he told her.
Then he had to leave her temporarily to take part in the torch-lit parade that spelled the end of that great day.
Darkness was falling on the city when, with thousands of other troops, all in uniform and with many wearing their swastikas, Ernst commenced the march from the Tiergarten. Accompanied by the beating of drums and the blare of martial music, they passed under the Brandenburg Gate, and then continued down to Wilhelmstrasse, where hundreds of young men were hanging from the railings or perched like birds in the trees.
Raising his voice, as did thousands of others, in the ‘Horst Wessel Lied’ and other patriotic songs, Ernst soon found himself in the torchlit darkness outside the Presidential Palace, where a weary Hindenburg raised his hands in salute. Then the crowd moved to the Reichchancellery where, to Ernst’s immense joy, Hitler appeared at a window to look down fondly on his men and acknowledge with a smile their triumphant chanting of ‘Heil, Heil, Sieg Heil!’
When Hitler smiled and raised his right hand in salute, the massed troops cheered and clapped frenziedly in acknowledgment. Then Hitler went back inside and Ernst lowered his gaze – away from that lighted window, from the fluttering red-and-black flags, from the torches that had formed a river of fire in the Wilhelmstrasse – and saw Ingrid emerging from the crowd, her eyes bright with excitement, her arms outstretched as the drums continued pounding and the noise became deafening.
She threw herself into his arms and clung to him as he stroked her blonde hair.
‘Oh, Ingrid!’ he said passionately. ‘A great day! The future is ours! Let’s get married at once!’
‘Yes!’ she whispered, clinging to him, part of him. ‘Yes, Ernst, let’s do it!’
Their hearts beat like the drums.
CHAPTER THREE ‘Yes,’ Mike Bradley said, thinking about Gladys Kinder instead of the facts as he gazed out the window of General Taylor’s office at the other buildings being constructed on the sloping green fields of Langley Field, Virginia. ‘I told him we were about to form a National Advisory Committee on Aeronautics and were considering a team that would include him and other aeronautical geniuses, such as Charles Lindbergh and Orville Wright – and the legendary Robert H. Goddard still showed no interest. He just doesn’t give a damn.’
‘Why?’ Taylor asked pragmatically. ‘Because he doesn’t trust anyone,’ Bradley replied with a frustrated shrug of his broad shoulders, remembering the polite, suspicious voice he had heard over the telephone when he had called from his office on Wall Street. ‘Reportedly he patents every damned thing he invents, is notoriously secretive and uncooperative with his fellow scientists, feels that many of his ideas have been stolen by them, notably those in Germany, and will take help only from organizations like the Smithsonian Institution, which lets him do whatever he wants. In fact, he’s even refused the assistance of the California Institute of Technology Rocket Research Project and has been relying instead on the inadequate funding of Clark University in Worcester, where he teaches physics when he’s not working on his rockets.’
‘Though according to Charles Lindbergh,’ General Taylor pointed out, ‘whom I met here just yesterday, Goddard has recently accepted some other help.
‘True enough,’ Bradley said. ‘With Lindbergh’s recommendation he was recently able to get a Guggenheim Foundation grant for $2,500, which enabled him to leave Clark and return to Roswell, New Mexico.’
Where Gladys Kinder lives, he thought. He’d been unable to stop thinking about Gladys Kinder ever since their brief meeting. It’s ridiculous, he thought. You’re being ridiculous. She’s just a sharptongued lady from a cow town and you’re imagining things. Though he couldn’t help wondering...
‘Is that where he was when you phoned him? Back in Roswell?’ ‘No,’ Bradley said. ‘He hadn’t returned there yet. He was still at Clark.’
‘If what you say is true, he thinks that if he joins our proposed
National Advisory Committee on Aeronautics, he’ll have to share his
precious ideas with us.’
‘That's my bet,’ Bradley said.
General Taylor smiled laconically. ‘He sounds like a burgeoning
crackpot.’
‘But a brilliant one, General – and one you could do with on your
side. Since a major function of the committee will be to assess the
military possibilities of aeronautical developments around the world, a
man of Goddard’s background and reputation would be invaluable to
you – not only for his technical knowledge, but also as a public
relations weapon.’
‘Well, we’ll just have to get along without him.’
‘I guess so,’ Bradley said.
The sound of hammering from outside momentarily distracted the
general and made him glance out the window. Following his gaze,
Bradley saw some men in coveralls kneeling on the roof of the
adjoining building as they expertly nailed down some more beams.
When these buildings were completed, they would house the new
National Advisory Committee on Aeronautics as well as a branch of
the still too informal army air force intelligence. General Taylor was
currently the head and Bradley was an increasingly enthusiastic, but
unofficial, agent of the intelligence unit.
‘It’s interesting that he should be so concerned with German rocket
development,’ the general said, returning his thoughtful gaze to
Bradley, ‘since that’s also what we’re concerned with right now.’ ‘The Pentagon isn’t,’ Bradley replied. ‘Since the White House has
adopted an isolationist stance regarding Europe, there’s no Pentagon
interest in German weaponry.’
‘I can’t speak for the whole of the Pentagon, let alone the White
House,’ Taylor said, ‘but I think I can say with confidence that we in
military intelligence are concerned with the growing militarism of
Germany – particularly since Hitler was elected chancellor. It’s not our
belief that America will be involved in European politics per se, but
there’s certainly been enough concern to cause the air force to
informally gather information on aeronautical developments in Hitler’s
new Germany and, especially, on any further developments regarding
the…’ The general glanced down at the notes on h
is desk… ‘The
Verein fur Raumschiffart, or VfR,’ he read, then looked up again. ‘Right,’ Bradley said. ‘The German amateur rocket society.’ ‘It’s wonderful,’ the general said with a slight, sardonic smile, ‘how
bright boys like you can bring back such interesting information from
their vacations in Europe.’
Bradley knew what the general was getting at. He, Bradley, had
been a highly decorated pilot during the Great War, but had left the
service in the mistaken belief that he was becoming too old for it and
needed a more settled life. So, he had studied law instead, married
Joan, and was rewarded with two fine kids, Mark and Miriam. Though
successful as a lawyer specializing in the drafting of complex
agreements between government departments and civilian aeronautical
research establishments, he had become increasingly bored with Wall
Street and started calling his old military buddies to ask them for work,
official or otherwise, that was more important and exciting. Convinced that matters in Europe would eventually lead to another
world war, he had used his Ivy League Wall Street friends to build up
strong connections in Washington, DC, and London. Eventually he
managed to convince the army's chief of staff, General Douglas
MacArthur, to let him embark on an unofficial intelligence-gathering
trip to Europe, in the guise of studying international laws relating to
aeronautics. During that trip, in 1932, aided by some old friends who
were now with the well-organized British Intelligence Service, he had
travelled extensively and reported, in particular, on the growing
militarism of Germany. What he had seen there had shocked him and
made him fear for the free world. He no longer shared his own
government’s confidence that America could stay out of Europe
certainly not if the National Socialists, under Hitler, got what they
wanted – and upon his return to the United States had insisted in his
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