by Peter King
“And in films,” added Larouge. “She was in that wonderful one recently, Forgotten Dreams.”
“I saw that,” said Lydecker. “Her acting has not improved.”
Braised lamb with rutabagas followed. The rutabaga is sometimes described as a Swede turnip and has lost popularity in many countries though it is still widely eaten in Germany.
The roast duck that came next had skin as crackly as phyllo, while the meat was juicy and flavorful. It came with timbales of Savoy cabbage, and these had leeks, carrots, onions, and celery streaked through them.
Throughout the meal, German wines had been served. First, there was a Rheingau from the Hattenheimer Mannberg vineyard. This is situated on a parallel with the middle of Canada, but this northern location does not pose the climatic problems one might suppose. Most Rheingau wines are descended from Riesling, and centuries of production and experience lay behind it—from as far back as the Romans. We had another Rheingau wine from the Rauenthaler vineyard, a delicate but mouth-filling white wine that lingered on the palate with a hint of fresh honey.
I was curious to see what wines would accompany the lamb and the duck, which I knew were coming up. The reason for this was that I had a friend who lived in the Black Forest area of Germany and every time I visited him, he would say, “I have a great new vineyard for you to visit.” We would go there, and after a glass or two of white wine in the vineyard’s tasting room, we would be served a glass of red.
The reason for this ritual was a more or less casual and possibly reckless remark I had once made to him to the effect that Germany does not produce a good red wine. We had many wonderful visits and drank many excellent wines, but never once had a really good red wine—and Eber, always determined to prove me wrong, reluctantly had to agree each time.
Here at the Four Seasons, they wisely avoided the problem and served Palatinate wines—that is, wines from the Pfalz region of Germany. The orchards there are full of southern fruit such as figs, peaches, and pears, and debate persists as to whether the soil influences the wines produced. Pfalz wines have more flavor and fuller body than other German wines and have long been the preferred accompaniment to the abundant game of the local forests. At least, I was relieved that a Spatburgunder had not been served. It is made from the Pinot Noir grape and, though it is drinkable, it is little more than that.
Two desserts were served. First came a poppy-seed ice cream. The trick to making it is to grind the poppy seeds, which must be absolutely fresh, to a fine and feathery texture. It was prepared to perfection. After it came small quince tarts with ginger sorbet.
As coffee was being served, Lydecker groaned audibly.
“Now comes the speech.”
CHAPTER TWO
“THE ADVANTAGE OF SPEED as offered by jet aircraft was enjoyed by several decades of travelers before nostalgia set in, demanding a return to the alternates: of comfort and the sybaritic luxury and service offered by the train.”
Erich Brenner, as president of the Donau Schnellzug Bahn, opened his after-dinner speech with these bold and challenging words.
“Numerous rail networks are enjoying great popularity throughout Europe. The Eurostar goes under the English Channel to link London and Paris and make it possible to live in one and visit the other in the same day. The TGV connects Paris with most major cities in France. Cisalpino links Milan with major cities in Germany and Switzerland. Talgo and Ave are Spain’s high-speed trains, the X2000 links the bigger cities in Sweden, and ICE (Inter City Express) connects most German urban centers.
“Planners of transportation systems have found these to be a practical answer in linking city center to city center at almost two hundred miles an hour.”
He paused, and his tone changed to one of reproof.
“So much for speed and convenience. They can be appreciated by the business traveler and by tourists with limited time at their disposal. But those with a less crowded schedule and those who love luxury and service can be accommodated, too.
“The famous Blue Train across South Africa, the Palace on Wheels that crosses the great plains of northern India and goes through the world of the Maharajahs, the Royal Scotsman that passes castle after castle as it puffs north through Scotland, and the Orient Express, still thought of as filled with spies and revolutionaries while making its way from Paris to Istanbul—all of these great journeys of the past have been revived.”
Erich Brenner paused again and surveyed his audience with an air that was prescient of a dramatic statement to follow.
“There is one other great journey—the greatest of them all—and it is the train that you are about to embark upon tomorrow.
“It is the legendary Danube Express.
“We offer you beautiful carriages, the ultimate in luxurious accommodation, delectable cuisine, superb wines, and Old World personalized service. The train is stabilized for your comfort twenty-four hours a day, and we make it possible for you to view the most historic sights along the Danube Valley.
“The most modern technology has been applied throughout the design of this train,” Erich Brenner continued, “and you will find that you are hardly aware of motion. The very finest stabilizing and gyroscopic devices made by Hirschberg und Schneider of Stuttgart—the world leaders in this field—have been used. They were developed for the new generation of Zeppelins now being built in Germany. You will be as stable and secure when walking around as you are in your own home.”
He beamed at his attentive audience. “You will not detect even the faintest ripple on the surface of your glass of wine. And now—please enjoy your coffee. Liqueurs are being brought around on the trolleys, and you will find the choice almost inexhaustible. So, ladies and gentlemen, I will see you all in the morning, and I shall accompany you on the most wondrous journey of your life.”
The assembly applauded. Erich Brenner sat down, smiling. “I think I’ll have an early night,” said Irena Koslova. She finished her coffee and left. I saw the Walburgs rising to leave, too.
“I have to call our office in Tokyo,” Lydecker said. “They’ll be hard at work at this time—or should be.” He left, and the red-haired Hungarian miss, Talia Svarovina said, “I’ve had a long day, too. See you all tomorrow.”
Henri Larouge shrugged. “I have some discussions to make with the purchasing manager here at the Kempinski.” That left me all alone. I looked over at the table where the glamorous stage star from Budapest, Magda Malescu, had been joined by people from other tables. Some apparently knew her, and others looked like theater fans. I made a mental note to make her acquaintance tomorrow on the train, when she would be more accessible.
A stroll after a meal like that was a measure of reparation that I always tried to make. I went out, through the lobby and out on to the Charlottenstrasse.
The Danube Express—what an experience it was going to be! Erich Brenner’s description of the train had intrigued me. As a boy, I had always been fascinated by trains. They were such a powerful symbol of an earlier era and represented spectacular technical achievements in a time when technology was not as vigorous and rampant as today.
The lure was too strong. I turned in the direction of the Haupt-bahnhof, the main railway station from which we were to depart the next day.
The thirty-minute walk was invigorating, the weather mild and pleasant, and Munich is a city that is friendly to pedestrians.
Bombing during World War II had destroyed the earlier station, and the present building had replaced it in the early 1950s. Railway stations throughout Europe are enormous structures, and those in Germany have always been among the most impressive. This rebuild had resulted in an edifice with a nondescript exterior that was, however, redeemed by its size.
The interior was entirely different, a temple dedicated to the ultimate in modern technology, with polished aluminum, stainless steel, glass, and marble everywhere.
Two stories of shops and restaurants make it an agreeable place to spend some time before your train is d
ue to depart. Not that such time ever exceeded the schedule—German trains run on time to a degree that is equaled only by the Swiss. Large clocks on all the platforms tick away the minutes and the 10:30 train will leave for sure before the minute hand reaches 31.
The soaring, girdered roofs were so high they were almost out of sight. The clean and tidy platforms had colorful displays showing the makeup of every train with red, blue, and green indicating passenger coaches, freight cars, and postal wagons, and identifying coach and seat numbers. If you had a reservation, you could see at a glance exactly where you would be sitting.
I made my way to Gleich 37, the platform specially reserved for the Danube Express. A uniformed soldier with an automatic rifle stood on duty near the entrance, and a guard at the barrier stopped me.
“I have a ticket on the Danube Express tomorrow,” I said. “I wondered if I could take a look at the train. I have never seen it.”
“Do you have your ticket?” he asked. Fortunately, I did. He examined it carefully. “And identification?” I gave him my passport, which he read carefully, turning over page after page.
“Alles im Ordnung,” he told me, an expression you hear widely in Germany. “Everything in order” it means, and it expresses German satisfaction that everything is, indeed, in order and that all is well; all is as mandated and nothing is being allowed to disturb the methodical and systematic way in which Germans like life to run.
He handed me my documents and waved me through. I walked onto the almost empty platform and there it stood—the Danube Express.
I felt as if I had stepped decades into the past. The green-and-gold monster brought back instant memories of a model train I once had. Some lights were on, and a greenish glow from low-voltage halogen floodlights made the Express look unreal. Brass glinted—rails, panels, fittings, and handles. I moved a few paces closer. A voice from behind me asked in German, “Can I help you?”
An elderly man in a one-piece working suit was there. He had a lined face, and, as he came toward me, I noticed a limp. He was probably one of the many who had survived the ordeal of the Russian Front and still bore the wounds.
I explained that I was to be a passenger on the train tomorrow and his face lit up. “Ah, the twenty-fifth anniversary! It will be a famous day!”
I told him of my boyhood fascination with trains, and he gestured to the metal creature as proudly as any father would indicate his child. “I have worked on her since she was built. She is a wonderful creation, is she not?”
I agreed and we strolled closer.
“The locomotive is based on the Laterus design.”
“It’s like the English Buddicomb, isn’t it?”
His face widened in a smile. “Ah, you know trains! Yes, in those days, most trains were copies of either the Furst or the Buddicomb. This one is similar to both, but it resembles most closely the model that was selected for the maiden voyage of the original Danube Express in 1878.”
“Those driving wheels,” I said. “They are immense.”
“Two meters in diameter,” he said. The wheels stood well above my head. “The originals weighed twenty tons each. They have been redesigned and now use light alloys instead of cast iron, but they—like the rest of the train—resemble the original almost exactly. One of the outstanding features is the outside cylinders.”
“I was just marveling at those; they’re enormous, too.”
“Yes, they’re inclined at an angle, you’ll notice. They reduce friction on the bearings, which was a common cause of failure in earlier trains—it caused fracture of the crank axles.”
“I don’t see any smoke,” I complained. “Surely you’ve started to stoke up the boilers already?”
He grinned. “Oh, you’ll see smoke sure enough. It will look real, too, but it won’t bother your lungs. As for boilers, well”—he smiled—“they aren’t necessary with electromagnetic motors.”
“And I suppose they’re silent?”
“Almost—but don’t worry about that. We have a recording from one of the trains of 1935, and we play that at a low volume level.”
“Including the steam whistle?”
“Oh, of course, wouldn’t be authentic without it.”
“Ingenious,” I conceded. “Does the train run on a special track?” I asked.
“Special tracks are only necessary for the very-high-speed trains. That has been one of the factors which made high-speed train travel a long time in coming—it was necessary to lay all-new rails capable of handling the extremely high stresses placed on them.”
“So the Danube Express can use existing railbeds?”
“Yes, and these are widely distributed all over Europe. The Danube Express does not exceed a hundred kilometers an hour”—that was about sixty-five miles an hour—“and even European railbeds that are nearly a hundred years old are adequate. We have laid new rails on these, and they conform to German Standard D-156, a special steel with superior properties.”
I looked up and down the platform. It was deserted except for two indistinct figures down at the far end. The greenish glow of the halogen lights was almost subdued by the cavernous darkness that soared up to the roof.
“This will all look very different in the morning, I suppose?”
He nodded. “Ja, very different. The mechanical and electronic checks on the train and the track have just been completed. The food and drink supplies will arrive about 1:00 A.M.” He pointed down to the end of the platform. “The cargoes will be loaded in a few minutes. We are told the guards will come with them and stay here until the train departs.”
“Cargoes? Guards?”
“Ja,” he said unhelpfully.
“Must be valuable cargoes—what are they?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. We have one coach—an armored vault—it is where the mail is carried.”
“Can you compete with airmail?”
“We carry parcels and heavier freight. The Danube Express is a secure way to carry valuable items—much safer than a plane and far safer than road. Alas, hijackings on the Autobahn are not unknown.”
He waved a hand. “Here comes the first cargo.”
Two uniformed men carrying automatic rifles walked onto the platform, looking all around them with practiced movements. A small, hand-drawn truck came after them, and two more armed guards followed. The truck was operated by a cable and had on it what looked like a cubic steel box, about two feet on a side.
The man operating the control maneuvered the truck into position alongside a coach, which I now noticed was shorter than the others. He took out a key and unlocked first one door, then another inside it. The guards helped him place it inside the coach.
Two guards and the man handling the small truck left the platform while the other two guards stood, one on either side of the door. Within a minute, the truck and the guards reappeared. This time a larger cargo was on the truck. It was over six feet long and about two feet wide and two feet deep.
The man and I watched as they loaded that, too. The man with the truck carefully locked both doors, and one of the guards checked each to make sure it was secure.
“Whatever is in those boxes certainly must be valuable,” I commented.
The other nodded. I gathered he knew nothing more than he had told me, and, even if he had, he was not going to divulge it.
I thanked him for the information he had given me, and he wished me a safe journey, concluding with the traditional Bavarian greeting and farewell, “Gruss Gott.”
As I walked off the platform, I was speculating over the nature of the cargoes we were taking with us tomorrow. The first box was cubic in shape and could contain anything.
It was the second box that caused me apprehension. Its size and its shape were associated with one type of container and one alone.
It looked exactly like a coffin.
CHAPTER THREE
I KNOW THAT COFFINS are not lethal weapons and that their threat is merely symbolic. I suppose my superstiti
ous fear of them arises from an incident a few years ago in Italy.
I was flying from Padua in the north of Italy to Palermo in Sicily, and found myself seated next to an Italian lady who spent the first part of the flight looking out the window and sniffing quietly into a handkerchief.
I did not want to intrude on her grief, but national volubility soon emerged, and she apologized for her tears and explained. She was one of a group of over thirty ladies of Palermo. They had been on a pleasure trip in the north, and one of their members had died suddenly. Her body was in a coffin that was now in the hold of this plane, as her friends insisted that she would want to be buried in Palermo.
When I extended her my sympathy on the loss of her friend, she explained that her grief was more than that. She, and all of her friends, firmly believed that they would never arrive in Palermo, as a coffin on board was bad luck.
Trying not to scoff, I assured her that her fears were unfounded—just as the captain announced that due to engine problems, we would have to land in Bologna. After some time on the ground, the plane was declared fit to continue. My companion shook her head. More was to come, she assured me.
Fifteen minutes after takeoff, we were told that Palermo was fogged in and not likely to clear. We would have to make an emergency landing in Perugia. We circled the Perugia airport for a seemingly endless time, and it was only when we landed that we saw the blazing wreckage of a previous aircraft being dragged off the runway. A near miss, my companion told me. Fate had intended that should have been us.
Our crew had now reached its duty hours limit and left. No other crews were there, and no other aircraft were available. We bussed to the Al Italia office in town, where we learned that the few hotels were full. I tried the two car rental offices, neither had any cars. Bed-and-breakfast places, youth hostels, even the Salvation Army were full. No more trains were scheduled for that evening. My path crossed that of other groups of passengers from our flight, all on similar quests. The ladies of Palermo were among them, and my companion was there, reminding me that she had told me so. Soon all the taxis in town were filled or gone off duty. All the restaurants were closed by then.