'Yes, of course, Pedro. This is just a little business trip.' She took her bag from him and showed her diplomatic pass at check-in. The official gallantly opened the barrier for her.
The four-engined Junkers 290, numbered D-AITR, was waiting on the runway. Detta looked up at the cockpit. Tom Glaser was busy making preparations for take-off. Things had changed since her last flight. No one had cleaned the cabin. The seats were sagging and their covers worn. Instead of a steward, a man with a stubbly haircut and ill-tempered expression received them on board, introduced himself as Flight Engineer Bichler and handed out parachutes. 'Instructions for use are on your seats. Enjoy your flight.' It sounded derisive.
Detta sat by the front left-hand window. Tom had told her you felt turbulence least there. Slowly the engines roared into life. The heavy commercial plane rolled slowly forward and swayed into position for take-off, quivering with the force of a thousand horsepower. The four large three-winged propellers cut through the air and hauled the giant plane forward. At rapidly increasing speed it shot down the runway, pressing the passengers back in their seats. The airfield sank away below them. DLH-Flight K22 was on course for Berlin.
A year ago the plane had been well staffed, and champagne had been handed round. Now there was no on-board service: you got a sip of water at the most. She counted six passengers. They were a Swedish couple going on to Stockholm from Berlin, a Siemens representative flying home, a major in the Spanish 'Blue Division' who wanted to go to the Front, and an elderly German husband and wife from Valencia whose daughter was expecting her first baby in Frankfurt an der Oder. 'Going to Frankfurt an der Oder? You think you'll make it before the Russians get there?' scoffed the Siemens rep, launching into a lengthy assessment of the situation which interested no one.
Detta closed her eyes, because the talkative Siemens rep looked as if he intended to sit down beside her. She had to think, she had to go over her plan, checking for weak spots. Her brother's life and hers depended on it. Of course the plan was total madness, yet at the same time, it seemed to be wildly simple. So simple that nothing could go wrong.
She would take a train from Berlin to Aichborn. She would wrap HansGeorg's head in bandages and take him back to Barcelona by Lufthansa, disguised as Fernando Mendez, the Spanish embassy secretary who had been injured in an air raid. She had made out an official order for her mission on the consulate's letterhead and with the consulate's official seal. She had the dead Mendez's diplomatic pass with her. It would stand up to any amount of checking. His injury would make it impossible for the supposed embassy secretary to speak, so her brother's German accent couldn't give him away to Spanish passengers on the flight. No, nothing could go wrong if they both kept calm. Oh God, don't let them find him before I can get him out, she prayed silently. For that was the one real danger: that the Gestapo would turn Aichborn upside down, or someone would denounce Hans-Georg.
'Chocolate?' Tom Glaser brought her out of her thoughts. As always, he was wearing immaculate Lufthansa uniform.
'Oh, hello, Tom. Yes please. I'll take it with me as iron rations. How do things look?'
He had been in Berlin yesterday. 'Bleak. The city is at its last gasp. Everything's bombed or burnt out. No one knows exactly how far off the Russians are. Some people hope the Americans will arrive first.' He lowered his voice. 'I could phone. But I do suggest you hurry.'
'When do you fly back to Barcelona?'
'In two days' time.'
'That will be enough for me to carry out my consular task. I've booked two seats for the return flight.' The flight captain nodded. He had understood.
'Contact with the enemy, captain!' shouted the stubble-headed Bavarian from the cockpit in agitation. Glaser hurried forward. Confusion and alarm spread through the cabin.
'Have a nice day,' said the Siemens rep, getting his parachute ready.
A dot appeared in the blue sky, quickly getting larger. She could see a slender, two-engined aircraft with English markings making straight for them. Flashes shot from its wings, from the mouths of the aircraft cannon. The enemy dived under them, turned and prepared to attack again, but Captain Glaser wasn't waiting. He dived and dropped almost vertically. Passengers and baggage were tossed about the cabin.
Detta braced herself in her seat. Her stomach rebelled as they raced towards the earth. A few metres above ground the pilot brought the plane up. They raced ahead, flying very low, with trees and farmhouses sometimes not under but beside them. She guessed that the pursuer was behind them. Mortal terror came over her. This is the end, she thought. But the JU 290 gained height and went into a sharp curve. Below them a mushroom of black smoke rose in the air. The enemy pilot had shown less skill than Tom Glaser in flying at low-altitude.
An RAF Mosquito,' said the Siemens rep, quickly recovering his loquacity. 'Must be the first case of an unarmed commercial plane winning a victory in the air. A tour de force on our pilot's part. The man deserves an order.'
Four hours later, towns and villages loomed below them. The radio officer had to rely on vague information received from the Reich transmitter in Berlin. Lacking better navigational aids, he took the plane past the dying capital and behind the Russian Front, where luckily they were ignored. They turned and flew back from the east to ruined Tempelhof airport without further incident. The plane came down with a loud crash and bumped over the cracked runway.
It was 20 April 1945. In the bunker beneath the Reich Chancellery, the lord of all this horror was celebrating his final birthday.
'Welcome home!' said the Siemens rep, with a loud laugh.
Stettin rail station was swarming with military men. Military policemen with shiny breastplates were checking the papers of all the soldiers, privates and officers alike. They led a young corporal away weeping. 'Tried to desert, that's what he did,' Detta heard a passer-by say. 'They'll hang him now for sure.'
A passenger train was waiting at a distance, beside the unroofed part of the platform. It was terribly overcrowded. People crammed into the toilets. She found a place to stand in the corridor. The journey lasted for ever, because the train was diverted into sidings several times to allow troop transports past. Jurek was waiting at Wrietzow with the horse and cart. 'Wilcome, Freilein.' The Polish groom helped her up with pleasure and admiration in his eyes.
Her mother was preparing rutabagas in the kitchen with Lina. 'Oh, you should have stayed in Spain,' she said, sounding concerned.
'You know I had to come.' Detta hugged her. 'How are you, Mama?'
'With potatoes, marjoram and bacon this will make a perfectly acceptable one-pot meal for all of us,' said the Baroness, evading the question. 'Your father's in the library.'
The Baron was sitting by the fire. He had grown old. 'I'm finished, they've retired me because of my heart. Detta, child, how good to see you. It will cheer your mother up. She takes refuge in her duties, or what she considers her duties. She doesn't show it, but she misses our two little ones a great deal.' Fritz and Viktoria, now thirteen and fifteen, were studying in Munich.
Detta was hardly listening. 'Where is he?' she asked impatiently.
The door flew open and her brother strode in. He whirled her around, beside himself with delight. 'Sister dear, at last.' He was pale and had lost weight, his breeches and thick pullover were too large for him, but he was as lively and enthusiastic as ever.
This is the time to bring out the last of my Armagnac.' As if by magic, their father produced a bottle from behind the works of Detlev von Liliencron and poured them glasses.
'Cheers, Father, Detta — here's to our future!' cried Hans-Georg confidently.