Pale as death, Johann turned into a statue next to his friend, in all vividness picturing himself if not at a court-martial with Göring presiding but the penal battalion on the Eastern front, for sure; if they were lucky, that is.
“Leutnant von Sielaff, I heard rumors that you took on ten enemy aircraft at once,” Göring spoke, his eyes flashing about with mirth. “Is that true?”
“Jawohl, Herr Reichsmarschall. Naturally, I only shot down two of those ten. The third victory was, in fact, an enemy aircraft missing me and hitting his own pilot instead and the rest of the formation was either shot down by my comrades or decided to flee.”
Göring’s face was instantly split by one of the broad, signature grins of his. He promptly offered Willi his hand, palm up. “You’ll get your Staffel bar, von Sielaff. You deserve it.”
A cameraman emerged out of nowhere and snapped a picture, which appeared on the front page of Der Adler the following morning. Overnight, Fighter Ace Wilhelm von Sielaff became a celebrity.
Berlin fell in love. Following suit, the entire Neues Deutsches Reich did so as well. Willi’s mischievous grin graced covers of Beobachter, Signal, Hitlerjugend periodicals and pretty much everything that was published in Germany during that month. Willi began receiving torrents of perfumed letters, in which women proclaimed their undying love for the young Berliner. Johann recognized quite a few names in those letters that Willi didn’t think twice about showing him.
The Ministry of Propaganda, with Dr. Goebbels in charge, immediately took notice of the new rising star’s popularity and began scheduling numerous interviews, together with celebratory tours, aimed at charming more youth into entering the Luftwaffe. It was the interviews, however, that proved to be a problem. The Propaganda Ministry representatives did manage to cut Willi’s hair to an appropriate length and even got him to sit still for quite some time in his newly tailored and pressed uniform while they took their stills of him; but what tumbled out of the young ace’s mouth in answer to the very first questions caused an immediate mask of horror to freeze on the reporters’ faces.
“Well, in a dogfight, rules don’t really matter. Out of everything that they taught us in flying school, I only practice the take-offs and landings according to their manuals. Apart from that, all those manuals didn’t really offer me any help in a real dogfight. The thing is, if we follow the rules, our enemy follows the same rules, so they know exactly what maneuver you’re going to pull in response to theirs since they’re using the same books. Now, if I act as unpredictable as I can, they can’t possibly foresee what I’m about to do and I’ll score another victory while they follow the rules. Whoever follows the rules, crashes and burns.”
One of the two plain-clothed men, who stood a bit apart from the group of reporters and observed the interview silently, straightened out a bit. Too absorbed in the chance to share his experience with the public, Willi didn’t pay any attention to their suddenly darkening faces.
“I apply the same rule to everything in my life. The rule is that there should be no rules. Every person is different and what works for one will never work for another. My commanders often criticized me for my nature as a loner and my individualism but that didn’t stop me from becoming a fighter ace who was awarded by the Reichsmarschall himself. You see, I didn’t want to become this person who rewrites the book of dogfighting. I wanted to become this person who throws the book away and says, to hell with it. We don’t need any books. We don’t need manuals. We don’t need rules. Freedom, absolute and ultimate freedom is the most important thing in life and I—”
“That’s enough.” One of the plain-clothed men moved forward, raising his hand in response to Willi’s unuttered protest. “Gentlemen, collect your notes and kindly surrender them to my colleague. Tapes from tape recorders as well. Another, official,” he stressed the word with steely notes in his voice, “interview will be scheduled and you will all receive your invitations as soon as Herr Leutnant,” another hostile glare in Willi’s direction followed, “is prepared to talk.”
The two suits with Party badges◦– Bonbons◦– as they were dubbed by freethinkers like Willi, promptly herded the journalists and photographers out of the room, threw a last, dark glare at the lonely figure in his new uniform and left.
“Who the hell were they?” Willi blinked a few times before turning his head to Johann. Everyone in the JG often joked that the two fighter aces were attached at the hip and wherever one went, the other one invariably followed. Johann accompanied his friend to the interview, just as Willi had accompanied Johann to his meeting with the Flieger Hitlerjugend boys. Needless to say, Johann’s meeting went much smoother.
“The Gestapo would be my first guess.”
“I don’t remember inviting them here! And besides, what should they care about the Luftwaffe? And who made them the authority anyway, to act like they just did?!”
“Wilhelm, watch yourself, so you don’t land yourself in even more trouble.”
“What trouble are you talking about? I was only explaining the dogfighting techniques; I wasn’t saying anything anti-governmental!”
“What about the whole ‘we don’t need any rules’ proclamation?” Johann arched his brow. “And ‘freedom is the most important thing in life’?”
“It is the most important thing in life!” Willi argued, raising his voice.
“That very well may be so, but you can’t walk around and say it out loud, let alone preach it from your new pedestal like you just did.”
“I’ll say whatever I want. If they don’t like it, they can arrest me for all I care.”
Johann only shook his head in helpless resignation.
The word traveled fast along the Gestapo’s dimly lit corridors. In the shadows of the dying day, as Willi, Johann, and Mina were getting ready for one of their outings, General von Sielaff’s Mercedes pulled up at the entrance◦– uninvited, for the first time in years. Also for the first time, instead of a sheepish smile at the sight of his son, a guarded mask sat firmly on the General’s haggard face.
“Wilhelm, why did I get a call from a man who should not have been calling me ever?” he began, from the threshold, without any preamble.
“I don’t know. Why?” Busy fixing his new award on his neck in front of the hallway mirror, Willi didn’t even bother turning toward him.
“You’re lucky that he and I served together in the war and I saved his skin once. He said, he’d let it slide but warned me that they already talk about you and your ‘odd’ views in the office in Prinz-Albrechtstraße. That’s not the sort of attention you want, son.”
“Don’t call me that.” Willi turned sharply on his heels to face his father. “And don’t worry about me. I’m doing just fine, as you can see.”
General von Sielaff looked at the finger that his son jabbed into his Gold Cross, put into his hands by Göring himself and then back at Willi’s hard, amber eyes. At length, he spoke, his voice slowly gathering conviction.