On the morning of March 23, 1939, just one day shy of von Braun’s twenty-seventh birthday, Dornberger, von Braun, and a staff of over two hundred were waiting outside the offices at the Kummersdorf, a top secret facility twenty-five kilometers south of Berlin where all of the army’s rocket engines were tested.[3] Kummersdorf was about to receive a visit from a very important person. Dornberger had arranged for a VIP informational tour of the facility, and von Braun had prepared a live test of two liquid rocket motors—an A-2, and its much more powerful cousin, the A-5.[4] The engineers and technicians responsible for the tests had gone over every detail beforehand to make sure there were no glitches, delays, or (god help them) explosions.
No expense had been spared for this special visit. Extra staff had been added, and the finest cooks and servers that could be found were gathered and put through a rigorous rehearsal. Dornberger had personally supervised the lunch menu and approved every item. The culinary demands of their visitor were humble—steamed vegetables and mineral water—but the same could not be said of his gluttonous entourage. After the tour of the facilities and the demonstration test-firings, their guests would dine on tafelspitz, schweinebraten, schwarzwaelder kirschtorte, and homemade apple strudel with ice cream. No detail was too small, and Dornberger personally fretted over every one.
“Remember: Say nothing about spaceflight,” Dornberger instructed von Braun. “Absolutely nothing. I know how you get—all crazy and overly enthusiastic. He’ll want none of it.”[5]
Wernher nodded. This was only the tenth time Dornberger had given him the same tired speech. Did the captain really think he was not getting the message? Then, as Wernher’s eyes meandered over to one of the new secretarial hires, he felt a nudge in his side. Dornberger made a motion with his head off to the left, and Wernher followed his gaze. He focused his eyes and saw a small fleet of vehicles heading swiftly toward them.
The Führer had arrived.
Like millions before him, the man had been given no trial. Some prior prisoner somewhere had been relentlessly tortured until, in hope of saving his own life, he pointed the finger of suspicion at some other innocent Soviet citizen. That citizen did the same, and so forth, until one day a bony, tormented finger pointed in the direction of Sergei Korolev.[6] He was arrested in front of his family and taken to a secret location where he was questioned, tortured, and convicted—all in less than thirty minutes. He was then sentenced to ten years hard labor in the Siberian gulags.[7] That one of the country’s most valuable and dedicated rocket designers could be so reprehensibly treated was testament to the demented and frenetic nature of Joseph Stalin’s communist government.
Korolev was sent to the worst of the worst: Kolyma,[8] where it is said winter lasts twelve months and the rest of the year is summer.[9] At Kolyma he experienced a hellish world of forced labor, crowded housing, inadequate nutrition, violent confrontations, and brutal discipline. Each year, up to 10 percent of the prisoners died of malnutrition, starvation, disease, untreated health problems, murder, and execution.[10]
All of this served the purpose of supplying a steady flow of gold ore for the growing industrial might of the Soviet Union. On the day Wernher von Braun was enjoying his dessert of apple strudel and ice cream, Sergei Korolev was seated on an icy cold wooden floor in Siberia trying to keep a hundred other prisoners from stealing his only meal of the day: a small bowl of watery soup.
By the time May 1940 arrived, the death rate at Kolyma Prison had doubled, Wernher von Braun’s rocket budget had tripled, and Mary Sherman Morgan was preparing to graduate from high school.[11]
On May 31, Mary gave a speech before the faculty and graduating student body of Ray High School. She earned that privilege by being the 1940 class valedictorian.[12] At nineteen years of age she was also the oldest graduate, an echo of her parents having enrolled her three years late. After the graduation ceremony, Mary and the Sherman family returned to the farm for a celebratory meal. As she sat at the table in her usual place between Elaine and Amy, Mary’s mind was focused on a plan she had been formulating for months, a plan to run away from home in the middle of the night and go to college. She had told no one of her intentions, not even her one confidant, Elaine. Mary had learned long ago the advantages of secrecy, and this was one secret she had kept well. The risks of even the slightest whisper getting out were too great. She had been using the address of the local Catholic parish for all correspondence between herself and her chosen college. It was during confession one Saturday morning that she had asked the priest for permission to use the rectory as a mail drop. Since the request was spoken during confession, she knew the priest had an oath to keep the mail deliveries secret from her family.
Mary helped herself to a second portion of ham.
“My, my,” said her mother. “You sure have an appetite this evening.”
The year Mary graduated from high school, the farm town of Ray, North Dakota, was so small it barely warranted a stop on the one and only bus route that serviced lonesome Highway 2. Every Monday and Thursday at 3:05 a.m. American Flyer #273 pulled up to a roadside eatery known as Rachel’s Diner In a typical evening, the bus would pick up no one, drop no one off, then proceed east on one of the loneliest roads in America. After Ray, it would make stops at Kenmare, Minot, Rugby, and the Sioux Indian reservation at Devils Lake. If Mary failed to catch the Monday-morning pickup, she would have to return home and spend three more days on the farm. But if everything went according to plan, she would be sleeping in a bed at Aunt Ida LaJoie’s home in a couple of days. She had never met Aunt Ida, having corresponded with her only by mail. But from what other family members had told her, there was not a great deal of affection between the sisters, Ida and Mary’s mother. Ida had readily agreed to keep the arrangement a secret.
The Sherman family did not own a suitcase, owing to the fact none of them ever traveled farther than fifty miles from home. For Mary, this certainly simplified obedience to the college dorm’s requirement. Since her parents never saw the need to buy her anything, her clothes and personal items were few. Still, she needed something in which to carry her paltry pantry of stuff. Mary looked around for anything that could hold something.
There was nothing.
Mary slipped on her shoes, quietly tip-toed out of the closet-size room she shared with Elaine and Amy, walked through the kitchen, and stepped out the front door—holding her breath as the door’s hinges squeaked just enough to be dangerous.
Mary stopped and turned around. The sound of her father’s snoring was clear and steady, signaling safety. She propped the front door open and stepped onto the porch.
In the half-moon light, Mary could see Star standing quietly at his usual place, tied up at the property gate. Her father had never taken the time or expense to build a proper pen, so Mary had to have him tied up most of the time. By the time Mary had received the horse from the social worker, Star was already thirteen years old. He did not have many more good years left.
3
6
James J. Harford,
9
“Gulag: Soviet Forced Labor Camps and the Struggle for Freedom,” Center for History and New Media, George Mason University, http://gulaghistory.org/nps/onlineexhibit/stalin/work.php (accessed April 11, 2013).
10
Stanislaw J. Kowalski, “Kolyma: The Land of Gold and Death,” ch. 7, http://www.aerobiologicalengineering.com/wxk116/sjk/kolyma7.htm (accessed April 30, 2013).
11
According to a 1974 job application (courtesy of G. Richard Morgan), Mary graduated from Ray High School on May 31, 1940.