As expected, Helga’s funeral was a simple affair, lacking in grandeur and ceremony befitting someone of her status. There would be no procession of grieving mourners and no white horses drawing her ornate funeral carriage, nor would her coffin be made of brass and adorned with funeral lilies. Instead, a haggard horse and rickety cart carried her humble pine casket to the crypt where a peasant masquerading as a priest mumbled prescribed words to a congregation of just two. Helga would not have been pleased.
Immediately after the funeral, the general bid Gabi farewell and made his way to Helga’s mansion to see if anything remained. As expected, it had been stripped of all value and lay derelict. He torched the building before returning to the train station—better that the manor be destroyed than left for the Russians.
September 1944
Gabi tore open the envelope, accidentally ripping the letter within. She cursed and reassembled the pieces, holding the document together as she read. It was an order from General Galland and the Reich’s Air Ministry to discuss a proposal regarding the Me-262.
She immediately telephoned Galland, who, although enthusiastic, would not elaborate over the telephone, saying that he would prefer to discuss the matter in person. They agreed to meet over dinner, Galland suggesting Maxim’s restaurant in Berlin, a favourite haunt of the Jagdgeschwader. It was a fair distance from her base in Wesenberg but she accepted his invitation, deciding to ride to Berlin on her motorcycle.
It took over two hours to reach Berlin and a further twenty minutes to find Maxims restaurant in the blackout. A queue of subdued shadows lined the sidewalk, disappearing into the adjoining establishment—a seedy house of burlesque. She pushed her way through the shadow and into the dimness of the restaurant, a bustling hive of waiters and an eclectic mix of patrons—military personnel, well-to-do civilians, and the overflow from the establishment next door.
General Galland sat at a corner table, puffing on his cigar and watching the human traffic dash about. He spotted Gabi, and his lips curled to expose a row of crooked teeth.
“Captain Richter, such a pleasure.” He extended his hand to shake, pulling her closer.
“I’m so sorry I’m late. The ride from Wesenberg was good, but I got lost in Berlin,” she said.
“So thoughtless of me—I didn’t realize that you came all the way from Wesenberg. Let me organise some accommodation for you here in Berlin.”
“It won’t be necessary, General. I can stay at my father’s apartment tonight.”
“Well then, at least allow me to pour you a drink.” His cheeks flushed pink from alcohol, but his manner was businesslike and he wasted no time outlining his proposal.
Kurt charged into Maxims with an entourage of officers and a bevy of burlesque beauties in tow. He had booked the private dining room at the back of the restaurant with proceeds from his gambling days and spared no expense. The mob poured into the room and immediately settled into their lavish surroundings, lounging across chairs and sending champagne corks flying.
Two eager girls vying for Kurt’s attention provided the entertainment. While a well-endowed redhead sat straddled over Kurt’s lap smothering his face with kisses, a petite contortionist performed subhuman feats of flexibility with a chair and beer bottle. Kurt extracted his lips from the redhead, groping for the contortionist, who pulled the other woman off him and continued her routine using Kurt as a prop. Even Kurt could not believe her skill.
“Another glass?”
Gabi waved a hand over her flute. “No, thank you, General. I think I’ve had quite enough.”
He topped up his glass and tossed the empty bottle under the table. “Major Nowotny will make an excellent commander, don’t you think? It will be a challenge though, make no mistake—the Me-262 still needs to be fully tested and combat tactics must be established to earn any credibility with the Führer.”
“Yes, Walter is perfect for the position.”
Galland leaned back into his seat and yawned. “So, Captain Richter, I suppose you’re wondering what we want from you?”
“I assume Walter wants me to join his group.”
“Well, after our discussion at the conference last year, I would think that you’d jump at the opportunity.”
She had thought of little else during her ride from Wesenberg and in truth, she had her reservations. Was she prepared to leave JG 54 and Kurt? She pushed herself from the table. “Please excuse me, I’ll be back in a moment.”
Unable to think above the noisy chatter of the dining room, she sought a place of privacy, somewhere she could clear her head and consult with her heart.
Gabi made her way to the restrooms, passing an imposing hardwood door adorned with a brass plaque that read ‘Private Dining Room’. She pushed the door and peeked into a scene that would have impressed Caligula: an orgy of inebriated officers and near naked women engaging in obscene acts of erotica. She backed away from the door but then a familiar voice rose above the debauchery.
“Don’t waste it!”
A woman, who had been spraying the room with champagne, threw herself at the man. They fell onto the floor and squealing like a piglet, she continued to pour the champagne into his mouth. He pushed her away and coughed his lungs clear.
Gabi swallowed the rising repulsion, glaring at a man who had once been her guardian angel. Their eyes locked, and he staggered to his feet only to fall back again on top of the squealing piglet. More shrieks of laughter, the atmosphere so charged and vile that Gabi felt it would explode. She turned her back on the depraved spectacle that was Kurt. Her father had been right all along—he was such a peacock.
She returned to her table and informed General Galland that she had made her decision—she would be honoured to fly the Me-262 for the Reich.
Gabi paced her room back at the base, rubbing her palm and mumbling thoughts aloud as she grappled with the conflict in her head. She had slept poorly at her father’s apartment and felt ill the entire ride to Wesenberg and now all she could do was delay the inevitable: informing Kurt.
Was she doing the right thing? Kurt had always been there for her and now she was deserting him. But what else could she do? They had become distant in recent months, going out of their way to avoid one another. She had told herself that it was for the best that they part ways but could not convince herself of this, instead, clinging to what once was and might have been between them. Had it not been for the orgy, she may well have refused Galland but now Kurt left her no choice. It was time to confront her conscience.
She found Kurt bench-pressing weights in the gymnasium, puffing and grunting as perspiration seeped, veins bulged and nostrils flared; an attractive vision not unlike that of a Greek statue, chiselled and rock hard. It was no surprise that women swooned over Kurt; he was an attractive man, even when hungover as he was sure to be after that night’s carousing.
Her gaze fixed on his torso, a scar the size of a thumb marring the perfection of his glowing chest. He must have been wounded in Africa but had never spoken of it. The bullet had struck close to his heart—lady luck had been with him that day.
Gabi cleared her throat, announcing her presence and Kurt responded by wiping a towel across his brow and under his armpits.
She took a long, nervous breath. “I’m amazed you found your way back. You must have quite a hangover.”
Kurt threw the towel onto the floor and resumed his workout as though she were not there.
She waited a moment. “I met with General Galland last night.”