He wondered what sort of Germany he would be returning to after it was all over. There was sometimes a vision in his mind of endless fields of smoking rubble, where scarecrow figures huddled. Among the scarecrows in this vision he could see members of his own family. Perhaps that was overly pessimistic. Yet the first month of the war had already shown him that the dream of glory was in reality a nightmare of folly, slaughter and devastation.
‘Don’t upset yourself,’ one of his guards said. ‘We’re all a shower of bastards.’
Hufnagel realised that the remark was meant to be comforting. He realised, too, that the warmth on his cheeks was from tears that were trickling from his eyes. He wiped them away with the rough wool of the blanket. They led him below again.
Flushing Meadows, 1940
It was the biggest machine Thomas had seen since disembarking from the Manhattan ten months earlier. Pennsylvania Railroad’s S-1 locomotive towered over the crowd, more like a space rocket than a train, three hundred tons of gleaming blue steel, sculpted into flowing, aerodynamic lines. Even here at the World’s Fair, where everything was the biggest, the fastest, the latest, it was overwhelming: the most powerful train ever built, the Locomotive of Tomorrow.
It had been mounted on enormous rollers so that it could be run at full speed for the excited crowd. As the behemoth got into its stride, its wheels, each one taller than a man, churned into silvery blurs. Dense, hot steam poured over the spectators, drenching them. At peak power the howl of its whistle pierced the thunder of its pistons.
Thomas felt his identity erased by that noise and might. He ceased to be himself; one could not think one’s own thoughts. It was not until the great wheels slowed and the thunder sank back into the earth that he could be Thomas König again. Half-deafened, he looked at his wristwatch and saw that it was time to leave.
He walked towards the Theme Centre along one of the paths that converged there. On this Fourth of July of 1940, the World’s Fair was thronged with visitors in holiday mood. Ahead of him, over the heads of the crowd, the Trylon and the Perisphere glowed as though in a dream, brilliantly white. They were supernatural, the spire piercing the blue vault of heaven like the steeple of some mechanistic god, the sphere pregnant with infinite possibilities.
All around him rolled the noise of the World’s Fair, multitudinous, multifarious. Music of all kinds clashed and mingled with the bawling of amplified announcements, the sound of children playing, the drone of engines. Over in the distance he could hear the roar of the Goodrich pavilion, where Jimmy Lynch and his Death Dodgers raced around the track, performing stunts to thrill the crowd. And from Frank Buck’s Jungleland, where visitors could ride camels and elephants, a rich zoo smell emanated.
There had been grave doubts about whether the Fair would reopen in 1940. The prospect of American involvement in the war loomed ever closer. The huge Soviet pavilion had been dismantled and shipped home. So had the pavilions of several smaller countries which had now been overrun by the Nazis. In sympathy, others were flying their flags at half-mast. Slightly anxious patriotic slogans and American flags were everywhere. But these undercurrents were overlaid with sunshine and festivity today.
Thomas reached the Theme Centre and sat on the grass under a tree. The Perisphere in front of him seemed to float weightlessly on the fountains beneath it, light as a ping-pong ball for all its huge size. He watched the visitors taking their photographs, remembering how he had longed to see this sight. In his darkest moments, when grief had taken him by the throat and wouldn’t let him breathe, the dream of being here had saved him from despair.
At last he saw a familiar figure approaching across the lawn. He got to his feet.
Masha Morgenstern was wearing a white summer frock and a wide-brimmed straw hat. On this hot summer’s day, she looked as cool as an ice-cream cone. When she saw him, she paused for a moment, taking off her dark glasses. Then she ran to him and flung her arms around him.
‘Thomas! I almost didn’t recognise you at first. You’ve grown so much.’
‘I’m seventeen now,’ he said awkwardly.
‘And I’ve had a birthday too. I’m twenty-one, imagine.’ She held him at arm’s length to study him. ‘You’re so tall. You must be almost six foot now.’
‘Almost,’ he said. Where formerly they had conversed in Berlinerisch German, they now automatically spoke American English.
She held up the stub of her entrance ticket. ‘See? I used the ticket you gave me.’
A smile flickered across his grave, narrow face. ‘I’m glad.’
‘So am I.’ She read the stub. ‘The World of Tomorrow – Admit One. I remember the night you came into my cabin with this. It was an act of great kindness.’
‘I’m sure I got on your nerves.’
‘Never once. How you pulled the wool over all our eyes, Thomas! You gave a very good impersonation of a Nazi, quoting Hitler verbatim. You must have been laughing up your sleeve all the time!’
Thomas grimaced. ‘Not laughing.’
‘Oh, forgive me. That was insensitive of me. Do you have news of your parents?’
‘Only that they were sent to a place called Dachau. The Red Cross told me that. But of course they aren’t allowed to write. And you?’
‘I received a postcard a few weeks ago, saying that they were well. But it wasn’t in their writing, and it seemed like something that had been printed on a machine.’
‘We must have hope,’ he said quietly.
She nodded. ‘Yes, we must have hope. You’re at school?’
‘My uncle and aunt have been very kind. They put me in a private school in Connecticut. It was difficult at first, but I’m working hard.’
‘I’m sure you are. Your English is very good.’
‘So is yours.’ He had been too shy to look her in the face, but now he raised his eyes to hers. ‘Are you happy in America?’
‘Very happy. I’m studying the piano again at a music academy. I never thought I would. I’ve lost many years, but—’ She spread her hands. ‘There’s still something left in these.’
‘And Rachel?’
Masha laughed. ‘Oh, Rachel! Rachel is always the same. She’s working as a switchboard operator but I don’t think it’ll last. She keeps connecting the wrong parties, and then gets angry when they complain.’ Her brown eyes sparkled. ‘But tell me: have you seen Elektro the talking robot yet?’
‘Yes, I saw him this morning. He has a dog now, Sparko.’
She cocked her head on one side. ‘You don’t sound very excited.’
‘I expected a real robot. Elektro is just a big toy.’
‘I’m sorry you were disappointed.’
‘Nothing can disappoint me today.’
‘You’re very gallant,’ she said solemnly. She hooked her arm through his. ‘Now – you’re the expert. Show me around.’
With Masha close beside him, he showed her the things he thought would amuse her. They visited Little Miracle City, and were able to pick out some of Hoffman’s Midget Marvels, performing among the other little people. They watched nylon stockings being made, and a big Fourth of July parade of soldiers, followed by a demonstration of American military hardware. Ironically, that took place on the Court of Peace, against the backdrop of the Trylon.
There were other grim notes. One of the pavilions was collecting money for medical aid to China, with a display of tragic photographs. The France pavilion was flying its flag at half-mast; and this year’s show of the Fair was Streets of Paris, with Abbott and Costello, a painful reminder that the actual streets of Paris were now echoing under German jackboots. At the Great Britain pavilion there were displays of gas masks, German bombs, photographs of the Blitz, and even the tail of a German bomber that had been shot down.