There was a shaded but concealed clearing in the fragrant trees, and it was mid-afternoon before the two of them reached Peenemunde village, hand in hand.
Jan Memling reported for work the following morning. They had registered the previous day with the elderly local constable at the Peenemunde village hall, and the man had assured him that, considering their long walk, tomorrow would be soon enough to visit the research centre’s security staff. He leered at Francine and plucked a pine needle from her hair. They had wandered through the small fishing village then, finding it much like other such villages along the Baltic coast – a single road fronting an old wooden quay, now quite dilapidated as the war made increasing demands on local labour.
The Zinns, a middle-aged couple of sour disposition, expected an outrageous rent, for which they would get an unfinished space in the attic, a rickety double bed, and two meagre meals per day. Memling wondered who had recruited these two grasping misers into the resistance.
It was obvious from the beginning that only greed had induced the Zinns to house them. The husband whined all the first evening about their losses, as they were now unable to rent the very desirable space in the attic to one of the wealthy scientists at the research centre. Finally, Francine could take no more and railed at the man and his wife in country German, threatening to report them both to the resistance. The two whispered together for the rest of the evening, clearly frightened.
Francine wakened Memling the following morning and went off to the kitchen to make certain that Frau Zinn had prepared a proper breakfast. As he sat on the edge of the lumpy bed, it occurred to him that his unexpected holiday was over and that it was time he returned to work. It took him a while to adjust to that fact.
Herr Zinn provided directions to the research centre, Frau Zinn handed him a tin pail containing lunch, and Francine kissed him goodbye. The good husband going off to work, Memling thought to himself.
As he trudged along the road in company with others converging on the installation he was surprised at the extent of the facility. Barbed wire seemed to run for ever, and through the pines he caught glimpses of the most modern buildings, lined up one after another. Security was thorough, if relaxed. His papers were examined at the main gate where the Luftwaffe guard gave him instructions and showed him on the map where to find the personnel offices.
By nine that morning he had been processed, fingerprinted, photographed, and assigned to a job as quality control technician in the Preproduction Works Building. The research centre, or what he could see of it, looked more like the American college campuses that he had seen in photographs. There were parklands and even a sports ground that would have done credit to any town in Europe. People – many in white laboratory coats and all, it seemed, with briefcases or clipboards – walked quickly, intently, from one building to another. Small special-purpose vehicles hauled canvas-shrouded equipment. There were bicycles everywhere but few guards.
As Memling made his way towards the designated building a distant roaring grew louder, and he looked towards the north to see a thunderhead of white smoke roiling upwards and, a moment later, a pointed cylindrical shape rising above the trees. Its fuselage was painted in alternating bands of red and yellow, and in the bright summer sunshine it flashed as brilliantly as the pure column of flame on which it was balanced. For an instant he was suffused with sheer joy as he watched a dream come to life. Even when the rocket had disappeared into the cobalt sky, Memling continued to stare after it, oblivious to anything else until a bicycle bell forced him to step hastily aside.
A smiling middle-aged man in a nicely tailored suit shook hands, offered him a seat and a cigarette, and welcomed him to the Peenemunde research facility.
‘We would like you to know that we are very grateful to you for accepting our position here at Peenemunde. We need all the technically minded people we can obtain, and I think you will find us willing to go out of our way to make you happy here.’
Memling assumed the proper dazed attitude; it was easy enough, as he recalled the conditions under which he had worked in Liege.
He was assigned to a quality control station monitoring the tolerances of valve assemblies which he quickly discovered were a part of the fuel control system for the rocket he had seen launched that morning. His foreman was a French national, extracted from a labour camp at Belsen and assigned to Peenemunde. Memling quickly gained overall impressions from the man which suggested that Allied intelligence regarding Peenemunde was sadly inadequate.
‘You will find the Hun a totally different type here,’ the foreman told him. ‘These are scientists, not soldiers or SS. They are just like any of us. Four thousand people work here. I tell you, it is enough to make your head spin when you realise all that is going on. We are not supposed to know, but everyone does. You are soon swept up in the scientific spirit, and then you are no longer working for the enemy but with fellow scientists. I ask you, did you ever think that some day man would fly to the moon? Well, they will, and perhaps sooner than any of us think. And if they do, it will be right from here, Peenemunde! Talk to any of the scientists. They will tell you the same, and what is more, if you have something constructive to offer, they will listen. I tell you, this place is what Plato’s republic might have been. Ah! If only there were not this damned war! But enough, your job will be to follow the specifications laid down on these sheets.’ He showed Memling a series of printed pages in protective celluloid covers, and a fine set of gauges.
‘The measurements must not vary by more than a tenth of a millimetre, otherwise the system must be rejected. Perform each measurement three times, recording the readings. Average the results, and if within limits, mark the card attached to each unit after reassembly and sign your initials and employee identification number. Understood?’
Memling assured him it was, and performed the first two measurements while the foreman watched, grunting with approval at the expert way he handled the gauges. Before he left, the foreman confided that this station was used to weed out the inept, and if Memling passed through successfully, he would undoubtedly be promoted to a more interesting task with an increase in salary as well.
That evening he discussed his day with Herr Zinn, who worked as a gang foreman supervising twenty Russian POWs. Grudgingly, and with much coaxing, he confirmed Memling’s observations. The rocket that had been launched that morning was called an A-4. Similar to the one photographed by CIU, he said to himself. This morning’s launch was apparently part of a series of tests, not all of which were successful. Some of the rockets disappeared into the sky, and some exploded either at the launching site or after they were in the air. In addition, there was a type of aeroplane that flew without a pilot; the Luftwaffe were conducting their own series of experiments on that one. Zinn knew little about them and cared less.
That evening Memling expressed his misgivings concerning the Zinns. Francine tended to dismiss his complaints, and Memling was uncomfortably aware that she was assuming a superior role. He was at a loss to know how to deal with it and cursed the unknown resistance leaders who had saddled him with this inexperienced little fool.
The Zinns, however, were a bigger problem. The man was clearly stupid and considered foreigners beneath contempt. The wife was little better, and shrewish and grasping into the bargain. It would be only a matter of time before it occurred to the Zinns to realise a profit by selling them to the authorities.
On the afternoon of his third day Memling was taken by one of the German engineers into the assembly area and shown the A-4 power plant.