The line of people eager to escape Hitlers paradise was receding around another corner when Russell got back to the Embassy. Martin Unsworth was in a meeting, and had nothing good to tell him when he eventually came out of it. Someone had stuck a to be refused note on Frau Wiesners file, but he didn't know when or why. He was still working on it but, as Russell could see, they were pretty busy. Russells graphic account of his visit to Sachsenhausen elicited sympathy but little else. He had telegraphed the Washington Embassy with a message for Conway, Unsworth said, but had not had a reply. For all he knew, Conway was taking a few days holiday in New York. And in any case, he didn't see what Conway or anyone else could do about one Jew in a concentration camp, no matter how innocent he was, or how badly he was being treated.
More resigned than raging, Russell left without hitting the banister and drove home to Neuenburgerstrasse. Frau Heideggers door was open, his Sudeten neighbor sitting helplessly in the chair she reserved for the sacrificial coffee-drinker. Russell flashed him a sympathetic smile and ran upstairs to pack the larger of his two worn-out suitcases with three changes of clothes, a toothbrush, and several books. The latter included Achievements of the Third Reich and the 1937 Coronation edition of the A1 Guide and Atlas of London, which hed discovered the previous year in a secondhand bookshop on the Kudamm. Miniatures of their majesties sat side by side over a scrolled Long May They Reign.
The aerodrome at Tempelhof Field was on the other side of the Kreuzberg, about three kilometers away. As they lived fairly close together, Jens had agreed to pick up Paul for a noon arrival at the aerodrome, and Russell arrived with some twenty minutes to spare. The parking lot was small, but the quality of carshis Hanomag exceptedmade up for the lack of quantity. Flying was not for the poor.
The others arrived five minutes later, Paul with a Jungvolk rucksack on his back, his face a study in repressed excitement. The fur-coated Zarah looked anxious, Lothar like a normal four-year-old. Jens ushered them into the one-storey terminal building, clearly intent on smoothing their path. As Zarah disappeared in the direction of the ladies room, he took Russell aside.
It went well yesterday? he asked.
Russell nodded.
And you understand that you must not talk or write about your visit?
Russell nodded again.
For everyones sake, Jens added pointedly.
Look! Paul called out from a window. Its our aeroplane.
Russell joined him.
Its a Ju 52/3m, Paul said knowledgeably, pointing at the plane being fueled out on the tarmac. It has a cruising ceiling of 6,000 meters. It can go 264 kilometers an hour.
Russell looked up. The sky was clearer than it had been. We should see a lot, he said.
Well be over the Reich for two hours, Paul said, as if nothing else was worth seeing.
Zarah had returned. Time to go through customs, Russell told his son, feeling a flutter of nerves run down his spine.
Jens led the way, chatting and laughing with the officials as if they were old friends. Zarahs large suitcase was waved through unopened, as was Pauls rucksack. Russells suitcase, however, they wanted to inspect.
He opened it up and watched, heart in mouth, while the customs official ran his hands through the clothes and came to the books. He looked at these one by one, ignoring those in English and settling on Achievements of the Third Reich. He skipped through a few pages, and gave its owner a quizzical look.
Its for a nephew in England, Russell explained, suddenly conscious that Paul was looking at the book with some surprise. Dont say anything, he silently pleaded, and Paul, catching his eye, seemed to understand.
The man put it back with the others and closed the suitcase. Enjoy your journey, he said.
Once Jens and Zarah had said their goodbyes, the four of them walked out across the tarmac to the silver aeroplane. It had a stubby nose, three enginesone at the front, one on either wingand windows like rectangular portholes. LUFTHANSA was stenciled on the side, a large swastika painted on the tailfin. A short flight of steps took them up to the door, and into a vestibule behind the passenger cabin, where their cases were stowed. In the cabin itself there were five leather-covered seats on each side of the carpeted aisle, each with a high headrest. Theirs were the four at the rear, Russell sitting behind Paul, Zarah behind Lothar.
The other passengers came aboard: a youngish English couple whom Russell had never seen before and four single men, all of whom looked like wealthy businessmen of one sort or another. Judging from their clothes one was English, three German.
A mail truck drew up beside the aeroplane. The driver jumped down, opened the rear door, and dragged three sacks marked DEUTSCHESPOST to the bottom of the steps. A man in a Lufthansa uniform carried them aboard.
We used these against the communists in Spain, Paul said, leaning across the gangway to make himself heard above the rising roar of the engines. They were one of the reasons we won.
Russell nodded. A discussion with his son about the Spanish Civil War seemed overdue, but this was hardly the place. He wondered if Paul had forgotten that his parents had both been communists, or just assumed that theyd seen the error of their ways.
The pilot and co-pilot appeared, introducing themselves with bows and handshakes as they walked down the aisle to their cabin. The stewardess followed in their tracks, making sure that everyone had fastened their leather safety belts. She was a tall, handsome-looking blond of about nineteen with a marked Bavarian accent. A predictable ambassador for Hitlers Germany.
Out on the tarmac a man began waving the plane forward, and the pilot set them in motion, bumping across the concrete surface toward the end of the runway. There was no pause when they reached it, just a surge of the engines and a swift acceleration. Through the gap between seat and wall, Russell could see Pauls ecstatic face pressed to the window. On the other side of the aisle, Zarahs eyes were closed in fright.
Seconds later, Berlin was spreading out below them: the tangle of lines leading south from Anhalter and Potsdamer stations, the suburbs of Schonefeld, Wilmersdorf, Grunewald. Theres my school! Paul almost shouted. And theres the Funkturm, and the Olympic Stadium!
Soon the wide sheet of the Havelsee was receding behind them, the villages, fields, and forests of the northern plain laid out below. They were about a mile up, Russell reckoned, high enough to make anything look beautiful. From this sort of height a Judenfrei village looked much like one that wasnt.
They flew west, over the wide traffic-filled Elbe and the sprawling city of Hannover, crossing into Dutch airspace soon after three oclock. Rotterdam appeared beneath the starboard wing, the channels of the sea-bound Rhineor whatever the Dutch called itbeneath the other. As they crossed the North Sea coast the plane was rocked by turbulence, causing Zarah to clutch the handrests and Paul to give his father a worried look. Russell gave him a reassuring smile. Lothar, he noticed, seemed unconcerned.
The turbulence lasted through most of the sea crossing, and the serene sea below them seemed almost an insult. Looking down at one Hook of Holland-bound steamer Russell felt a hint of regret that theyd traveled by airnot for the lack of comfort, but for the lack of romance. He remembered his first peacetime trip to the Continentthe first few had been on troopships during the Warthe train journey through Kents greenery, the Ostend ferry with its bright red funnels, the strange train waiting in the foreign station, the sense of striking out into the unknown. He hadn't been on a plane for the better part of ten years, but he hadn't missed them.
But Paul was having the time of his life. Can you see England yet? he asked his father.