“Yes, journalist. Here for the air exhibition.”
“I see. The Reich welcomes journalists. We just hope you’ll report what you’ve seen truthfully.”
Aubrey was about to question whether a border official could make such a statement, but bit her tongue.
The official wrote something in her passport and handed it back. His joviality vanished as he turned his attention to Frederick. The young man handed his credentials over; they were leafed through quickly.
“You must come with us.”
“Why’s that?” Aubrey said, and Frederick turned on her. His civility had vanished, but it was out of concern.
“Miss Aubrey, please, don’t.”
“He’s right, miss,” said the official. “Do not concern yourself with our affairs. You, up!” he shouted. Frederick grabbed his shabby suitcases off the rack and was led out. There was no time for him to turn and say goodbye. The two guards had their arms around him. In a second, he was gone.
“Why’d they do that? Was he in the wrong compartment?” she asked the man next to her after the soldiers had left.
“He is not permitted to ride first class in German trains whilst within the Reich’s borders.”
“And why’s that?”
“Because he’s a Jew, and it’s the law. Take your young friend’s advice, miss. Do not get involved. You can only get hurt and hurt those around you.”
“A lot of good you did, and you’re a fellow German.”
“Yes, and I’ve learned to keep my mouth shut. Your friend should have learned that as well. Maybe they will teach him. They have a place for people like him.” He gave an icy smile.
“One of those camps he mentioned?”
“Yes. It’s called Dachau.”
10
Aubrey checked into the Hotel Adlon on the Unter Den Linden. Her room had a commanding view of the Brandenburg Gates. She’d seen that famous portal once before, from the air, on her way across Europe in the 1934 air rally when she’d flown over the German capital. What had been lost on her from that first viewing, and which assaulted her eyes now, were the flags and bunting. The entire Pariser Platz seemed to be decorated in red, white and black swastikas. Large banners were strung from the roofs to street level on every building, including the hotel. She could hear them fluttering outside her room. The sight of all those twisted crosses, those wretched claws—no, she realized. Gears. That’s what they reminded her of: the swastikas looked like gears in a machine. Maybe that was intentional—the machine being the state, its gears turning ruthlessly, ready to maim anyone who opposed it.
She thought of poor Frederick, hauled from the train. Had he merely been kicked off for the offense of riding in first class, or had he been arrested? Was he on his way to Dachau this very moment? She shuddered. He’d seemed like an outspoken but harmless young man.
She reminded herself that she had a job to do. No, a mission: that’s what Hewitt Purnsley had called it. She wondered what the confident Englishman was up to at this moment. Perhaps sitting next to a wireless, waiting for radio reports of the apprehension of a female American spy? There was no way of contacting him. The plan was for her to depart Germany in three days, after the exhibition ended, and make her way to Paris. She had the return ticket and a room booked in the same Parisian hotel. She would have to wait for him to make contact.
Three days here… She wondered if she would go colour blind from all the black, red and white flags, or would she become accustomed to them? Would they cease to assault her senses? She couldn’t fathom that possibility.
Suddenly, she realized she was exhausted. Robbed of sleep on the train, she looked longingly at the single bed in her hotel room. But first things first. She dumped the contents of her bag out onto the bed. The black automatic pistol fell out last and she scooped it up, then tucked it back into the bag until she figured out what to do with it. Her clothes went into the dresser, and her more formal outfits went into a little alcove with hangers. John Walton’s girl had done a good job with shopping; the two outfits she’d purchased for Aubrey would do nicely. Certainly, the shops in Sacred never carried such haute couture. She only wished she’d had time in Paris to do some shopping herself.
There was a knock on the door. The open bag was still on her bed. One would have to deliberately look in it to spot the pistol, but…
Another knock.
“Fraulein Endeavours,” someone on the other side called in English.
“One moment, bitte,” she replied.
She pulled the pistol from the bag, lifted the mattress and shoved the pistol under it. That would do for now. She stepped over to the door and pulled it open.
Outside were two men dressed in the blue uniforms of the Luftwaffe. One was a corporal, the other a private. She sighed quietly with relief; she had half-expected Nazis in their evil black uniforms to be standing there, or men from the Gestapo in their raincoats and fedoras.
She greeted the men warmly and invited them in, but they declined. The corporal informed her that they were there to escort her to the exhibition. They’d been informed of her arrival.
Really? she thought. That was quick. Either the hotel had called it in, or perhaps they’d been waiting in a car and had seen her arrive. Very efficient. And disturbing. She begged five more minutes to freshen up, and then hurried down and met them in the lobby.
The men led her outside to a Ford Rheinlander, which was parked in front of the hotel. The two of them climbed in the front, which left the mohair-covered rear seat entirely to her. Aubrey sat back and watched the Berlin city centre, the Mitte district, whiz by. The airman drove; the corporal turned around to talk.
“We’re in the Luftwaffe,” he said.
“I gathered that from your uniforms. There are a
