The crash this morning had happened at the end of the tarmac, and two fire trucks were dousing the inferno. Aubrey could see the wreckage of at least two planes. The fire trucks, one manned by Luftwaffe personnel and the civilian one that had passed her on the street, were aggressively attacking the fire. It was getting dangerously close to a row of parked aircraft. Luftwaffe crew scrambled over those aircraft, removing blocks and hooking up a tow to the one nearest to the flames that crept along the grass. The scene was half-pandemonium, with officers shouting orders and the firefighters directing their hoses here and there. The civilians in attendance were frozen in place, struggling to comprehend what they were witnessing. Civilians like Richard Fuchs, who was just standing there amongst his fellow journalists, holding his hat in his hand.
She sprinted over to him. “What happened?” she asked.
He barely glanced at her and answered in German. “A crash. What do you think happened?” Then he realized who he was addressing. “Two planes collided in mid-air; I saw the whole thing. It was like it was happening in slow motion. One was able to land. The other fell on the aircraft parked there. The pilot is dead, I would imagine. They haven’t been able to get to him.”
“He’s gone,” she said.
“You’ve seen this sort of thing before?”
“Too many times.”
“I don’t know how you can look at it. It’s bloody awful.”
“You’re a journalist. Aren’t you supposed to be able to handle things like this?”
He scoffed. “I guess. So, how was last night?” he said, changing the subject. “Where did His Grace take you?”
“To his home.”
“And you think I move fast.”
“There was a reception. I met Hermann Goering.”
“Ahh, I see.” He looked at his shoes then back up to her. “On a whim, I went to your hotel. I was nearby. I waited an hour and then another to see if you would come back. Got more than a little drunk at the hotel bar. I cursed your name.”
“Are you still cursing it?”
“No. I was a little dry this morning, hung over.” He nodded at the scene, the rising smoke. “Not any more. I’m sorry, but I have to go file this.”
“I understand.” She needed to do the same thing, she realized. She wondered how she would write it. She wanted at least some of the truth of her mission here to make it into the American magazines. If it were discarded by the ghost writers and editors in charge of publishing her articles on her behalf, so be it. At least she would have tried.
There was no point in sticking around. She did not see the count, and the exhibition would surely be closed today. She hitched a ride back into the nearest town, and from there, with her rudimentary German, she managed to catch a taxi that was willing to drive her to Wannsee. She had plenty of money and had to show it up front before he agreed.
She got halfway there when she remembered to check for a tail. It was difficult to do this discreetly in the taxi, but again she was fairly certain no one was behind her. She would put her brief training to the test when she got to Wannsee and started walking around. She had the picture of the girl with her; she’d tucked it into her handbag before leaving the hotel, knowing that today, or at least soon, she would try and find her.
The Frick house was not far from the count’s stately manor. It was less impressive in size, but it still spoke of wealth and privilege. A gardener working the hedges near the entrance paid Aubrey no mind when she came up the path.
A stern-looking woman, as thin as a rail with horn-rimmed glasses, opened the door and looked down her nose at Aubrey.
“I’m looking for Lydia Frick. Does she live here?”
“Who are you?”
“A friend of Lydia’s, from America. It’s important that I see her. Is she here?”
“No, not anymore.”
“They moved away?”
“Leave our property at once or I will call the police.” The woman glanced past Aubrey to see if anyone was watching. Then she slammed the door. The abruptness of it pushed Aubrey off the steps, and she stood there dumbfounded. There was no use knocking again; she would get a sterner reply and probably that police intervention. She had no choice but to leave.
As she neared the gate, the gardener moved even closer to it. He spoke to her without raising his head from his work.
“You’re looking for Lydia?”
“I am.”
“I was their gardener for twenty years. They’ve gone.”
“I got that impression. They moved out of Berlin?”
“Not moved. Were moved. They are still in Berlin, last I heard.”
“Where are they?”
“Jewish Quarter. They wrote to me. They are in a house on Eindhoven Strasse; I don’t know the number. I threw the letter away.”
“Do you want me to give them a message?”
Aubrey heard the sound of the front door opening again, and the gardener turned his back on her and moved farther down the hedges.
The row houses on Eindhoven Strasse could have been anywhere in the US; St. Louis, Chicago, Brooklyn. What was striking about this area of town was the absence of children. Absence of any signs of life, really. The street was deserted; shutters closed quickly as she passed from house to house.
The other thing striking about this street compared to others in Wannsee was the garbage. There were piles of it on the street corners and in front of the houses, where the other streets were spotlessly clean. She could see where rats had chewed into the paper bags to get at the contents. It looked like the rubbish collection had been suspended in this area.
There was a synagogue on the corner. Outside it, two loutish-looking goons in brown shirts with swastika armbands were hanging around, writing down the license plate numbers of what few worshipers there were,
