The Aviator's Wife

sabers rattling on all sides.

“Colonel, you are in an enviable position. You have no political standing, yet you are a world figure. Everyone still respects your accomplishments, and wonders what you’ll do next. That’s a wonderful passport, you know. You are invited everywhere—even to Russia, I understand?”

“Yes, we are invited to tour their airports,” Charles said mildly, still pretending not to be interested. But he sat up straighter and stopped drumming his fingers on the armrest.

“You are being given an unprecedented opportunity here, because of who you are. I assure you, Hitler wouldn’t do this for anyone else. And you can be of great service to your country by helping me prepare a report about Germany’s airpower.”

“Wouldn’t that be a bit duplicitous? Almost spying?”

“No—they don’t expect you not to report back. In fact, I imagine that’s part of their plan, to show their hand to America and make them take notice. This government—well, I’ll just say that nothing goes on that isn’t absolutely anticipated beforehand. Did you notice there was no press when you landed?”

Charles and I exchanged glances; it was the first thing we had noticed.

“Hitler controls the press,” Kay remarked, as she poured herself a cocktail from a silver shaker. She reminded me of my mother, with her large, owl-like gray eyes; watching, always watching, even as she purred silkily and smoothed over arguments. The difference was that Kay was much more glamorous, with fashionably waved auburn hair and a moss-green bias-cut Vionnet gown, daringly low in the back. Charles would never have allowed me to dress like that. I couldn’t help but feel frumpy next to her, in my modestly cut blue velvet gown bought from a sensible dressmaker on Regent Street. “Hitler forbade the press to cover your visit.”

“Oh, how heavenly!” I exclaimed. Kay’s eyebrow shot up.

“Surely you’re not saying that Hitler’s stifling of the independent press is a good thing?”

“Oh, no—no, of course not. It’s just—it will be very restful not to have to contend with the press for a change.” Again, Charles and I exchanged a look. We could not explain what the press had done to us; no one who hadn’t lived through what we had could ever understand our feeling. The American press had stolen our little boy; it was as simple as that. Printing maps to our house, reporting on our every move—and then, ultimately, taking photographs of his mangled body in the morgue. We had been violated in every sense of the word.

“I’m still not quite comfortable with what you propose, Truman,” Charles protested—rather feebly, I felt, knowing how unmistakably he could make his thoughts known when he wanted to. “What would Lufthansa say?”

“They’ll say what Hitler wants them to say,” Kay replied wryly.

Truman cleared his throat, then pointedly turned to address me, not my husband. “I understand the air force has been experimenting with new engines. The most powerful engines yet, or so it’s rumored.”

I stifled a smile.

“Really?” Charles now stood, going over to pour himself a cocktail—something so stunning that I almost gasped. I rarely saw him drink, only wine at dinner, sometimes brandy with Harry Guggenheim. “I wonder—I would love to see a Messerschmitt firsthand.”

“I’m sure that could be arranged,” Truman replied, stifling a smile of his own. “The Stuka has been improved as well, I hear.”

Charles sipped his drink—dry martinis that Kay had prepared with quantities of gin and hardly a splash of vermouth; his cheeks flushed slightly red, and he grinned. “All right, then. If you insist, I will take up Herr Goring’s offer and help you with your report. Of course, I must comment only on the scientific aspects. Not the political ones.”

“Of course,” Truman agreed smoothly. “No one expects you to understand the political situation—after all, you’re an aviator, not a statesman. Far from it.”

I stiffened, my stomach tightening as I watched my husband. He was staring at Truman, his jaw set, the corner of his mouth curled up arrogantly. Then he took another hefty swig of his martini and set the glass down so forcefully, I was surprised it didn’t break.

You did not tell Charles Lindbergh what he was or was not. After all, everyone had told him he was only a mail pilot, not an explorer capable of a trans-Atlantic flight; I sometimes wondered if he’d have bothered to take on the Paris flight, if so many people hadn’t assured him it was impossible.

Even with the study windows closed, as Kay began to fill in the sudden silence with harmless gossip, I felt a shift in the very air, the currents. Experienced copilot that I was, I didn’t even need to look at my husband to know that I was being pulled toward a different—and dangerous—course.

THE GERMANY THAT WE saw in those days leading up to the Olympics, as we toured factories and airfields and museums and schools, was a balm on our battered souls. True to his word, Chancellor Hitler kept the press at bay; we were able to relax, talk, see, listen, and not be afraid that our every word would be misinterpreted or used against us. There was a purpose, a drive, to the German people that was lacking everywhere else we’d been, both abroad and in the United States; the Depression hadn’t broken down its citizenry, as it had elsewhere. We didn’t see a single breadline or soup kitchen. No protests; no workers milling about buildings with signs or placards; no strident, blaring headlines tearing down one political party or another. No boarded-up storefronts, no farms with foreclosure signs in front, no children playing in alleys with sticks and stones because that’s all they had.

Indeed, all the people we encountered fairly glowed with good health—plump and rosy cheeks, white teeth, shining hair. Precious little girls in dirndl skirts, contented matrons with well-fed babies in their arms. The Hitler Youth—the young men in brown uniforms—patrolled the streets like well-mannered Boy Scouts, picking up litter, carrying shopping baskets for the elderly. I toured nursery schools—kindergartens—where the children held hands and sang songs praising Chancellor Hitler. “Herr Hitler loves children,” one teacher explained to me. “Healthy children are the future. He encourages those of pure race to have families.”

“Pure race?”

“Those who are not genetically sick. Or genetically inferior.”

I nodded, and was reminded of something Charles had said once, about our children being pure. But what did “genetically inferior” mean? I had my suspicions and was about to ask, but then I was whisked away to my car, and taken to lunch at a biergarten.

Charles and I were seldom together during the day; he toured military and airplane factories, while I toured schools and museums. But something happened between us at night; something that hadn’t happened between us in a very long time.

Passion. Passion was rekindled in Germany, of all places. Charles was rejuvenated, pulsing with hope and optimism in a way he hadn’t been since before 1932. All the wandering, the tinkering, the move to Europe—none of it had satisfied him. I could see that now. Once again, he could barely wait for me to remove my silk stockings at night, to step out of my slip. With hungry hands, seeking lips, he filled me with his hope and optimism, as well. Our bodies hummed and throbbed, electric; I felt light, ethereal, a wisp of smoke that only his hands could catch.

“We should move here,” Charles said, the evening before we were to leave. “Make our home here—maybe not in Berlin but somewhere in Germany. Munich, perhaps. It’s prettier, they say, in the mountains.”

“Really?” I pushed myself up on my elbow; we were in bed, the sheets tangled around us. My mouth felt deliciously bruised and ripe.

“Anne, there’s no other country in Europe right now that can be compared to Germany. Hitler has pushed his nation into the modern age—think of it, compared to England! England, with its ancient empire and outdated navy —how absurd! It’s all about airpower now, and Germany is clearly in the lead, not that I believe Hitler has ideas of war. In fact, I sincerely hope he does not. But this is a technological country, not merely an ideological one. Ideas —what are they unless they’re backed up by technology? That’s the wave of the future.”

“We’d be left in peace,” I mused, reflecting on the freedom of these last few days, when I never had to wonder if some photographer was hanging around, waiting to catch me doing something awkward or—heaven forbid, for then they’d make up some ridiculous caption!—ordinary. I couldn’t imagine being chased down roads by anyone here; I could even allow myself to picture putting my child to bed at night with open windows, so that he might breathe the fragrant night air. “Think of it, Charles! I’m sure we could have a lovely little house right in the center of town—we wouldn’t have to be on any remote island or isolated farmhouse. I could go to the theater! Opera! Shopping!” Saying the words out loud, I realized how much I had missed doing these things—missed culture, art, people. It was as if some deadening, numbing medication was wearing off; I