The Berlin Escape

by Warren Court

  The tables were turned and now her positioning robbed her hunters of their vision. They could not see her. She closed the distance; her plane was just a tad more manoeuvrable. She toyed with the idea of flying up beside the rear plane and flipping the pilot the bird.

  Around and around they went, gaining altitude, then losing it as the German fighters searched for her. She had plenty of fuel, but what about them? If the German authorities were on to the man in the rear of her plane, they would have had to have these fighters already airborne when she’d landed to pick him up. They’d been up there, waiting for her to take off if she got away from the guys on the ground. And gotten away she had. She knew fighters were like sports cars: great fun to ride in but hell on fuel economy.

  After a dizzying two minutes of her trailing them, the lead fighter banked hard to the right and swooped down. The other one seemed reluctant to do so at first, but then followed suit. She flew above them. Unless they had eyes in the backs of their heads, she was still invisible to them. They were heading east, back into German territory, convinced they’d lost her. She was giddy with joy; her ploy had worked. The fighters increased their speed and left her. She then turned back westward and rose slowly up into the cloud cover and onwards to Belgium.

  2

  The sun was rising behind her by the time she crossed the border. She had the map of north-eastern Belgium resting on her thigh. The plane had suffered damage but was still airworthy. The cockpit had been punctured by machine gun bullets, and the controls were stiff. A control cable to one of the ailerons must have been shot to bits. She should by all rights put the aircraft down; there could be more cables or wooden spars on the verge of giving out, she knew. But she wanted to complete the mission. The rendezvous spot was twenty miles over the border. Thankfully, the sun was dissipating the morning fog and she could make out landmarks of the Belgian countryside.

  She realized that this terrain would be similar to what her father had flown over seventeen years before, during the Great War. There were Flemish windmills, and smoke rising from chimneys. She had dead reckoned fairly accurately and saw the rendezvous spot approaching in the distance.

  Her passenger was silent, and she didn’t have time to try to speak to him. Just get the airplane down, hand him over to the friendlies and be on your way. There was a proper airport nearby; she could put down there after dropping the man off and see to getting the damage to her plane repaired. With any luck, she might be able to continue on in the rally. She might even make up the time and place fairly well. If she managed to get in the top ten, it might even make the newspapers back home. She had visions of her career being revived, and for a few minutes she smiled to herself at the prospect of being on top again. She might gain a sponsor, one who would put her behind the controls of another plane. One she could call all her own.

  She wouldn’t mind owning one of these Polish planes, if any were being exported. She definitely wanted an upgraded aircraft; the era of the biplane was at an end. Then she remembered the deadly effectiveness of the two Heinkel fighters she’d encountered and thought better of it.

  She saw the town of Dinant, its distinctive cathedral and Belgian flag a welcome indicator of her location. She checked her Longines wristwatch, given to her by a close friend just before he died. She was on time. Even after that dalliance with the German fighters she’d managed to stay on schedule.

  Outside of the town, she found the country road. It was long and flat and deserted. Ideal. There were grassy fields on either side where she could pull off. She suspected that, after dropping her passenger off and doing a quick inspection, she could be on the way to that nearby airport in a matter of minutes. This touch-down and takeoff was going to go a lot easier than the one in Germany, no doubt.

  She throttled back, flared and came in for a perfect low, single-bounce landing on the dirt road. She brought the aircraft to a slow crawl and manoeuvred off the road into the nearest field. It was only after the engine was shut off that she heard moaning from the rear of the cockpit. She turned to look and recoiled in horror. Her passenger was slumped back in the seat, his clothes drenched in blood. The skin on his face looked waxy.

  Aubrey quickly climbed back and unbuckled him, and another gush of blood came out of his stomach. She saw a large tear in the stretched aluminum where a round from the fighters had punctured it and torn into the man.

  He moaned again. It took all her strength to get him out of the rear seat and over the lip of the rear doors. She dropped down to the ground and pulled him down after her, grunting as she took his weight. Blood splattered onto the Belgian field as she dragged him away from the aircraft and laid him down. She took her leather flying jacket off, rolled it up and put it under his head. He smiled up at her.

  “Am I free?”

  “You’re in Belgium.”

  He smiled again, then started to cry.

  “Hang in there,” she told him. “Help is on the way.”

  “I’m dead. But I’m free. Listen to me, girl.” The man spoke in a German accent. “You must listen to me about Lazarus. He must be set free. They have him.”

  She tried to calm him. He tried to prop himself up on his elbows to let her know he was serious, but he collapsed back in pain. The ground beneath him was saturated with blood.

  “Lazarus, they have him. Here.” He took a photo out of his pocket. “Write to Lydia. Tell her I died a free man.” He thrust a photo at her. She didn’t even look at it; she just held his hand, crumpling the photo.

  “Tell her.”

  “You’re going to be okay.” She heard a vehicle approaching. “You’re going to be okay.”

  “Tell Lydia I died a free man. Tell her I’m sorry.” The man didn’t finish the last word. His mouth was frozen open and he died looking into a stranger’s eyes.

  Aubrey wiped a way a tear away as the truck came roaring down the road. She watched it approach. The photo went into her pants pocket and she stood as the men got out of the truck.

  There were three of them. Two seemed to be workmen, and they ran to the aircraft. The other was more casual, dressed in a suit and tie with an overcoat. He walked over to Aubrey.

  “He’s dead,” she said.

  “I can see that,” he said.

  “Who is he?”

  “None of your concern. He’s nobody now. Pascal!” the man called, and the two men came over to the dead agent and picked him up by his arms and legs. They carried him to the back of the truck.

  “Are you alright?” the man asked. He had a distinct upper-class British accent, and he retrieved a silver cigarette case from his coat pocket. He offered one to Aubrey. She shook her head.

  “I want to get out of here. There’s an airport near here. They can repair the plane and I can continue the rally.”

  The man stood smoking a cigarette and looked the plane over. “Not sure it’s worth it.”

  The two men came back, carrying jerry cans. Aubrey thought they were going to refuel the Polish plane. Awfully nice of them.

  “What happened?”

  “We were ambushed. He got on board and the whole place lit up with fireworks. Gunfire,” she said. “We took off. I almost got my butt shot off in the process. Then we were attacked by German fighters. Two of them. Heinkel 51s, I think. They nearly got us.” She realized how foolish her words were, given one of them was lying dead in the back of a truck.

  “But you managed to outmanoeuvre them?”

  “I did. Got right in behind them. They thought they lost me.”

  The man smiled and nodded as he puffed on his cigarette. “We should get going.”

  “Yes. I’m heading south.”

  “Really?” the man said. Aubrey heard splashing, and realized the men were dousing the plane in gasoline. She started to run towards them. The man with the cigarette grabbed her arm and held her. He was strong and pulled her back.

  “What are you doing? That’s my plane!”

  “No, it’s not. Pascal, if you please.” On
e of the Belgians took the two jerry cans back to the truck. The man named Pascal had a stick with a rag tied to it, and he set fire to it. He approached the plane and touched its nose, which was glistening with gasoline. The whole thing went up in a whoosh. They were pushed back by the flames.

  “Get in the truck, before the petrol tank goes.” The Englishman pulled on her arm and they began to run. They got halfway to the vehicle when the plane’s fuel tanks ignited with a roar. The exquisite Polish airplane was strewn all over the field.

  Aubrey kept silent until she was in the back of the truck with the British man and the dead agent. At least they’d put a blanket over him. The other two fellows got in the front.

  “You crashed,” the British man said as she opened her mouth to speak. “You entered the rally and made it across Germany, but bad weather forced you down in this field. You survived, miraculously unscathed.”

  “And him?”

  “Never mind about him. He was never here. We were never here. Is that understood?”

  “What about Lazarus?”

  “I don’t know who that is. Did he say something?”

  “I think that’s what he said,” she lied. “He died just after.”

  “We’re going to let you out near the town. You’ll walk the rest of the way. You’ll tell them you crashed. They’ll come back out with you to the field. Afterwards, you can make contact with your embassy.”

  “Guess I’m out of the race.”

  “You were never really in it.”

  Aubrey kept her eyes on the retreating countryside for the rest of the drive.

  3

  The Sopwith Camel’s stick bucked and jarred so much so that Aubrey had to grip it tightly with both hands. The thick leather gloves she wore not only kept her hands warm but provided grip on the polished piece of maple and reduced vibration. She’d never flown in weather like this before. She’d been delayed on the ground for over an hour because of engine trouble; the other competitors in the race across the Rocky Mountains had left on time and the judges had been on the verge of disqualifying her when her mechanic finally got the 130-horsepower engine going with a roar. If they had actually disqualified her, she didn’t know it. Nor had she cared. Aubrey had roared down the runway past the judges stand and was airborne. That takeoff had been in blue skies without a cloud in sight.

  But as she approached the Gillette Pass west of the Black Hills of South Dakota, the sky turned a violent purple. She could see lightning strikes hitting the ground. She scanned ahead for a suitable place to land. Maybe the storm would pass quickly and she could get back up and finish this race. Coming in dead last was not what she was hoping for. But coming in just plain dead looked like a very real possibility if she kept going.

  This was a timed trial; the flyer with the quickest passage across the continental divide would win the prize—two thousand dollars and a brand-new Model A Ford roadster. It didn’t matter that she was an hour late in taking off. All that mattered was how quickly she flew. But a ten- or fifteen-minute wait on the ground while the storm passed would almost certainly rob her of placing even a respectable third.

  Aubrey couldn’t think about that now; the wind was throwing her plane wildly around the sky. It was a struggle just to keep airborne. She had to get down, and fast. There was a winding road down there, no more than a dirt-covered track with barbed wire fences on either side.

  The road straightened out for a mile ahead of her and rose on a hill. That would help bring her to a stop quicker. She decided to go for it. Then, as if Mother Nature had heard her plea, the storm ceased its onslaught and her plane levelled out. She flew along over the road just in case. Now she could see a patch of blue in amongst the dark thunderheads and sunlight poured through it, cascading across a field of hay. Cows huddled together in the distance.

  She had a choice to make: land and wait the storm out, or carry on. While she weighed the decision, the hand of God, in the form of wind shear, pushed down on her plane with tremendous force. The tendons in her arms straining, her back screaming in agony, Aubrey pulled on the stick to save her plane, save herself. All to no avail. She slammed into the earth at close to a hundred miles an hour.

  Aubrey woke with a start, sat straight up in bed and clutched her chest. She looked around and remembered where she was: in her bed in her childhood home in Michigan.

  There was a phlegm-choked snore and a cough from the room down the hall where her father slept. She sighed and collapsed back onto the bed. The nightmare of the crash faded away. It had been months since she’d last had it. She’d almost forgotten what it was like.

  She rolled over on her side and looked at her dresser. The moonlight lit up the framed black and white photographs. One was of her when she was five. Another at twelve with a horse. Then one of her in the cockpit of a plane, the first time she’d gone for a flight at the local fair. The barnstormer had taken her up, circled over town. She’d begged him to do a barrel roll or loop-the-loop. He’d obliged the thrill-seeking girl with a quick dive down to the grass airstrip outside of town. The surge of her blood in her veins, the buzzing in her stomach as the plane’s nose pointed down at the ground and the spectators rushed up at them, and the hook was sunk. She would fly.

  There was a picture of her mother on the dresser, the last one before the typhus took her. Her mother had been kind and soft spoken in all matters except for schooling. How she had drilled Aubrey in French every weekend. Aubrey’s father had met Celine de Ferrière in Montreal in 1908 and brought his new wife home to Michigan. Aubrey was born two years later, the only child in a loving marriage. Complications in the pregnancy had left Celine unable to bring a sister or brother into the world for Aubrey. Those complications had also weakened her. When the typhus came, it was that much easier for it to carry her off.

  There was one more photo on the dresser: a young woman, probably her own age. Dark hair, a simple ribbon tied around her forehead, and a sweater. She was sitting on some stone steps, her hands folded in her lap, a dismayed look on her face. She wasn’t looking at the camera but off into the distance. It was the picture the dying man on that Belgian field had given her. His blood still stained the edges. On the back was written Lydia Frick, Wannsee.

  Aubrey had forgotten all about the picture until she’d shoved her hand into her pocket on the Paris-bound train. For no earthly reason, she’d kept it. When she got back home, she’d found a simple tin frame in the five-and-dime and put it on her dresser. Her father had never seen it; he never came in the room. Aubrey had memorized the writing on the back. She’d also memorized the name of the person the dying man had mentioned: Lazarus. She fell back asleep, staring at the mystery girl with the dark hair and drab sweater.

  Aubrey Endeavours was leading Fergie, her four-year-old Bay, from the barn when there was the sound of a car coming up the gravel driveway. She shielded her eyes as the vehicle approached. It was a Dodge, painted in drab military grey. There were numbers stencilled on the fender and a young man behind the wheel; a figure cast in shadow sat in the back. A government car, way out here in Michigan? It could only be one person.

  Arthur Colins, her father’s closest friend. They had been comrades in the war; he was Uncle Arthur to Aubrey. She felt a flutter of excitement as she watched the car approach. It was Arthur who had brought to her the proposition of flying in the European air rally. Her father had given her a skeptical look when she’d mentioned it later, after Arthur had left. It was only later, when she’d signed on, that Arthur had briefed her on the true nature of the mission. He’d given her the opportunity to back out, but she had not taken it.

  When she returned home from Europe, her father had been grateful she was unhurt but had shown little interest in her exploits. She had shown him a clipping from the London Times and had given him the carefully prepared cover story: she’d got as far as Germany; her plane had suffered mechanical failure at the Belgium border. She had been forced to withdraw. “Mechanical failure” – yeah, right, she thoug
ht. The borrowed plane had been deliberately set ablaze by that cold British gentlemen she’d had the displeasure of meeting. She’d never learned his name.

  And here Arthur was again, and in a government car no less. This was official business. Aubrey ran over and hugged him as he climbed out. His embrace was strong, and he smelled of Jockey Club by Floris, a scent he and her father had taken a liking to in Europe. They’d brought a case of it back with them.

  “And how are you, my dear?”

  “I’m fine, Uncle Arthur.”

  He held her back at arms’ length to take a good look. She was wearing a light-yellow riding jacket, jodhpurs and leather boots, and wore her brown curly locks in a tight bun. “This getup suits you,” he told her, “almost as much as a flying suit.”

  She turned on one foot in a mock pose. Then on impulse, she hugged him again and kissed his ear. “Good to see you.”