The Berlin Escape

by Warren Court

  “All in good time, my dear. All in good time. First, we have to dine and meet the top brass. We can discuss the flight later tonight.”

  He showed Aubrey into the rear of the big car. There was a thick ruby-coloured curtain hanging in the gap between the driver and the passenger compartment. The count went around the other side and the chauffeur opened the door for him. He slid onto the seat beside Aubrey, the door was slammed shut and they were safely cocooned.

  There was a well-stocked bar built into the back of the front seats below the curtain, and he poured her a sweet vermouth.

  “This is the only way to travel,” Aubrey said, and she sank back into the comfortable seat with her cocktail.

  “Is it? said the count. “I wouldn’t know.”

  “You wouldn’t know what it was like to drive your own tractor or walk ten miles to town?”

  “No, I would not. My family is one of the few aristocratic ones that has not had their family fortunes privatized.”

  “Who has?”

  “Jews, mostly.” The way he said ‘Jews’ was neutral; she could not tell if he despised them or felt sympathy. She decided it was somewhere in between.

  With drinks poured, the car motored out onto the Autobahn for the drive to Wannsee. The car rumbled at first, and then the engine smoothed out and grew high in tone as it sped up. Aubrey sipped her vermouth and looked out the window at the passing countryside.

  “My word, we are really flying. I wish Father’s truck could go this fast. I might give up flying for auto racing.”

  “Have you been to an auto race? The European Grand Prix is in two weeks.”

  “I haven’t, and sadly, I can’t stick around for it.”

  “That’s disappointing. It really is something to see—a real blood sport.”

  “I know. I’ve read of the crashes. Drivers killed—spectators, too.”

  “They know the risks, those racing the cars and those coming to see it.”

  “Still.”

  They passed some slower-moving sedans that went by in a whirl.

  “How fast are we going?”

  “I’d say at least a hundred miles an hour.”

  “Incredible.”

  “Another drink?”

  “A short one.” Aubrey remembered Hewitt Purnsley’s cautionary words about getting tipsy. She was already feeling a warm glow from the drink. Hopefully they would have soda water at this shindig she was attending.

  The count’s house was not what she had been expecting. He read her disappointment.

  “You thought I lived in a castle.”

  “Of course—like Dracula.”

  He chuckled. “The family had one centuries ago, but the villagers sacked it and set the torch to it. The ruins are still there. Perhaps you are interested?”

  “I don’t have the time, Count.”

  “Please, call me Helmut.”

  “Helmut.”

  “That’s my given name. You can call me Your Grace or Count von Villiez when we are around others. Not for my sake, of course, but to avoid offending anyone who still holds on to these sentimentalities from a bygone era.”

  “You’ve moved on.”

  “We had to. Our positions were abolished in 1918, as part of the German revolution, to keep the allies happy. All we kept were our titles.”

  “And money.”

  “Those who saw it coming and turned their lands and holdings into cash deposited into Swiss banks, yes. Most are penniless. I’m somewhere in between.”

  “Doesn’t look like it to me.” The house they were approaching was not a Gothic castle, but it was still impressive. She judged it to be around the same size as the east wing of the White House, a place she’d visited personally with some of the other Ninety-Nines, the group of women flyers that Earhart had set up. Helmut’s stately house was a pale yellow in colour, with a large circular driveway that led under an overhang.

  The driver stopped the car at the front steps and opened the rear doors for Aubrey and the count. There was light chamber music coming from inside the house, and when they stepped inside, Aubrey saw that the foyer was crowded with people, most of them in uniform.

  “Your Grace, we started without you,” one rather tipsy senior officer said.

  “My apologies, Herr General. I was detained at the exhibition.” The count nodded at Aubrey. “This young American woman has enthralled me with her stories of derring-do.” He clapped his hands for attention. “Gentlemen, allow me to introduce the world-famous aviatrix, Miss Aubrey Endeavours.”

  The crowd turned to her as one, and Aubrey saw glances of surprise and interest passing amongst many of the party-goers.

  Helmut said, “Please, Aubrey, make yourself at home.” A waiter in tails came by with a tray of white wine and the count took one and handed it to her.

  So much for soda, she thought. There was a bar in one corner. Several officers in grey uniforms, red stripes down their pant legs, were holding it up. They all had gold braid at their epaulettes, medals on their chests, and braided gold ropes under their arms. It looked like the entire senior command of Germany was here.

  The wine was ice cold and very dry.

  “From my vineyard in southern Germany,” the count said, noting her look of approval.

  “This is dangerous stuff.”

  The count took Aubrey around and introduced her to several of the key men in attendance; she was the only woman there. She couldn’t remember all their names, and inwardly scolded herself: this was information she knew Hewitt might be interested in. She had somehow managed to work her way into the heart of Germany’s military command social circles. Or maybe he had known this would happen.

  Several of the Germans turned their noses up at the rather simply dressed and unglamorous American flyer. Some of them turned on the lasciviousness charm, but they only went so far. Maybe they sensed the count had his eyes set on Aubrey, something she was becoming aware of herself.

  She decided she would use it to her advantage, but would stop it before it went too far. At least that was what she told herself. She found herself becoming more and more attracted to him. He was striking, handsome, well mannered, and had the gift of the gab as he worked the room with her by his side.

  Suddenly, she saw someone she recognized, and fear gripped her stomach. It was the young Nazi captain who had examined her press credentials that morning and found them inadequate. He was standing alone in a corner, sipping a glass of clear liquid, observing. Their eyes met. He set his glass down, strode across to meet them and threw up a knife-handed Nazi salute. Aubrey wasn’t sure who he was saluting. The count seemed a little dismayed and only nodded his head in return. A look of shock came over the young captain’s face but then quickly disappeared as he turned his attention to Aubrey.

  “Miss Endeavours. It is pleasant to see you again so soon.”

  “Why thank you, Herr…”

  “Schmidt. Hauptsturmführer Schmidt. I am attached to Herr Reichsmarschall Goering.”

  “Is he here?” the count asked.

  “The Reichsmarschall is delayed, Your Grace. He will be here momentarily.”

  “The man likes to make an entrance,” Helmut said.

  There it was again: that look of shock on the SS officer’s face. He was no doubt taking it all in, every little transgression against his masters by this civilian—a titled, noble civilian, but a civilian nonetheless.

  Without any further updates and with a total lack of small talk, the SS man went away to speak to some of his comrades. Aubrey caught all of them looking over at her and the count; they were clearly speaking about the two of them. They did not look away quickly when she did catch them; they were the masters here, not her. Not even the count was in charge. She should be the one afraid. And that she was, indeed. The sight of those sinister black uniforms standing before her, speaking to her, speaking about her, shook her to her core. They had a much more devastating effect in person. That was by design, she realized.

 
“What is your connection to all this?” Aubrey asked the count when they had a brief moment to themselves.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I know you were in the air force during the war. That reporter, Fuchs, told me.”

  “What else did he tell you?”

  “You were an ace, decorated. Why aren’t you still in uniform?”

  “I was wounded in the war. I am not a hundred percent, and I do not want to pretend that I am still worthy of wearing a uniform of the Reich. It doesn’t seem right. My medals are locked away upstairs. My uniform, too. It’s in the past.”

  “But these men defer to you like you were a general. That one certainly does.” She nodded at the SS man.

  “I have been afforded an honorary rank of colonel, and I have certain pull. My companies are very well known in Germany and I have contributed in my own way to the rebuilding of my country. I have the Führer’s blessing, if you will.”

  “So you weren’t lying this morning? You could have spoken to him about me?”

  “Yes, if necessary, I would have called him at his estate in Berchtesgaden if I had to, but I knew that was not necessary. That youngster there was just strutting his stuff for show.”

  “He scares me.”

  “I’m no great fan of the SS, Aubrey, but the Führer has brought our country back from the brink. No one can deny that.”

  “I need a drink.” So much for the club soda.

  The noise of the soiree was growing in intensity. Several more officers arrived and there was a round of “Heil Hitler,” and then finally a long entourage of vehicles pulled up to the house. It had grown dark, and their headlights lit up the candlelit room.

  Aubrey was feeling no pain by now. She scolded herself internally for not slowing down. There was food, delicious hors d’oeuvres, and she did her best to devour as many as possible while every German officer rushed to the front door to present themselves to the latecomers.

  The entourage disgorged its occupants and a troop of black-helmeted men came into the foyer and formed a phalanx. Then up the steps came the most enormous man Aubrey had ever seen, wearing a pale blue uniform adorned with more medals and buttons than she could count. He also wore a maniacal grin that bunched up the jowls of his fat face as he waddled up the stairs. He had a short, gilded staff in one meaty paw, and he raised it in return to the Nazi salutes. Even the count clicked his heels and shot his hand out into the air. The count’s servants came to attention, frozen in their tracks. Aubrey was the only one not paying homage to the enormous fellow entering the house. The massive man spied her and made a beeline for her. The count introduced the latecomer to her: Hermann Goering.

  11

  Aubrey did some sort of American version of a curtsy and immediately felt foolish. Herr Reichsmarschall Goering, Hitler’s right-hand man, smiled manically and grasped her hand in both of his pudgy, effeminate, well-manicured mitts. His enormous belly almost touched her, yet he was two feet away. He was by far the largest man she’d ever seen. He could, no doubt, no longer fit into the cockpit of his World War One fighter. Or probably any fighter, for that matter. Maybe that was why he had his own train?

  The leader of the Luftwaffe and high-ranking Nazi listened intently, never taking his eyes off her, while Helmut recounted, in rapid German, her deeds in the air. Goering nodded and clucked, and then he spoke, in perfect English, which startled her. She did not know why.

  “How did you enjoy the air exhibition?”

  “It was impressive, sir.”

  “Please, my dear, call me Hermann. There is no rank here. You hear that, Helmut? No rank tonight. We are all one big, happy band. So, Miss Endeavours, are you impressed with our new Luftwaffe?”

  “I am, especially the new fighter, the Bf 109.

  “Ahh, yes. Our sports car of the air.”

  “The count here says he can take me up in one.”

  “Yes, and why not? We want the world to see our latest achievements. The 109 will be the dominant fighter for years to come, to suppress the growing menace of world communism.”

  “Herr Reichsmarschall, perhaps you would care for some hors d’oeuvres?” the count said.

  “I just came from dinner, but yes, now that you mention it.” Goering was successfully distracted and veered off to a nearby waiter with a tray of food who was shaking with fear.

  “He likes you,” the count said.

  “I heard I should not be left alone with him.”

  The count laughed quietly. “Whoever told you that is wrong. The Reichsmarschall has enormous appetites, but by all accounts, he is faithful to his wife. Unlike the rest of the cabal that surrounds the Führer.”

  “Listen, Helmut, I have to use the facilities.”

  “Yes, of course. Come this way.”

  “I can find it on my own. I’m a pretty good navigator.” She gave him a smile to take the sting out of the words. “Just point me in the right direction.”

  “Through those doors and on the left.”

  “Thank you.”

  Aubrey left the main reception room, and the din of conversation faded as she walked through a set of double doors. She found the ladies’ but skirted by it. She was actually in search of a phone directory. There was a kitchen at the end of the hall, and she saw cooks dashing around and the waiters in their tight white jackets and black pants balancing even more trays of food and drink. There was a set of stairs, and she ascended to the second story.

  After checking that she was alone, Aubrey cautiously engaged in bit of snooping. Most of the rooms were either enormous bedrooms or completely devoid of furniture. She finally happened upon the count’s office, where she saw a bronze head of Hitler on an enormous oak desk. There were papers strewn about on it, and she glanced at them briefly, remembering her mission. They were covered in figures; industrial output numbers. They made no sense to her, but she was sure if she studied them, they would be of some value to the Brits and her uncle.

  She was not stupid enough to pick them up. She was here for one thing only: to make contact with this agent of Hewitt’s, retrieve what he had to give her and get out. Still, she slid one document out and saw what she thought were kilometres per hour at various altitudes. Very useful. But no. She slid it back into the pile.

  She opened a desk drawer and saw a book. A quick flip through it showed that it was a phone directory, very similar to an American version. She turned to the F’s, scanning for Frick, and saw one entry in Wannsee. She memorized the address, 32 Eindhoven Strasse, and the phone number. She closed the book with a slap and then froze. Someone was there.

  “What exactly are you doing there?” a voice called into the room, chilling her to the bone.

  She turned, half expecting it to be the count, praying it would be. It was worse, much worse. Captain Schmidt stood in the doorway, his chest and chin thrust forward in accusation. He strode over to her.

  “I said, what are you doing in here? At the count’s personal desk?”

  “I was looking for the bathroom. I just wandered in.”

  The SS captain took one look at the papers on the desk and realized their importance. “You were spying.”

  “I was not. I’ll be honest, I was looking for a phone book. Found one.” She tapped the book.

  “You were spying. These are classified documents.”

  “Then why does the count have them on his desk?”

  The SS man moved uncomfortably close and grabbed one of her biceps. “You were spying.”

  “No, not true. I wasn’t, honest.”

  His eyes bored into her as he spoke. “The tulips in Amsterdam were quite brilliant this year.”

  She was dumbfounded; she couldn’t believe it. That was the sign she and Hewitt Purnsley had gone over and over again. It was Starlight’s identifying sign. Now here he was, this Hauptsturmführer of the SS, waiting for the countersign.

  He gritted his teeth and repeated it. Her brain scrambled for the reply. She gave it.

  “I prefer t
he red poppies of Flanders.”

  He came back quickly with the third countersign. “The lilies of Poland can be delightful too.”

  And she gave him the fourth: “Nothing compares to the forget-me-nots of Germany.” She stared at him. “You? You’re the person Hewitt—”

  “Keep your voice down,” he hissed. “I followed you up here.”

  “You have something for me?”

  “What were you doing here?”

  “Just like I said, looking for a phone book. I have a friend from school who has relatives in Wannsee. She asked me to check on them.”