by T. E. Cruise
The people at Stoat-Black wanted Gold to come to Venice for the Moden races in order for him to witness the performance of their joint venture. Since Stoat-Black was also currently representing GAT in talks with the RAF concerning a large purchase of modified G-3 military cargo transports, and since the negotiations were at a critical stage, Gold wanted to oblige his British counterparts. He’d talked it over with their European sales representatives, who’d assured Gold that Italy was safe, but it was only when Gold received an invitation from the Italian government, inviting him and his family to Venice for the races as official guests of honor, that he’d felt secure with the notion of bringing over his family.
Gold and his son entered Saint Mark’s Square, passing between the Campanile and the Clock Tower crowned with its winged lion. The sun-drenched Piazza was crowded. Almost every outdoor table was occupied at the cafes ringing the square. Gold and his son headed for the Cafe Quadri, where Froehlig had written that he would be waiting.
Gold scanned the Quadri’s rows of al fresco tables, wondering if he would recognize Froehlig after so many years. As he searched he noticed a couple of Mussolini’s Fascist militiamen strutting in the direction of the magnificent, golden domes of the Basilica. The dour Fascists, self-important in their modernistic uniforms complete with berets and neckerchiefs, looked very out of place amidst the flamboyant, Old World, stage-set scenery of the Piazza: the flocks of pigeons and passersby; the amiable citizenry at the cafes, reading their newspapers or chatting as they sipped their expresso; and the carabinieri, wearing their goofy cocked hats and gleaming swords, leisurely strolling on police patrol.
Gold watched as the uniformed Fascists crossed the path of an old woman dressed in black, lugging a pair of string-net shopping bags loaded with groceries. The old woman carefully studied the marble pavement as the soldiers passed, but then turned, to scowl at their backs.
When Gold finally spotted Froehlig, at a table toward the back of the crowded Quadri’s patio, he recognized him instantly. Gold would have known Froehlig’s bottle-brush moustache anywhere, even if it had gone salt-and-pepper gray. Froehlig saw him, and stood up and waved. Gold guided his son toward Froehlig’s table.
Froehlig was a little over sixty now, Gold guessed. He was wearing a monocle, and dressed in a dark blue, linen suit. Froehlig had a black derby beside him on the table, which he should have been wearing. The morning sun had already painted a blush of sunburn onto his scalp. Gold was surprised to see that Froehlig was now totally bald. As Gold got closer to Froehlig he realized that the German had taken to shaving clean in the Prussian manner what little hair he had left.
“Hermann! Wie geht est Ihnen?” Froehlig smiled, letting his monocle drop from his eye. It swung, suspended by a black ribbon, across his broad chest. “Thank you for coming!” he continued in German.
“Gleichfalls,” Gold said. He shook hands with Froehlig, and then proudly put his arm around Steven’s shoulder. “Darf ich Ihnen mien Sohn vorstellen?”
“This young man belongs to you?” Froehlig exclaimed in German. “Such fine blond hair! A splendid lad! How old is he?”
“Fourteen,” Gold said, continuing in his native tongue. “But he’s big for his age, yes?”
“Ach! I would say.” Froehlig laughed. “He seems scarcely younger than were you when first we met!” He extended his hand to Steven. “How are you, young Herr Gold?” he asked in German.
Steven shook hands with Froehlig, but stared blankly in response to the question.
“He doesn’t speak German, Heiner,” Gold explained, and thought he caught a spark of something—amused contempt? —in Froehlig’s eyes.
“Well, time enough to teach him the language of his Fatherland.” Froehlig laughed.
Gold smiled uneasily. He himself was feeling oddly uncomfortable speaking German with Froehlig.
“So tell me, young man,” Froehlig addressed Steven in English. “Are you going to be an aviator, like your father?”
“I can already fly a single-engine,” Steven boasted. “When I’m older I’m going to be Pop’s chief test pilot.”
Gold laughed, patting his son’s shoulder.
Steven was pointing at a gelatiere pushing his cart through the square. “Pop, there’s an ice cream man over there. Can I go get one?”
“Sure,” Gold said. He gave his son some money. “Then take a look around the square. Just don’t wander too far.”
“Bitte, sitzen Sie!” Froehlig said, taking his seat. “We will have a coffee, and a fine chat, yes?”
“Sehr gut, danke schön,” Gold said, lapsing back into German as his son ran off. Gold pulled out the spindly, wrought-iron chair opposite Froehlig’s at the round, marble-topped table, and sat down.
“Hermann, how have you stayed so young when I have gotten so old?” Froehlig sighed.
“You have a poor memory, Heiner. I’m older, fatter, and balder, but you really don’t look so different.”
“Danke, gut. Ich bin einverstanden.” Froehlig laughed. “Yes, I do agree that I haven’t changed, but then, I was already bald and old when you knew me…” A waiter came by. “Gefällt Ihnen espresso?” Froehlig asked Gold. When he nodded, Froehlig ordered espresso for both of them. “I hope you don’t mind that I chose the Quadri, as opposed to the Cafe Florian, across the way,” Froehlig said. “You see, back in the mid-1800s when Austria occupied Venice, this was the cafe that the Austrian officers frequented. I thought it would be an appropriate rendezvous for us, seeing as how our führer has at long last reunited Austria and Germany.”
“Your führer, maybe, but not mine,” Gold said, but Froehlig seemed to wave his objection aside. “What are you doing in Venice, Heiner?” Gold asked in order to change the subject. “And how did you know that I was here?”
“I am here for the same reason as you,” Froehlig explained. “To enjoy the fruits of my labor. Germany has several entries in the Moden races, you know, and I am Air Minister Goering’s deputy in charge of aviation research and development.”
Gold nodded. “I’d read in the papers that you were a high-up in the Nazi party.”
The waiter served them their espresso. Gold rubbed a curl of lemon peel around the rim of his cup and took a sip of the black, bitter brew. “So you and our old Oberleutnant from Richthofen’s Jadgeschwader are now working together… You’d better not let Goering know you’re having a coffee with me. He probably still holds a grudge concerning that little tussle we had…”
“Not in the least, Hermann,” Froehlig said. “As a matter of fact, the Herr Reich Marshal specifically asked me to look you up.”
“Really?” Gold asked, surprised. “Why?”
Froehlig leaned back in his chair. “We at the Air Ministry have been following the career of our native son Hermann Goldstein for quite some time. We commend you on the development of the GC series, and we are especially impressed by the GAT/Stoat-Black Sea Dragon. We think the Sea Dragon will be quite an asset to RAF Coastal Command.”
“Yes… I suppose it will,” Gold said evasively. He looked around, then remembered that they were speaking German, and, as such, unlikely to be eavesdropped upon by the surrounding tables. Gold didn’t like the idea of talking to Froehlig about the GAT-SB Sea Dragon, a combination long-range flying boat/rescue craft and torpedo bomber U-boat killer. The Sea Dragon was huge: she had four engines and carried a crew of thirteen. Her extra-capacity fuel tanks made it possible for her to patrol for hundreds of miles while armed to the teeth with turret machine guns and a ton of bombs. If need be, even fully loaded with weapons, she could land in almost any sea, to airlift up to eighty people.
“I see it upsets you to talk about the Sea Dragon,” Froehlig said approvingly. “That is good. We respect a man who knows how to get things done while keeping his business to himself.” He paused. “Not only do we respect that sort of man, we would also welcome him in our great endeavor…”
Gold stared. “What are you talking about, Heiner?”
Fr
oehlig took a vellum envelope embossed with a red wax seal from the breast pocket of his suitcoat. “Inside is a handwritten note from the Herr Reich Marshal himself.” Froehlig reverently handed the envelope to Gold. “It is Goering’s heartfelt invitation to you and your family to come home to Germany.”
“I don’t believe this conversation,” Gold said, setting aside the envelope without opening it.
“You would enjoy the rank of general in the Reichsluftwaffe,” Froehlig persisted. “It is a secret air force as of now, but soon, the world will know that name.”
“You want me as a military commander?” Gold asked, perplexed.
“Oh, no, Hermann.” Froehlig laughed. “You are much too valuable a talent to risk in combat. You would do exactly what you do now, use your genius to design and oversee the production of aircraft, but in German factories. You would report directly to Goering at the Air Ministry.”
“This is all very flattering, but quite impossible—” Gold began.
“But why?” Froehlig asked. “Don’t you miss the Fatherland, Hermann? Can you deny that the Fatherland is your home, that Germany is in your blood? Think about your children’s futures. I know that you have a daughter as well as a son. How old is she?”
“Suzy is seventeen.”
“Ach, a young woman!” Froehlig smiled. “Surely now is the time for her to begin socializing with fine young German boys, not the riffraff you have loitering on every streetcorner in America! And both of your children would benefit from an unparalleled education in Germany’s finest schools,” Froehlig added. “And what about your wife? She is from fine Aryan stock. You must be very proud! Your wife would thrive in the Fatherland, Hermann. Germany has cultivated and encouraged the careers of the finest female pilots. Your wife could be one of them, flying into the annals of history alongside Thea Rasche and Hannah Reitsch.”
Gold laughed. “Heiner, you’re forgetting something. I’m a Jew.”
Froehlig shrugged. “These things can be managed, Hermann. Consider the case of Erhard Milch. He was an executive at Junkers before becoming a director at Luft Hansa, the predominant German commercial airline. Now he holds the military rank of general and the title of state-secretary in the Air Ministry, conferred upon him for the work he has done in airplane production for the Fatherland. And shall I tell you something else?” Froehlig chuckled, a gleam in his eye. “Milch is also a Jew…”
“A Jew holding the rank of general?” Gold asked in disbelief. “How can Hitler reconcile that in view of his well-known anti-Semitic stance?”
“As I said, Hermann, these things can be arranged,” Froehlig said. “In Milch’s case, it was his father who was Jewish. When Milch’s value to the Reich became evident, certain new evidence was suddenly found, revealing that Milch’s mother had long ago had an illicit affair with an Aryan. It turned out that this man was actually Milch’s father, not the Jew…”
“I see,” Gold said wryly. “And in my case new papers could also be found to miraculously cleanse me of the stain of my Jewish blood, is that it? I, too, could be an honorary Aryan?”
Froehlig shrugged philosophically. “You are an orphan, Hermann. In your case the transformation could take place even more easily. For instance, could there not have been a mistake made in your paperwork at the orphanage? Perhaps your unfortunate designation as a Jew was the result of some hideous clerical error?”
Gold shook his head. “Thanks, but no thanks, Heiner.”
“There is something else,” Froehlig said. He reached into his side pocket and came out with a small, rectangular, black leather box.
Gold stared as Froehlig opened the leather case and set it on the table. Nestled in crimson velvet was a blue and gold Maltese Cross strung on a black ribbon.
“The Blue Max,” Gold breathed, unable to take his eyes off the lovely thing.
“The Pour le Mérite; Germany’s highest military aviation award during the First World War,” Froehlig quietly agreed. “This one is yours.”
Gold glanced up at Froehlig. “What are you saying?”
“Take your medal, Hermann. Hang it around your neck right now. See how it feels to at long last wear the Blue Max. You earned it years ago, Hermann, but it was unjustly kept from you on account of that foolish clerical error back at the orphange. Goering recognizes the error now; the führer recognizes it as well. The error will be set right. The German people—your people—are eager to welcome you with open arms. Come home and be the hero you were destined to be.”
Gold’s fingers were itching to touch the medal as Steven returned to the table. His son glanced at the Blue Max. “What’s that, Pop?”
“A medal,” Froehlig said in English. “A medal for your father. It is the highest commendation from his homeland. The medal has belonged to him for all these years.”
“That’s my dad,” Steven said proudly. “Did you know he shook President Roosevelt’s hand?”
Gold looked at his son, and smiled. He turned to Froehlig and shook his head. “You can tell Goering that the recognition has come far too late. I’m an American now.”
“Ich verstehe,” Froehlig said stiffly. He snapped shut the lid on the Blue Max and put the box back into his pocket.
“Pop, can we go to the races, now?”
“Right now.” Gold nodded.
“You’re making the wrong choice,” Froehlig warned in German. “One that you will live to regret.”
“Thank you for the coffee, Heiner,” Gold said in English, standing up.
“At least take the letter from Goering,” Froehlig said.
Gold shook his head. “There’s no point.”
“Hermann, for old times’ sake,” Froehlig implored. “Consider it a favor for your old comrade-in-arms. Take the letter. Read it at your leisure. If you should change your mind concerning our offer I can be reached, worldwide, through our embassies.”
Gold hesitated. “For old times’ sake, then.” He slipped the envelope into his coat pocket. “Perhaps I’ll see you on the Lido.”
“Perhaps, Hermann,” Froehlig nodded. “Auf Weidersehen.”
They left the cafe and hurried past the Doge’s Palace, anxious to catch the next vaporetto leaving the landing stage on the Riva degli Schiavoni for the fifteen-minute ride across the lagoon to the Lido. The motor launch was crowded with other latecomers to the races, but Gold and his son managed to find seats in the stern, near the engines. Once they were out on open water, with the wind in their faces carrying away the stink of the clattering diesels, Gold took the sealed envelope out of his pocket to stare at it.
“What’s that, Pop?” Steven asked.
“That’s a good question,” Gold muttered, more to himself than his son, his words lost in the diesels’ rattle. There was a lump in his throat. Gold’s eyes felt wet, and not from the salty breeze. Home was home, and they wanted him back, and his feelings about it were all mixed up, as murky and roiled as the windswept lagoon.
“Pop? You okay?”
Gold put his arm around Steven’s shoulders and hugged him close. “I’m fine,” he said loudly. “And this—” he held the envelope so that it fluttered in his hand in the breeze, “—is nothing worth talking about. It’s trash. Just trash is what it is.”
Gold scrunched up his face, as if the envelope smelled bad. As Steven laughed, Gold opened his hand. The wind snatched away the envelope, wafting it aloft.
“Whatever it was hit the water and sank!” Steven exclaimed.
Gold nodded, but he never looked back.
(Two)
The Lido, Venice
Erica was in the family’s private viewing box, high atop the grandstand, when Herman and Steven finally arrived.
“Where have you two been?” Erica scolded. “You’ve missed the best part of the race—”
“You hear that, Pop?” Steven complained. “Mom, can I go down to the beach to watch?”
“Yes, but be back here at one o’clock.”
“Look at that kid move,” Herma
n sighed, watching Steven dash down the stairs. “Coming up, he wasn’t even breathing hard. I used to be able to take stairs like that.”
Erica didn’t reply, but she had noticed that her husband was huffing and puffing. Granted that it was a steep climb up to the grandstand’s top tier, but she was still going to have to do something to get him to lose some weight.
“How have today’s eliminations been going?” Herman asked, thumbing back his fedora to mop his brow with a white silk handkerchief.
“The Italian, and one of the French machines, were flying neck and neck for three circuits,” Erica explained. “But then the French plane had to drop out. I heard there was an engine malfunction.”
“How is the Supershark doing?” Herman asked.
