She threw her cigarette into the fire. Her face was very pale, her eyes almost luminous in the firelight as she turned to me. ‘They came when we were working in the engine shop — two officers of Himmler’s S.S. They arrested him there in the middle of our work. They said he was something to do with the attempt on Hitler’s life. It was a lie. He had nothing to do with the conspiracy. But he had been in contact with some of the people who were involved, so they took him away. They would not even wait for me to get him some clothes. That was on the 27th July, 1944. They took him to Dachau and I never saw him again.’ Her lips trembled and she turned away, stretching her hand down for another cigarette.
‘What did you do?’ I asked.
‘Nothing. There was nothing I could do. I try to see him, of course. But it is hopeless. I can do nothing. Suddenly we have no friends. Even the company for whom he has worked for so long can do nothing. The Herr Direktor is very sympathetic, but he has instructions not to employ me any more. So, I go back to Berlin, and a few days later we hear my father is dead. It means little to my mother, everything to me. My world” has ceased. Within a month Walther also is dead, shot down over England. They give him the Iron Cross and my mother has a breakdown and I have to nurse her. Her world also is gone. Her son, the pretty clothes, the music and the chatter all have disappeared and the Russians take Berlin. I do not think she wished to live any longer after Walther’s death. She never leave her bed until she died in October of last year.’
‘And you looked after her all that time?’ I asked, since she seemed to expect some comment.
She nodded. ‘I have never been so miserable. And then, when she is dead, I begin to think again about my father and his work. I go to Wiesbaden. But the designs, the experimental work is all disappeared. There is nothing left. However, the Rauch Motoren is still in business and they are willing for me to try to-’ Her voice died away as though she could not find the right words.
‘To try and recover the engines?’ I suggested.
‘Ja’
‘And that is why you are here at Membury?’ It was so obvious now she had told me about her father, and I couldn’t help but admire her pluck and tenacity.
She nodded.
‘Why have you told me all this?’ I asked.
She shrugged her shoulders and kicked at the big oak log, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney. ‘I do not know.’ Then she suddenly flung up her head and looked straight at me almost defiantly. ‘Because I am alone. Because I have always been alone since they took him away. Because you are English and do not matter to me.’ She was like an animal that is cornered and has turned at bay. ‘You had better go now. I have told you, we are on two sides of a wall.’
I got slowly to my feet and went towards her. ‘You’re very bitter, aren’t you?’ I said.
‘Bitter?’ Her eyes stared at me angrily. ‘Of course I am bitter. I live for one thing now. I live for the day when my father’s work will be recognised, when he will be known as one of the greatest of Germany’s engineers.’ The fire suddenly died out of her and she turned away from me. ‘What else have I to live for?’ Her voice sounded desperately unhappy.
I reached out and put my hand on her shoulder, but she shook me off. ‘Leave me alone. Do not touch me.’ Her voice was sharp, almost hysterical. And then in a moment her mood changed and she turned towards me. ‘I am sorry. You cannot help. I should not have talked like this. Will you go now, please?’
I hesitated. ‘All right,’ I said. Then I held out my hand. ‘Goodbye, Else.’
‘Goodbye?’ Her fingers touched mine. They were very cold despite the warmth of the fire. ‘Yes. I suppose it is goodbye.’
‘Will you give my message to Colonel Ell wood? We would like his heaviest tractor at the airfield at eight o’clock.’
‘I will tell him.’ She lifted her eyes to mine. ‘And you fly the test tomorrow?’ Her fingers tightened on my hand. ‘Alles Gute!’ Her eyes were suddenly alive, almost excited. ‘I will watch. It will be good to see those, engines in the air — even if no one knows it is his work.’ The last few words were little more than whisper.
She” came with me to the door then and as she stood there framed in the soft light of the lounge, she said, ‘Neil!’ She had a funny way of saying it, almost achieving the impossible and pronouncing the vowels individually. ‘If you come to Berlin sometimes I live at Number fifty-two, Fassenenstrasse. That is near the Kurfurstendamm. Ask for — Fraulein Meyer.’
‘Meyer?’
‘Ja. Else Meyer. That is my real name. To come here I have to have the papers of some other girl. You see — I am a Nazi. I belong to the Hitler-Jugend before — before they kill my father.’ Her lips twitched painfully. ‘Good-bye,’ she said quickly. Her fingers touched mine and then the door closed and I was alone in the dark cold of the night. I didn’t move for a moment and as I stood there I thought I heard the sound of sobbing, but it may only have been the wind.
It was a long time before I got to sleep that night. It was such a pitiful story, and yet I couldn’t blame Saeton. I was English — she was German. The wall between us was high indeed.
Next morning the memory of her story was swamped in the urgent haste of preparations for tests. It was a cold, grey day and it was raining. A low curtain of cloud swept across the airfield. But nobody seemed to mind. Our thoughts were on the plane. Apparently Else had delivered my message, for promptly at eight o’clock a big caterpillar tractor came trundling across the tarmac apron leaving a trail of clay and chalk clods on the wet, shining surface of the asphalt. We slid the hangar doors back and hitched the tractor to the plane’s undercarriage.
It gave me a sense of pride to see that gleaming Tudor nose slowly out of the hangar. It no longer had the toothless grin that had greeted me every morning for the past five weeks. It was a complete aircraft, a purposeful, solid-looking machine, fully engined and ready to go. The tractor dragged it to the main runway and then left us.
‘Well, let’s get moving,’ Saeton said and swung himself up into the fuselage. I followed him. Tubby wheeled out the batteries and connected up. First one engine and then another roared into life. Saeton’s hand reached up to the four throttle levers set high up in the centre of the windshield. The engine revs died down as he trimmed the motors. Tubby came in through the cockpit door and closed it. ‘What about parachutes?’ he asked.
Saeton grinned. ‘They’re back in the fuselage, you old Jonah. And they’re okay. I packed them myself last night.’
The engines roared, the fuselage shivering violently as the plane bucked against the wheel brakes. I was in the second pilot’s seat, checking the dials with Saeton. Tubby was between us. Fuel, oil pressure and temperature gauges, coolant temperature, rev meters — everything was registering correctly. ‘Okay,’ Saeton said. ‘Ground tests.’ He released the brakes and we began to move forward down the shining surface of the runway. Left rudder,” right rudder — the tail swung in response. Landing flaps okay. Tail controls okay. Brakes” okay. For an hour we roared up and down the runways, circling the perimeter track, watching fuel consumption, oil indicators, the behaviour of the plane with four motors running and then with the two new inboard engines only. Tubby stood in the well between the two pilots’ seats, listening, watching the dials and scribbling notes on a pad.
At length Saeton brought the plane back to the apron opposite the hangar and cut the engines. ‘Well?’ he asked, looking down at Tubby. His voice seemed very loud in the sudden silence.
For answer Tubby raised his thumb and grinned. ‘Just one or two things. I’d like to check over the injection timing on that starboard motor and I want to have a look at the fuel filters. We got a slight drop in revs and she sounded a bit rough.’