Reaching his hand up in apology, Peter said, “Completely understandable. We’re all very distressed by these events. Please assure her, we won’t be here any longer than we have to be.”
He watched as their two boys took their seats. At the ages of four and five, they had no way of knowing the severity of the risks taken by all who were aboard tonight. Their father had instructed them that they were playing a game of hide and seek, a game in which people were searching for them, and that it was essential that they remain as quiet as possible. They were both sitting, their posture rigid, and working hard to not make any noise; occasionally failing and having a little giggle, they were immediately hushed by their mother.
Then, there was Professor Fritz Ribbentrop, a late reservation.
Just this morning, the professor had contacted him, at the Magdalena’s mooring site in Switzerland. Peter had been reluctant to accept any additional passengers, but he had been to university with the professor, who had been adamant that he needed to escape tonight.
Ribbentrop hadn’t mentioned what had happened, but Peter was certain that it was important. Fritz was known to be an exceptional scientist, and a valued worker; he was a loyal fascist who came from a clean Aryan bloodline.
He wrenched his mind seeking an explanation for the strange phenomenon.
Why would Fritz, of all people, need to escape the Gestapo?
Were it any other man, one less honorable, he might have worried that he was walking into a trap, but Fritz was not that kind of man. Even if he believed it to be in the best interests of the Nazi party, the professor would have felt that using such a ruse would have been dishonest.
Peter looked at his sorry human cargo.
With the exception of Fritz, who had still not arrived, he didn’t see himself as the equal of any one of them. Although he himself was an heir to a great fortune, his path through life had been decidedly different than his passengers. He was an outcast amongst his own family. Even after the events of the past week, a week in which his father had died and left him the title of Baron Greenstein, he still did not feel as though he was one of them.
Unlike the rest of his family, he had turned his wealth towards science, studying at the great Berlin University of Aeronautical Engineering. The Magdalena was his brainchild. Capable of travelling at twice the speed of a normal Zeppelin, she was a marvel of both modern engineering and opulence. He would have liked to build her for the masses, but the masses were unable to afford such luxuries as travel by dirigible. Consequently, for the sake of science, he turned to those whom he despised, to fund its development.
He studied the two families and wondered what they’d say if they knew they were waiting for the arrival of the most honorable fascist who Hitler had ever considered his close friend.
Rumbling far away, he could hear the muffled yet distinct sound of a four stroke engine. The BMW R75 motorcycle. Designed specifically as a military vehicle, Germany had so far only released the first line of production — for use by high ranking Nazi SS officers.
Doctor Fritz Ribbentrop was the last passenger to arrive.
The man wore his short hair brushed back from his forehead. Years past being blonde, it now bordered on completely white. A pair of riding goggles covered his attractive dark blue eyes. His face was clean shaven for the most part, with the exception of a small and almost entirely white moustache.
It was easy to guess that as a younger man, he had most likely been highly sought after by women.
He wore a simple green coat and matching trousers, the coat fully buttoned up against the cold. He had the luxury of leather gloves, with which he skillfully gripped the handlebars as he made his way up the narrow, snow-filled path through the black night and the scattered pine trees.
Riding his motorcycle was the only joy in life still left to him. It was the only joy that the mighty German military machine would allow him to keep. And, he was one of the privileged few, whose scientific ability allowed him the luxury fuel allowances which were denied to all other civilians.
He knew he should have abandoned the motorcycle further back along the trail, but it had taken him longer than he anticipated to leave the university today, and without it, he would never have made it here in time to board. He, of all people, knew the danger that he brought the Magdalena tonight. The sound of his motorcycle attracted attention and made them an easy target. He justified the risk to himself with his belief that his purpose was far more important than the rescue of a couple of rich, Jewish families.
He could see the airship in the distance.
It appeared quite vulnerable. Even in the dark, the Magdalena’s enormous canopy marked a great area against the night sky.
He was relieved to see that the four propellers at rear of the gondola were already turning and the two side, stabilizing blades, were rotating at an idle. The airship would be ready to launch at a moment’s notice.
He rode his R75 right up to the ship’s mooring line and then released his grip on the handlebars unceremoniously as he dismounted. The bike fell to its side, but the motor could still be heard running smoothly, evidence of the strength of its simplicity.
Fritz panted heavily as he made his way through the thick, snow-covered, metal stairs carrying one small suitcase. He climbed up to the open door of the gondola.
“You’re late,” said his old friend, Peter Greenstein, curtly. The man was crouched down at the door. Peter looked outside one last time and immediately closed the door behind Fritz.
Fritz didn’t bother apologizing for his late arrival. He wasn’t sorry at all. If he could have been here sooner, he would have been.
He studied the interior of the gondola as he approached the others.
It was spacious, more like the interior of a grand yacht than an aircraft, he decided. It felt like a yacht too — even moored several inches off the ground, the slow, rolling motion of the gondola reminded him of the gentle feel of riding an ocean swell.
He heard the large, powerful engines increase in pitch. The swaying motion stopped, as the mooring cables were cut and the Magdalena was finally free to begin her journey.
His right arm instinctively reached for the nearest chair for balance. Smoothly, the giant craft began its vertical rise into the air, like a helium balloon released from a child’s grasp. He also sensed a slight forward motion, similar to the feeling one experience when an escalator ascends.
There was only one vacant seat, and he carefully made his way toward it.
The windows sloped outward, so that he could look straight down and watch the scenery roll by beneath his feet, not that there was much to see below on this dark night.
“This must be yours, it’s the last one,” said a young boy, whose voice was far from breaking. “Thank you.”
He noted that the boy’s father quickly admonished him for speaking to a stranger.
He took his seat, glad to relinquish the weight on his unsteady feet.
Thank God, it’s going to be safe.
Two seconds later, he heard the barking sound of a German machine gun being fired.
Walter Wolfgang perused the report in front of him.
It was bad. The Fuhrer was going to be most displeased. People in Germany disappeared, or were frequently made to disappear, these days. But today, of all days, to lose such an important person, was to invite severe criticism. It was the man that he, specifically, was assigned to keep his eyes on.
The Fuhrer himself had given him this assignment. He, of all the loyal members of the Third Reich, had the exact qualifications and position to carry out this important task.
And now, he had failed.
How could I have let this happen?