“You’ll fall down those stairs and break your neck, my friend. That’s what comes next.”
“A fair prediction. And you don’t know the worst of it.”
March told him about the Gestapo dossier. Jaeger looked stricken. “Jesus Christ. What are you going to do?”
“I thought of trying to stay out of the Reich. I even withdrew all my money from the bank. But Nebe’s right: no other country would touch me.” March finished his drink. “Would you do something for me?”
“Name it.”
"The American woman’s apartment was broken in to this morning. Could you ask the Orpo in Schoneberg to take a look occasionally -I’ve left the address on my desk. Also, I’ve given her your telephone number, in case of trouble.”
“No problem.”
“And can you look after this for Pili?” He handed Jaeger an envelope containing half the cash he had withdrawn from the bank. “It’s not much, but I may need the rest.
Hang on to it until he’s old enough to know what to do with it”
“Oh come on, man!” Max leaned across and clapped him on the shoulder. “It’s not as bad as that? Is it? Surely?”
March stared at him. After a second or two, Jaeger grunted and looked away. “Yes. Well…’He tucked the envelope into his pocket. “My God,” he said with sudden vehemence, “if a lad of mine denounced me to the Gestapo, I’d be giving him something all right — and it wouldn’t be money.”
“It’s not the boy’s fault, Max.”
Fault, thought March. How could you fault a ten-year-old? The boy needed a father-figure. That was what the Party provided -stability, companionship, something to believe in — all the things March should have given him and hadn’t. Besides, the Pimpf expected the young to transfer their allegiance from their family to the state. No, he would not — could not — blame his son.
Gloom had settled over Jaeger. “Another beer?”
“Sorry.” March stood. “I have to go. I owe you.”
Jaeger lurched to his feet as well. “When you get back, Zavi, come and stay with us for a couple of days. The younger girls are at a Bund deutscher Madel camp for the week — you can have their room. We can work something out for the court martial.”
“Harbouring an asocial — that won’t go down well with your local Party.”
“Fuck my local Party.”
This was said with feeling. Jaeger stuck out his hand, and March shook it — a great, calloused paw.
“Look after yourself, Zavi.”
“Look after yourself, Max.”
Drawn up on the runways of the Flughafen Hermann Goring, shimmering through the haze of fuel, was the new generation of passenger jets: the blue and white Boeings of Pan-American, the red, white and black swastika-decked Junkers of Lufthansa.
Berlin has two airports. The old Tempelhof aerodrome near the city centre handles short-haul, internal flights. International traffic passes through Hermann Goring in the north-western suburbs. The new terminal buildings are long, low edifices of marble and glass, designed — of course — by Speer. Outside the arrivals hall stands a statue of Hanna Reitsch, Germany’s leading aviatrix, made of melted-down Spitfires and Lancasters. She scans the sky for intruders. A sign behind her says WELCOME TO BERLIN, CAPITAL OF THE GREATER GERMAN REICH, in five languages.
March paid the taxi driver, tipped him, and walked up the ramp towards the automatic doors. The air here was cold and man-made: drenched with aviation fuel, torn by the screams of throttling engines. Then the doors opened, hissed shut behind him, and suddenly he was in the sound-proofed bubble of the departure terminal.
“Lufthansa flight 401 to New York. Passengers are requested to make their way to gate number eight for boarding…”
“Final call for Lufthansa flight 014 to Theoderichshafen. Passengers…”
March went first to the Lufthansa sales desk to pick up his ticket, then to the check-in where his passport was scrutinised carefully by a blonde with “Gina” pinned to her left breast, a swastika badge in her lapel.
“Does the Herr Sturmbannfuhrer wish to check in any luggage?”
“No thank you. I have only this.” He patted his small suitcase.
She returned his passport with his boarding card folded inside it. Accompanying this act was a smile as bright and cheerless as neon.
“Boarding in thirty minutes. Have a good flight, Herr Sturmbannfuhrer.”
Thank you, Gina.”
“You are welcome.”
“Thank you.”
They were bowing like a pair of Japanese businessmen. Air travel was a new world to March, a strange land with its own impenetrable rituals.
He followed the signs to the lavatory, selected the cubicle furthest from the wash-basins, locked the door, opened the suitcase, took out the leather hold-all. Then he sat down and tugged off his boots. White light gleamed on chrome and tile.
When he had stripped to his shorts, he put the boots and his uniform into the hold-all, stuffed his Luger into the middle of the bag, zipped it up and locked it.
