The dull ache that had resided in Hart's chest since returning from Antarctica now filled him completely, but he said nothing. Germany— dark, wounded— continued to unreel beneath them.
Their plan was hopeless in its sheer simple audacity, the pilot knew. Somehow get into Berlin. Somehow find Greta. Somehow persuade her to abandon her husband. Somehow avoid Drexler's claws. Somehow escape to Switzerland. Somehow make a new life.
Somehow
. It was the clearest plan Hart had had in six years.
They flew on and the sky began to lighten. Fires glowed on the horizon and by Hart's dead reckoning they were about twenty miles from Berlin. Soon they'd cross the flak batteries. To be aloft at daylight would be suicide. "Where's that farm of yours?"
"Swing that way. We cross the Autobahn, and then several miles beyond..."
Hart was nervous. Their plane had American markings. "We have to get out of the sky soon or we're going to be jumped by a prowling fighter."
"If we don't get the plane hidden we'll be trapped in Germany. Be patient."
They flew in anxious silence for several more minutes. Then Kohl pointed. "All right. Werder's in that direction. And I recognize my buildings. Beautiful, from the air. You can put down in that pasture."
They bumped down in the dawn light and taxied up to the barn, climbing out stiff and weary. Somewhere a rooster crowed.
"It looks like the Germany I remember," Hart said, glancing about. "Tidy."
"Caretakers come. But not for a few days. Here, help me push this plane into the barn." They rolled it forward, the wings sliding over empty stalls. Another vehicle was already inside under a tarp and Hart peeked. A Mercedes.
"No petrol," Kohl explained. "And a vehicle invites inspection. We'll bicycle. It's several hours into the city."
Hart nodded. "I didn't know you were so athletic, Otto."
"I'm not. Merely cautious. We're in the heart of Nazi Germany."
* * *
There were only occasional signs of the war at Berlin's edge. A bomber's burned-out husk had skidded to the edge of a school yard. Silvery strings of chaff dropped by Allied planes to confuse radar were draped on autumn trees like Christmas tinsel. A line of water-filled bomb craters marched across a field to record an Allied miss. As they pedaled into the suburbs they found a checkerboard of normalcy and destruction: here a street retained an aura of prewar order, there a stick of bombs had fallen to splinter four houses and a park. At Berlin's core the ruin became more complete. They passed whole neighborhoods that had been reduced to ridges of shattered masonry, blocks and streets undulating like a series of sand dunes. Rising above this manmade talus were the ghostly ruins of gutted buildings that had not yet completely collapsed, empty window openings lighting apartments that no longer existed.
Kohl wobbled his bicycle around a litter of broken glass and stopped to pant.
"Are you all right, Otto?"
"Not my tailbone. I may never walk again."
The pause made Hart nervous. Passing Germans barely glanced at them but half the men he saw were in uniform. A word from Kohl and he was betrayed. What reassured him was the devastation. Kohl wouldn't wish to stay here, and Owen Hart was his only exit.
"Is she nearby?"
"She was." Grimacing, he hoisted himself back onto the seat. "Pray that your airplanes haven't gotten to her neighborhood." They pedaled on.
Jürgen and Greta had been lucky. The town houses on their tree-lined avenue stood ranked and redoubtable with prewar confidence. A milk wagon trundled reassuringly down the pavement. Normalcy. Kohl pointed. "That one."
It was four stories, as fashionable as a New York brownstone. Jürgen Drexler had done well, it seemed. Confronted by the man's intact home, Hart suddenly felt doubt. It was the kind of house he'd never had and perhaps never would have: strong, secure, stylish. The kind of home a woman would like.
"I can't visit her in his house."
"No, of course not," Kohl said. "That would be dangerous. They have servants and maybe even a security guard, who knows? Jürgen is a
Standartenführer
now, a colonel, in the civilian branch of the SS. He moves in the highest circles, which means his telephone is probably tapped. But I'll approach briefly. Any staff present should take only casual note even if I'm recognized: they may assume I escaped France and am on routine travels. I'll explain the situation and then leave to do some business, I have some money to assemble in Berlin before we go. Now, as for you. There's a statue of Frederick the Great opposite the Bebelplatz, not far from the Hotel Adlon where you once stayed. Do you remember it? About a mile east of here?"
Hart nodded uncertainly.
"Meet her there in an hour. Understood?"
"Yes, but what if she doesn't— "
Kohl held his hand up, looking back at the imposing town house. Hart noticed now that its windows were blank, covered with blackout coverings. It would be dim inside.
"She'll come."
King Frederick was another casualty of war. His tricornered hat had been chipped by shrapnel and one of his eyes had become an empty socket. Some of the buildings surrounding the Bebelplatz remained intact but others had folded in on themselves, debris spilling from their pulverized interiors like an avalanche chute. Hart arrived early and, too anxious to sit, paced around the plaza, stepping around fragments of masonry and keeping an eye on Frederick's mounted figure. Passing Germans ignored him, hurrying by on missions of their own. No one had checked his forged papers— the robotic bureaucracy of the Third Reich was beginning to corrode from the prospect of defeat— but his anxiety at meeting Greta had grown. Almost six years! She'd been twenty-eight and unmarried then. He braced himself for a betrayal of memory.
And yet betrayal didn't come. As she approached through the square he recognized her instantly: the walk, the plume of glorious red hair, even the upright bearing of her head when so many faces seemed cast downward. He sucked in his breath. She was as lovely as he remembered and much more stylishly dressed; her erect carriage reflected the assurance of high station. She strode past the ruins in a long wool coat trimmed in fur and in fashionable boots, her heels clicking on the paving stones. A string of pearls was at her neck. Drexler, Hart admitted, was a good provider.
Yet when she slowed and then stopped several feet short of him, looking without expression, Hart noticed something more: a new gravity in her face. A tautness from emotions held in check. Her gaze was so objective— so analytical— he feared for a moment that whatever hold he'd once had on her was gone, erased by time.
She blinked in wonder. "So. It
is
really you." Her tone revealed nothing.
"Hello, Greta," he said, swallowing. "I told you I'd come back."
Her eyes roamed his face, taking it in. "I thought you dead. And yet here you stand, in the middle of Berlin." She judged him clinically. "You've hardly changed."
"You're prettier, I think."
She gave no reaction to the compliment, looking at him as if he was a phantom. Her detachment disturbed him.
He swallowed and reached into his coat pocket. "I had this made in London in 1939. I've been waiting a long time to give it to you." He put out his hand. Draped on his fingers was a gold chain with a locket. "Please, take it."
After a moment's hesitation she did so. Their fingers touched and she gave a little jerk as if she'd been shocked. Then she held the jewelry, looking at it as if in a trance.
"Open it."
The locket was gold and shaped like a penguin. She clicked it open. There was a word engraved inside:
hope
. And a dull pebble.
"The pebble is from the cave. I found it in my boot. It's a gift. Like the penguins give."
She looked at the pebble for a long time as if she'd never seen a stone before. He waited, watching her sway slightly in a rush of memory. Then she began to tremble, lifting eyes that were misting with tears. She'd allowed herself, finally, to believe. Her mouth opened. "Oh, Owen." Her voice caught. "It's really you..." And then the space between them seemed to dissolve of its own accord and he was holding her, clutching her through the rich wool of her coat, his face buried in her hair and inhaling her wonderful scent.
"I thought you were
dead!"
she exclaimed. "I thought I'd killed you, that I'd failed you..."
She wore perfume, he marveled. She dressed up, for me.
And then her cry was stifled as he kissed her, tasting the salt of her tears— kissed her heedless of who was watching, kissed her with the urgent longing of six missing years.
She kissed back with desperate need, aching, and then pushed him away. "Owen, my God. Do you know how many times I've dreamed of such a moment? But not here. Not now. Please."
He glanced around, grinning in triumph. An old woman with a string bag scowled but a younger one smiled in passing, wistfully.
He held Greta by the shoulders, unwilling to let go. "I tried to write," he explained, "tried to reach you, but nothing seemed to get through..."
The tears were running freely down her cheeks. "I thought you'd died!" she repeated. "All these years, not a word, not a whisper! And yet here you are, come back to life, come back to this earthly hell of Berlin." She was taking deep gulping breaths, her breasts rising against his chest, her eyes still wide with wonder. "Come back to
me
." And then she threw back her head and gave a shout of laughter, suddenly, shockingly, gaily. "And now, at last, for just this one instant I am so
happy!
My whole life, and all its pain, made worthwhile by this single moment!" She smiled, her face glistening.
Hart tenderly stroked her wet cheek. "Whoa, whoa," he said with a grin. "It's just a pebble. No wonder the male penguins find it so effective."
She shook her head. "Such a different world, such an age ago. Antarctica has seemed like a dream. And a nightmare. And yet here you are, resurrected. How? Why? My God, the questions..."
"Your organism
worked
, Greta. It worked on me, it even worked on Fritz, but then... We captured your father, and flew... It's a long story."
She nodded uncertainly, bewildered but excited. "It worked?"
"It cured Fritz. I know it did. Then he was killed in the cave. The entrance collapsed."
"My God." Her gaze turned serious, brooding. "We should have tested it more thoroughly. Have you heard that the Allies finally succeeded with penicillin? How many Germans could we have saved in this war?" She shook her head. "Always regret! So many regrets. Well." She looked at the locket she was still holding, deciding, and then looked at him shyly. "Will you put this on me?"
He glanced around with amusement. "Do you dare? Would it raise questions?"
She looked out at the ruined buildings, immensely sad for a moment. "Yes. Of course it would raise questions. But right now I want to feel its weight on my neck. I'll wear it inside my dress and take it off later."
He took the chain and locket and she turned, pulling her hair up to reveal the ivory of her neck. He fastened it. She fingered the penguin a moment, smiling shyly now, and then slipped it down the front of her dress. She shivered. "It makes my heart beat faster."
He smiled. "Greta, I've come to get you out. From Germany and the war."
She was sober. "That's impossible."
"No it isn't. I have a plane. Your father has money and papers."
"Owen, things have changed so much..."
"Otto told me about the marriage. He also said you still loved me. That's why I
came
, Greta."
Her head lowered. "It's a marriage in name more than practice," she admitted. "I thought I could change him, teach him happiness. He thought he could win me, give me purpose. But... too much had happened in Antarctica."
"So you don't love him?"
"I do... in a way." Her voice was very small. "He was there for me, Owen, when you weren't. Just not in the same way."
He touched her cheek. "I've never stopped loving you, Greta. Never for a moment. I thought I'd have to wait to search for you after the war but then Otto appeared like a miracle and I came in an instant. I've left my unit. I've thrown my old life away. And now I want you to come away with me. You
know
Germany is finished. The Nazis have made a mess of the world. Your father and I want to fly you to Switzerland. To a new life."
She shook her head, trembling. "Owen, it isn't that simple. There are vows. Duty. Country."
"Greta, if you stay here with Jürgen you'll be killed. Berlin is going to become a battlefield. We can have happiness if we have the courage to grasp it."
She closed her eyes. "I married Jürgen, Owen.
Married
him. If you'd come back with us, it might have been different, but you didn't. Did you know he even went ashore in the rough seas at the end of the storm to look for you? He said there was no sign— "
"My airplane was
there
, I was in the cave, there was a collapse..."
Greta shook her head. "I don't know about all that. It was a painful subject for both of us. I didn't want to remember." She glanced around. "My God, leave everything? My work, my home, my husband— "
"For
happiness
, Greta. You owe yourself that."
She looked torn. "All this is so sudden, so... bewildering. Papa appearing at my door, you back from the dead. I feel dazed." She shivered, collecting herself, then looked at him with fierce hope. "I
want
to start over, Owen. You must know that. I want to start over far from Germany and far from Antarctica."
"As far as we can get."
She nodded. "But I don't want to hurt Jürgen. I accepted his comfort. I must think about all this."
"Greta, you're all I've ever wanted. I couldn't bear to lose you again."
She sighed, torn. "When would we leave?"
"
Now
. We'll walk to your house for your things. Then we disappear before Jürgen even knows I'm alive." He put his hand out, fingered the chain of her locket.