The Aviator's Wife (32 page)

“What is?” Kay and I were returning from a quick tour of their apartment, where we were staying.
It was on a clean, neat street, just as all the streets in Berlin seemed to be; I’d never seen a city that appeared to be so
scrubbed
.

“Göring’s invitation to the colonel, to inspect the
Luftwaffe
. Astounding, really. We may not get another like it.” Minister Göring had met us when we landed and assured us the government was eager to grant us our every wish, even though this was not an official
diplomatic visit. He’d even invited Charles to tour their military aircraft facilities, the notion of which seemed to intrigue Truman.

“I’m here at the invitation of Lufthansa, not the Nazi government,” Charles reminded him. His lanky body was folded up so that he could perch on a satin-covered gilt chair; Kay had exquisite, if not entirely practical, taste in decorating.

“Yes, but, Colonel,
the Nazi government has not been forthcoming about its military development to anyone. Obviously they’re building it up, but we’ve been unable to ascertain anything concrete. This might be a wonderful opportunity to learn more.”

“I’m here as a civilian,” Charles insisted. “I’m no politician, and I’m not on any kind of military mission.”

“Times are changing. Quickly—more quickly than perhaps
you two are aware.” Truman smiled sympathetically at both of us, and I understood what he meant. On our recent trips to the various European capitals I’d felt it, too—that for the last few years Charles and I had been so absorbed with our own lives, so locked together in a protective shell of our own making, the
world had passed us by. Changes were occurring, swiftly, even violently. Royalty was
out; dictators were in. Mussolini and his Black Shirts controlled Italy—and now Ethiopia, as well. Stalin was making noises about the spread of Communism. Living in Europe, it was impossible not to hear sabers rattling on all sides.

“Colonel, you are in an enviable position. You have no political standing, yet you are a world figure. Everyone still respects your accomplishments, and wonders what
you’ll do next. That’s a wonderful passport, you know. You are invited everywhere—even to Russia, I understand?”

“Yes, we are invited to tour their airports,” Charles said mildly, still pretending not to be interested. But he sat up straighter and stopped drumming his fingers on the armrest.

“You are being given an unprecedented opportunity here, because of who you are. I assure you, Hitler
wouldn’t do this for anyone else. And you can be of great service to your country by helping me prepare a report about Germany’s airpower.”

“Wouldn’t that be a bit duplicitous? Almost spying?”

“No—they don’t expect you
not
to report back. In fact, I imagine that’s part of their plan, to show their hand to America and make them take notice. This government—well, I’ll just say that nothing goes
on that isn’t absolutely anticipated beforehand. Did you notice there was no press when you landed?”

Charles and I exchanged glances; it was the first thing we had noticed.

“Hitler controls the press,” Kay remarked, as she poured herself a cocktail from a silver shaker. She reminded me of my mother, with her large, owl-like gray eyes; watching, always watching, even as she purred silkily and
smoothed over arguments. The difference was that Kay was much more glamorous, with fashionably waved auburn hair and a moss-green bias-cut Vionnet gown, daringly low in the back. Charles would never
have allowed me to dress like that. I couldn’t help but feel frumpy next to her, in my modestly cut blue velvet gown bought from a sensible dressmaker on Regent Street. “Hitler forbade the press to
cover your visit.”

“Oh, how heavenly!” I exclaimed. Kay’s eyebrow shot up.

“Surely you’re not saying that Hitler’s stifling of the independent press is a good thing?”

“Oh, no—no, of course not. It’s just—it will be very restful not to have to contend with the press for a change.” Again, Charles and I exchanged a look. We could not explain what the press had done to us; no one who hadn’t lived
through what we had could ever understand our feeling. The American press had stolen our little boy; it was as simple as that. Printing maps to our house, reporting on our every move—and then, ultimately, taking photographs of his mangled body in the morgue. We had been violated in every sense of the word.

“I’m still not quite comfortable with what you propose, Truman,” Charles protested—rather
feebly, I felt, knowing how unmistakably he could make his thoughts known when he wanted to. “What would Lufthansa say?”

“They’ll say what Hitler wants them to say,” Kay replied wryly.

Truman cleared his throat, then pointedly turned to address me, not my husband. “I understand the air force has been experimenting with new engines. The most powerful engines yet, or so it’s rumored.”

I stifled
a smile.

“Really?” Charles now stood, going over to pour himself a cocktail—something so stunning that I almost gasped. I rarely saw him drink, only wine at dinner, sometimes brandy with Harry Guggenheim. “I wonder—I would love to see a Messerschmitt firsthand.”

“I’m sure that could be arranged,” Truman replied, stifling a smile of his own. “The Stuka has been improved as well, I hear.”

Charles
sipped his drink—dry martinis that Kay had prepared with quantities of gin and hardly a splash of vermouth; his cheeks flushed slightly red, and he grinned. “All right, then. If you insist, I will take up Herr Göring’s offer and help you with your report. Of course, I must comment only on the scientific aspects. Not the political ones.”

“Of course,” Truman agreed smoothly. “No one expects you
to understand the political situation—after all, you’re an aviator, not a statesman. Far from it.”

I stiffened, my stomach tightening as I watched my husband. He was staring at Truman, his jaw set, the corner of his mouth curled up arrogantly. Then he took another hefty swig of his martini and set the glass down so forcefully, I was surprised it didn’t break.

You did not tell Charles Lindbergh
what he was or was not. After all, everyone had told him he was only a mail pilot, not an explorer capable of a trans-Atlantic flight; I sometimes wondered if he’d have bothered to take on the Paris flight, if so many people hadn’t assured him it was impossible.

Even with the study windows closed, as Kay began to fill in the sudden silence with harmless gossip, I felt a shift in the very air,
the currents. Experienced copilot that I was, I didn’t even need to look at my husband to know that I was being pulled toward a different—and dangerous—course.

THE GERMANY THAT WE
saw in those days leading up to the Olympics, as we toured factories and airfields and museums and schools, was a balm on our battered souls. True to his word, Chancellor Hitler kept the press at bay; we were able to
relax,
talk, see, listen, and not be afraid that our every word would be misinterpreted or used against us. There was a purpose, a drive, to the German people that was lacking everywhere else we’d been, both abroad and in the United States; the Depression hadn’t broken down its citizenry, as it had elsewhere. We didn’t see a single breadline or soup kitchen. No protests; no workers milling about
buildings with signs or placards; no strident, blaring headlines tearing down one political party or another. No boarded-up storefronts, no farms with foreclosure signs in front, no children playing in alleys with sticks and stones because that’s all they had.

Indeed, all the people we encountered fairly glowed with good health—plump and rosy cheeks, white teeth, shining hair. Precious little
girls in dirndl skirts, contented matrons with well-fed babies in their arms. The Hitler Youth—the young men in brown uniforms—patrolled the streets like well-mannered Boy Scouts, picking up litter, carrying shopping baskets for the elderly. I toured nursery schools—
kindergartens
—where the children held hands and sang songs praising Chancellor Hitler. “Herr Hitler loves children,” one teacher
explained to me. “Healthy children are the future. He encourages those of pure race to have families.”

“Pure race?”

“Those who are not genetically sick. Or genetically inferior.”

I nodded, and was reminded of something Charles had said once, about our children being pure. But what did “genetically inferior” mean? I had my suspicions and was about to ask, but then I was whisked away to my car,
and taken to lunch at a biergarten.

Charles and I were seldom together during the day; he toured military and airplane factories, while I toured schools and museums. But something happened between us at night; something that hadn’t happened between us in a very long time.

Passion. Passion was rekindled in Germany, of all places. Charles was rejuvenated, pulsing with hope and optimism in a way
he hadn’t been since before 1932. All the wandering, the tinkering, the move to Europe—none of it had satisfied him. I could see that now. Once again, he could barely wait for me to remove my silk stockings at night, to step out of my slip. With hungry hands, seeking lips, he filled me with his hope and optimism, as well. Our bodies hummed and throbbed, electric; I felt light, ethereal, a wisp of
smoke that only his hands could catch.

“We should move here,” Charles said, the evening before we were to leave. “Make our home here—maybe not in Berlin but somewhere in Germany. Munich, perhaps. It’s prettier, they say, in the mountains.”

“Really?” I pushed myself up on my elbow; we were in bed, the sheets tangled around us. My mouth felt deliciously bruised and ripe.

“Anne, there’s no other
country in Europe right now that can be compared to Germany. Hitler has pushed his nation into the modern age—think of it, compared to England! England, with its ancient empire and outdated navy—how absurd! It’s all about airpower now, and Germany is clearly in the lead, not that I believe Hitler has ideas of war. In fact, I sincerely hope he does not. But this is a technological country, not merely
an ideological one. Ideas—what are they unless they’re backed up by technology? That’s the wave of the future.”

“We’d be left in peace,” I mused, reflecting on the freedom of these last few days, when I never had to wonder if some photographer was hanging around, waiting to catch me doing something awkward or—heaven forbid, for then they’d make up some ridiculous caption!—ordinary. I couldn’t
imagine being chased down roads by anyone here; I could even allow myself to picture putting my child to bed at night with open windows, so that he
might breathe the fragrant night air. “Think of it, Charles! I’m sure we could have a lovely little house right in the center of town—we wouldn’t have to be on any remote island or isolated farmhouse. I could go to the theater! Opera! Shopping!” Saying
the words out loud, I realized how much I had missed doing these things—missed culture, art,
people
. It was as if some deadening, numbing medication was wearing off; I hungered for all the things I had been denied. All the lovely, silly, soul-preserving things that other people did without thinking; popping into a shop without calling ahead and having to slip through the back door after-hours.
Attending the symphony without wearing a disguise. Meeting friends for lunch in restaurants. Pushing my baby in a pram out in the open, watching him play with other children in a public park.

“And no one would bother us—Chancellor Hitler could see to that,” I continued, playing with the fine blond hairs on Charles’s forearms, watching his face fight the urge to give in to ticklish laughter. “Imagine
having a public official on our side, protecting us! But, Charles, it’s such a step—we don’t really know the language, of course. We haven’t seen everything—only what the chancellor has wanted us to see. You know that.” For even in my excitement, I couldn’t ignore the feeling that I’d had all week—the suspicion that the Germany being shown to us was like one of the little villages we’d seen
in our flights to South America, particularly in the Andes. On certain cloudy days, you could walk the pleasant, ordinary streets and never see the mountains, but still you knew they were always looming, barely kept at bay by the swirling gray mists on all sides. I had the same sense here; that there was something hidden, something suppressed—yet always close at hand.

“I suppose so,” he admitted,
leaning back with his arms behind his head. His chest was so lean, yet muscular; there wasn’t
an ounce of fat on him still, nearly ten years after his flight to Paris. He was so obviously no longer a boy, yet he did sometimes still have boyish ideas—I understood this about him but could never let him know. His view of the world tended to be more simplistic than mine; this was what frustrated him
about me, and me about him. He always saw the clearest, straightest path to any solution, and was mystified when others could not. Politicians, for example; he had no patience for the murky ways of compromise, of weighing issues, of giving some importance, dismissing others. There was only good and bad, right and wrong, to Charles Lindbergh.

“But we’re here, Anne,” he mused, looking up at the
ceiling, covered with gilt panels. “We know what we see. It angers me to think how the newspapers in America and England depict Hitler—as a clown, a buffoon. It’s the Jewish influence, of course. They hate him for the Nuremberg Laws. And while I may wish that Hitler wasn’t quite so strident, I can’t fault his logic, because obviously, it works. Germany is a remarkable nation, strong, forward-looking.
Hitler is simply thinking about what’s best for his country, and he has the courage to do it. Unlike these other so-called leaders.”

“You sound very political,” I teased, leaning my head against that lovely chest. “Very statesman-like.”

“I have been reluctant to assume that mantle, but as Truman said, the times are changing. Look at the war in Spain—that’s an air war, the first real one. Countries
with airpower, like Germany, like the United States, need to be very careful, for in the future civilians will be casualties. Perhaps I can be a voice of reason. And really, Germany isn’t a natural enemy; the northern races should never fight each other. The Asiatic nations, like the Soviet Union—that’s the true enemy, not Hitler. But people like Chamberlain and Roosevelt don’t realize it.
They’re grumbling about
Hitler because the Jews are pushing them, making more out of the situation here than there is—and what a tragic mistake that will be.”